Grief at 6 weeks #SOL24 14/31

#SOL24, home life, Slice of Life, writing 1 Minute

“You can’t write your way out of this,” says my therapist, and I know she’s right, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Anyway, the words won’t come out properly, so it’s not like I have a choice.

She says she’s not crying as much as she expected. Apparently her therapist told her, “You’re going to have to actually feel your feelings.”

We repeat the phrase to each other and laugh at ourselves because we aren’t crying until we are crying – and then we start laughing again because we’re crying about not crying and does this count as feeling your feelings?

At the gym, the coach shows us the workout: lifting again, the weights carrying some of our grief. But today all of her muscles hurt and she didn’t sleep well and she’s just so angry that she finally has time to take care of herself only her body won’t cooperate. I know what she means, but it’s not my child who died, not my body that aches so deeply. We do what we can and cry again. 

“I’m so tired of crying,” she says, and I agree, “yeah, six weeks is way too long to mourn a child” and “what are you thinking anyway?” because apparently right now all we can do is cry, then laugh, then cry again.

With that, the coach erases the whiteboard, grabs her phone and orders us all something from Starbucks. We change our shoes and head out for a walk, which doesn’t fix everything – or anything – but at least we are outside, together, sipping hot drinks in the sun. 

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Published by Amanda Potts

I'm a high school English teacher in Ottawa, Ontario. I read, write, walk & take a LOT of pictures. Sometimes my kids let me write about them. I use this space to think and write about teaching and living.

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24 thoughts on “Grief at 6 weeks #SOL24 14/31”

  2. Oh dear. If this is the child that has been such a significant part of your life for so long… this must be so hard and you have captured it so beautifully. I hope the time spent witnessing her grief, the family’s grief, will allow you to feel and process your own.

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  3. So many coaches in this piece: the therapist, the friend, the trainer, the blank page, the blog.

    The kind of grief you point to is so BIG and so new, it’s hard to breathe even as a distant observer. Your last paragraph was like one beautiful exhale. A warm, hopeful, human scene—outdoors.

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    1. I hadn’t even noticed all the coaches. I am lucky to have so many people (and words) in my life who help hold me together. Ditto for my friend. This whole thing sucks.

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  4. Somehow this series of small moments, getting help, crying/laughing/crying, walking, working out, sharing a drink- it all reads like a roadmap for grief. Aimless yet not. Pointless yet not. I am glad you have each other to walk together.

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  5. What a powerful, beautiful last line. Your whole piece so beautifully captures how hard grief is–you say in the beginning that words don’t come out properly, and that feels true for all kinds of grief, whether my own or others’–but the slice as a whole also feels like it does have just the right words to convey these hard, hard, jumble of feelings.

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  8. Amanda,

    I have no words for a mother’s grief, which I know will last a lifetime. The words of “He’s Not Heavy. He’s my brother” feel appropriate for a friend like you as you carry your friend’s grief and walk beside her. Peace and grace to you both.

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