I sent a text pleading today. Standing on the fading back porch, I typed with tears in my eyes.
“I already lost a parent, I don’t want to lose you too.”
The black letters clicked as my fingers pressed into the digital screen.
My thumbs seemed numb, typing heavily as emotion welled in my chest.
I could have picked up the phone, but hiding behind typing and screens felt safer.
Grief slipped between my sentences as I passed my Covid anxiety from my gut to the pocket where his cell phone lingered.
Crying in the kitchen, Dylan hugged me this afternoon and I whimpered, “I just don’t want to lose anyone else.”
On Instagram, and blogs, and videos across the world grief experts are sharing comfort, perspective, and expertise for those new to loss. Coping mechanisms creep up in posts and in video chats and healthy ways to channel our triggers seem to zip in the spaces connecting us on the internet. As someone who writes extensively about my experience with life after loss, I’ve been wondering and waiting for epiphanies to come.
What wisdom can I share to help the newly bereaved? The same lessons apply to the panicked, the hurting, the newly unemployed? What responsibility do I have as an “influencer” who is using personal pain to help guide others?
I’ve stayed quiet because I don’t have much.
I return to the basics and I encourage myself and others to find comfort.
Soothe yourself with warm blankets and cups of tea. Splurge for the brand-name tissues as you wipe your eyes. Light a candle. Nourish yourself. Take a slow walk around your neighborhood. Wear a mask.
And today, when my own imagined panic crept in like fog moving over the mountains, I let the wave consume me. I felt the overflow of emotion leak up out from my chest and onto the laminate floor.
My grief wounds drip fresh with the fear of loss not yet real.
I imagine thousands around the world are feeling the same.
Rather than whisper antidotes and remedies, tonight I give permission.
I’m not an influencer. I’m a human living an experience of life after loss. I finger my scars and I breathe deeply and remember I am human, prone to loss and intense experiences in an aching world.
I give myself beautiful permission to live in this uncomfortable, seemingly horrible space.
I give you permission to ask for a hug. To send pleading text messages and grace for the tears sure to fall. I welcome the beauty found in the permission to accept a warm embrace, even if the arms wrapped around your shoulders are your own.
Pandemic life is scary and hard. The fog licks our fingers and faces and leaves a chill in our bones.
Give yourself the beautiful permission to feel all of this. To weep in the kitchen. To send the texts and express your love and ask for what you need.
At the end of the day, I only want to influence real.
Real is beautiful.