Sometimes Unexpected

It still happens. There I am, tending to life and the myriad of dull, commonplace details that makes up a ordinary day when grief unexpected will peek her melancholy head into the room.

I stop. Her familiar presence arrests me. I am always surprised by her visit and her inexplicable timing.

Like today. I decided to print up online coupons for the giant craft store, Michaels.  As the whir of the printer fired up there she came. Waltzing in as if we had an appointment. She brought pictures. She always does. She flashed them to me before I even had a chance to tell her to leave. I always look.

Pictures. Memories, of Janene and Abigail. Christmas. Michaels. A forgotten conversation with Janene from some years ago about Christmas decor and money savings. About Michaels. Just like that. A sliver of a memory of a rather droll conversation suddenly takes on all the meaning of life and death and the grand purpose of all that is in between.

When I first started working at the hospital - the one that Quintin was life-flighted to that dreadful day - I was nervous that Grief would be visiting me more often. At first she did. I was sitting in the courtyard garden during a short break one of my first weeks on the job. The rushing sound of rotating helicoptor blades surfaced grief from her hiding place. I was momentarily undone.

The first time I was assigned training on the pediatric unit I worried about his room, Quintin's hospital room that is. Though he survived his injuries, which I am so very glad he is here with us, it was tragic to take my children to see him after the loss of his mom and sister in the accident. On my training shift, we delivered trays to patients in many other rooms, and then finally, I pulled one out of the cart that was for his old room. Would grief show up? Should I give the tray to my coworker to deliver instead? 

I took a deep breath, come what may, and walked through the door. Grief respected the moment and allowed me to stay present with the young patient in the bed and her family. I left the room with a weak anxiety, knowing that grief could have showed up with her memory albums and unraveled me.  I was grateful she did not.

Last week  I was driving home on Willamette Boulevard. There, just up ahead, was a gold Astro minivan, just like the kind that Janene drove up to the day of her death. Grief always takes this as her cue to get into the car with me and remind me of how many times I saw Janene on the roadway, busy moms that were, giving each other friendly honks like tribal women bellowing in song as we made our way in caravans.

It's like that still, three years later. I still miss her and Abigail who'd be in kindergarten by now.

We took out our Christmas decorations from the attic last week. Jeremy pulled out the musical Christmas mouse that dances and sings when you press it's foot. The mouse holds a string of miniature Christmas lights that glow while it shimmies to Jingle Bells. I bought it years ago when my kids were young. It has endured Christmas after Christmas. The last Christmas we had with Janene and Abigail she would play and belly laugh as only uninhibited toddlers can do when they exude sheer delight. We all remember Abigail now when we see the christmas mouse. Even my unsentimental adolescent Jeremy held it up as he unpacked the box and announced, "Oh, this reminds me of Abigail."

I'm still not comfortable with Grief when she comes calling. I suppose I might never will be. But I don't resist her. I let her stay a while and then she quietly leaves. I suppose it is one way that keeps the memory of lost loved ones from getting dusty.

(another post about grieving Janene and Abigail...)