Could I Actually Love My Grief?

Even thinking the thought breaks my brain, but it appears to be true

My mom and I at Spring Training watching the Sox play the Orioles (I think. Or the Pirates. We went to two in a row.)

When my mom died six years ago, it was the first major loss of my life. I’d been extraordinarily fortunate over the years, as I managed to mostly steer clear of the type of tragedy that sends you reeling into a pit of despair. Being able to reach my late thirties before having to learn to navigate grief is one of the major blessings of my life, but of course, that also meant I had absolutely no clue what the hell I was doing.

I despise not having a road map when it comes to my emotions. I want to know what to expect ahead of time, and if things stray from the course, it’s pretty easy for me to spiral completely. Despite flying blind here, I think I’ve been doing a half-decent job here. I thought that I had a good idea of how things would go — there would be a deep sadness at first that eventually faded into acceptance and peace. And, for the most part, this has been the course.

Except for one development that I’m still struggling to fully comprehend — I kind of like having this grief.

Now, obviously, I don’t like it, and I wish more than anything that I never had to go through this. But I’ve grown fond of the way it’s changed me as a person, and the way it has allowed me to experience emotions in surprising and new ways. Grief has added an undertone to all of my experiences, always capable of striking out and altering the moment completely.

One notable example happened about a year after she passed. I was at Fenway Park, watching the Red Sox play the Oakland A’s in my version of a tribute to my Sox-obsessed mother. I was wearing a Mookie Betts shirtsey my mom had hidden in a closet that she never had the opportunity to give me for Christmas and getting lost in my thoughts. So when Betts hit a bomb to straightaway center in the bottom of the first, I jumped for joy. And then I started crying.

My tattoo tribute to my mom (by the amazing Susanne König) at Fenway Park

“What the hell? Where did that come from?” I thought as I stood among a sea of strangers who probably thought I was a psycho who was way too into the Sox. And hey, I probably am, but what was happening inside was a deepening of the experience. It cemented the moment into my brain while simultaneously conjuring dozens of similar moments I’d experienced alongside my mother. It was a hell of a lot to process, but it felt good. It scratched an itch I didn’t even realize I had. I don’t normally remember a relatively meaningless solo homer, or a ho-hum 5-1 victory at the end of April, but this new depth of feeling demanded I hold on to that, and I’m glad I have.

Last weekend I was in Key West celebrating my dad (and AJPT Founding Member #1!) on his 80th birthday. [Without diverting too much into politics, let me just say that Key West is always a weird little town, but being there the week of the inauguration was a trip.] We had a phenomenal time, and there were two moments where this sort of expanded emotional state that comes with my grief popped up in unexpected ways.

Since there wasn’t any personal drama going on because our large group of revelers was having a truly pleasant time, my gut decided it was going to be the one to shit on everything. Actually, the opposite. TMI, I know. I had horrible stomach cramps for the first couple of days and at my dad’s birthday dinner, things took a turn for the worse, and a few hours later I was enjoying Key West’s finest tourist attraction — the emergency room at the Lower Keys Medical Center.

Oh cool, more pictures on AJPT of me in the hospital. But look at that sweet nautical theme on the curtain! Tropical!

After a CT scan, we found the culprit was diverticulitis. Essentially, an infection in my intestines. They gave me some antibiotics and sent me home. The next morning I was talking to my dad about my exclusive tour of the famed medical facility and getting him up to speed on why I’d been so off the last couple of days.

“Oh, your mom had diverticulitis,” he told me. “Although, Martha had this thing where she either couldn’t pronounce certain words, or chose not to do so (I firmly believe the latter was the stronger influence), so she called it Divy Dicky Ditus.”

The whole table laughed, as did I, even though it hurt something fierce. But, again, that odd feeling flushed over me and I was suddenly grateful that I had Divy Dicky Ditus. Martha got through this, I’ll get through this. It was no longer a scary and painful ailment, it was a shared experience with my mom, the sort of thing you don’t often get with someone who’s no longer here. Not only did I have a new fun name to call the damn thing, but I had extra faith that it would pass soon since I remember when my mom went through it. Also, there is some genetic component to diverticulitis, so I had someone to blame, which is nice…

The other moment came after we visited the Key West Butterfly and Nature Conservatory — which, for the record, is absolutely amazing if you’re a fan of whimsical bugs fluttering directly at your face. After you walk through the exhibit they give you a butterfly sticker (it’s like voting, but without horrific consequences!). My wife stuck mine on my ball cap and we happily went about our day.

It wasn’t until I looked into a mirror while washing my hands that I realized the sticker was the exact same one my mom had on her Red Sox cap. The Red Sox cap she wore all of the time, the cap that she wore the last time I saw her outside of a hospital. And damn, did that hit like a ton of bricks. It hurt. I got instantaneously sad… for about two seconds. Then a rush of this unnameable feeling that accompanies my guilt, that shared experience with the person I miss more than any other on this planet, and I was, again, incredibly grateful. It already meant a ton to share that experience with my wife, my dad and his partner, but now the spirit of Martha was there with me.

Twinsies!

I feel like my grief has given me, or at least contributed to, a fuller experience of this world. And I cannot express just how gobsmacking this revelation is each and every time I have it. The tears, the malaise, the listlessness — all of that was expected. But each time I find myself laughing, or beaming with a dumb grin, or finding inner strength and realizing it all stems from the pain and grief I carry in the dark recesses of my brain, I’m just paralyzed by how nonsensical it all is. This isn’t what I was led to believe grief would be, but in these moments I’m ecstatic that I have this pain.

Over the past six-plus years I’ve been frustrated by how few dreams my mom has popped into, and I get mad at every little question I know she’d have the answer to. I even lost what little belief I had in ghosts because if haunting were possible, Martha would without a doubt be doing it. I now understand that this is how she’s still with me, this is how she is haunting me — by always being there, ready to show up out of the blue to enhance my experiences with a depth of emotion I didn’t know was there. Making the mundane something special, the special something extraordinary, and none of it would be possible if the worst hadn’t already happened in the past.

I hated losing my mom, but I love the grief it left in me and the way that it has shaped my present and my future. It’s made me a better person, a more complete person. Of course Martha is still improving my life and making me smile every single day, I was an idiot to think that a minor obstacle like death would stop her from that.

This is the type of legacy we should all strive to leave behind when we pass, but something tells me that Martha probably did it a little better than we will.