climbing peaks and stumbling into valleys

I feel heavy with grief. I had a long day. We closed on the house yesterday. When I parked at the attorney’s office and got out of the car, I looked up to see a box truck drive by with “PETE’S” stamped across it. It was the sign I needed that I am doing what I’m supposed to.

I own my own little log cabin in the woods. I own my own land. I took the investment that Pete and I made into our old life in Massachusetts, and I turned it into a dream home here in our new life; a home I plan to live in as long as I possibly can. A home I will one day leave my boys. 

But the stinging reality that I’m doing all this without Pete feels like ten thousand bricks on my back. As I was putting groceries away tonight, I kept just sinking to my knees and bursting into sobs for a few minutes. I would recollect myself, get back up, and keep rinsing strawberries or cleaning out tupperware or whatever until the next wave hit. Sometimes grief hits like contractions; like I’m constantly in a very slow labor toward the next chapter of my life. I am giving birth to something grand, but it fucking hurts.

I got an email from Axl’s teacher today. He had pulled out the laminated memorial card from Pete’s funeral and I guess shared with the class that his dad died. His classmates had a lot of questions. The guidance counselor was part of it and a parent email got sent out regarding a “sensitive subject” one of them had shared that may evoke further discussions and processing. How many kindergarteners learned about death today? How many kids hadn’t yet been aware that Daddies can just die out of the blue? Axl and I talked about it a bit on the way home, though I tried my best not to grill or pry and mostly just wanted to make sure I told him I was so happy he felt comfortable talking about daddy with his class and that I was proud of him. I told him it was brave of him to talk about daddy even though it can be hard.

His teacher told me he may need to process all the questioning he got from his peers. I guess a lot of them asked how Pete died. I asked Axl if he remembered how Daddy died, and he said no. I told him using the language I have used since day one; the language I carefully selected after a lot of research about what was best for his age and level of understanding: Daddy died because his heart stopped working. He had what is called a “heart attack.” He told me he didn’t remember that, that he told his friends something else, that his dad died falling down the stairs. He’s never said that before, but it makes sense. When the EMTs came and had to bring Pete’s unconscious body down the stairs (and right through our living room where my kids were sitting), I shielded Axl with my body and covered us up with a blanket at one point to try and make sure he didn’t have to live with the image of his dad being carried out of our house. All he knew was that something happened to daddy upstairs. For a long time, he would say “Daddy puked” to describe how he died, because he overheard enough conversations to know there was a mess upstairs that had to be cleaned up. His mind imagined it as puke and I never once corrected him, because it’s a lot better than the reality. But he hasn’t spoken about Pete’s death in months and months. He avoids the subject like the plague. We talk about Pete/Daddy ALL the time, that’s never a problem. Pete very much feels like he’s still present and here and very much still a part of our family with how much we talk about him and incorporate things about him into our life here. But Axl never wants to talk about what actually happened or what it feels like to have a dead dad. The fact he is talking about it with his classmates is HUGE. The fact he feels safe and comfortable enough to share those things makes me feel so, so good. It solidifies for me that we are in the right place.

So many wonderful things on the horizon for us, but I’m also the saddest I’ve been in a long, long time. But this is how the world works; this is the ying and the yang. The darkness and the light. Life is peaks and valleys and you’re just living in denial if you think it’s anything else. I’m climbing a peak but I stumble into the valley. I rest and recoup and I start the climb again. I’m thankful to have a peak to aspire to; I’m grateful it’s not completely hidden by the fog of grief. I’m shattered but I am rebuilding. I am growing. I am tired.