Letter 6 – Haircut

 

Garrett,

Today, the person who cut my hair asked me if I had any other children than my daughter. Genevieve was with me. She was getting her haircut, too. I said yes, I had a son, but he died. And she said, oh, I’m sorry. I am, too, I said. And I sat there and I was glad that I had named you. You were my son. I had had another child.

I sat there, willing myself to not cry, because even though I named you I really don’t want to break down in front of strangers. I want to acknowledge that you lived, but it’s hard to say that you are now no longer here. It’s a fresh pain. To say to someone, I had a son, but he is no longer here. That’s hard. It’s the first time I said it. I hadn’t been in that kind of situation before. I had thought briefly about what I might say if it ever happened, but I didn’t really know how I would respond. I also didn’t want Genevieve to hear me say that she was my only child. Because she isn’t. She is not my only child. I had another, but he’s not here.

I don’t know whether to say I had a child, or I have a child, who died. Because I don’t currently have you. It’s possible you are somewhere else, a place that I don’t know about and have little insight into. Does that mean I still have you? I don’t think so. I am living a physical existence, and you are not. I do not have you.

These months have been hard. Most of the time I’m still in the process of accepting your death. In some ways I can’t believe how long it’s taking. In other ways I think this must be a lifetime endeavor. The pain is not as raw as it was the first few months. The first few months were just pain, pain, pain.

I fully understand the meaning of the phrase, overcome with grief. Overcome with grief, and, making sure my daughter is okay. Overcome with grief and, being there for Kevin during his waves and crashes. I became frozen, pretty much only able to hold my grief, and that’s it. Letting go of everything else except my daughter, my husband. And the dog. The dog who came running every time my tears came. When I was wracked with sobs. How deeply I know these words now. All these cliché phrases that turn out to be so apt.

I’ve pretty much been in a state of stasis, allowing all that has happened into myself in little bits and pieces, giving myself time to absorb and adjust to this new reality. Adjust adjust adjust. Absorb absorb absorb. In little, tiny bits. Maybe thousands or hundreds of tiny sips per day. And then waves. Waves of grief where I leak out emotions for such a long while. The pour and push of the emotional wail let out into everywhere. I remember saying to my counselor, I have all this love for my child, and it doesn’t have any place to go. What do I do with all this love? I need to give this love to my child, but he’s not here and I don’t know what to do with it all. Tears of frustration. Tears of anguish. Tears of regret. Lots of regret in there, bud. And all I can do right now is sit with it. Be in it. And be a witness to my regret. And feel it for as long as I need to.