“Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.” —William Shakespeare
Justine said it was ok for me to share this story. I made sure to ask her permission before I wrote this and we read it together after.
On Friday mornings, when I can, I try to help out in Justine’s classroom. This week, when I arrived, the receptionist in the office told me Mr. Carter had sent a message for me to get there as quickly as I could. As I walked toward the back of the school where the fourth grade classes are, down the long corridor, I saw two figures hunched over, sitting with their backs toward me. I realized one was the tall figure of Mr. Carter, crosslegged on the pavement, and as I got closer, my heart dropped to recognize the little one was my daughter, gently rocking herself. It didn’t look like they were doing math problems. I worried that Justine had hurt herself somehow, as she was crying tears, and that tough cookie rarely cries unless something is very painful….especially in front of others. Her teacher was bent over a list of class parent’s numbers, texting me.
“I’m here. What happened?” I asked, and they both looked up. Mr. Carter, in relief—Justine, just enough for me to see her sad face before bending inward again.
“I’m not really sure. She won’t tell me. The class is being amazing today, so I don’t mind sitting out here, but now you are here, I’ll let you two talk,” said her teacher.
So I took his place on the ground, drawing my little person into my lap. “Are you hurt?” She shook her head no. “Did someone say something mean?” No again. I held her for a long time and she continued to cry, which again surprised me as its rare for her to let go in tears. It took a long time and I’d run out of questions, before she gave me a clue. Finally she whispered: “You know what it is.” I was stumped, so I just said the last thing to come to mind: “Is it about Daddy?”
It’s been over three years since he died, and we’ve done a lot of processing. She always seems so resilient, but one thing that those I know who have experienced this before always told me was that emotions of grief can ambush a person out of the blue, even years and years after the event. She nodded her whole body in my arms: yes. And so I started the questions again: “What are you sad about?” She told me she wasn’t sad, but that she didn’t want to tell me how she felt. I told her I’d accept her answer no matter what. She was ashamed for some reason. Finally, we landed on the uncomfortable truth that she was feeling angry. She burst into tears again. This is something I could relate with. Anger is ok when you feel justified in it. But what if anger makes you feel like a bad person? We think we are allowed to feel some emotions but not others, justifying maybe that we should know better. I think this happens all the time after someone you love dies: its easier to just call it all sadness. It’s complicated enough for an adult, how much more for a child?
I asked if she was angry at daddy for dying. She shrugged, but quietly said: “Why did he have to buy that Vespa?”
“I don’t know, Honey. But if he knew he was going to die, I don’t think he would have. I assure you, he didn’t want to leave.“
“Well, Its not fair. It’s not fair that I don’t have a dad.”
“No…it’s not fair at all. You know what? I’m mad about that too, my Love.”
“All the other kids in my class have dads. And today the kids on both sides of me were talking about their dads.”
I hugged her tighter. I’d wondered how often she thought this way, with all the dads she regularly sees around the school, though it had been a long time since she’d said anything. “Lets go do something with this energy, ok? Lets get it on the outside of your body. Want to go throw some rocks? I think it’s really important that you told me all this, and we need to honor these thoughts before they hide away again. Can we do that?”
So I told Mr. Carter and the ladies in the office we’d be back soon, with everyone being very sweet and understanding, and we drove to the closest beach, just minutes away. The big grey clouds made a matching backdrop for our moods and the waves were crashing high. I was so glad it wasn’t sunny. We walked a ways down to get away from any other people and then chose our rocks carefully. Justine was attracted at first to the large ones she could barely lift with two hands before realizing the smaller ones were better for running and then releasing. We took turns screaming our angry words at the top of our lungs, which sounded surprisingly thin against the wind and roar of the waves, and soon we were laughing, out of breath and noticeably lighter in our chests.
I love the ocean so much, and I know we are fortunate to have nearby access to it. I pointed out to Justine that the roaring sea is like an emotional body that covers the earth. Sometimes it’s calm and sparkling, sometimes its stormy and loud…it’s all the things all the time.
“Imagine the great ocean accepting our rocks…I’m sure she can handle them. In the same way, we are allowed to go in and out of our feelings, no matter how uncomfortable they are. They pass and change, but its good to experience them and name them and to release them in healthy ways. Talking about them is one of the most healthy ways I can think of. Because look, if you hadn’t told me, we wouldn’t be here together, doing this. I’m glad I was able to be nearby, and I’m really glad you told me. It helped me express some anger and sadness that I had inside me too. And now we both feel better.”
We walked a little further on the sand and discovered a kelp nest holding treasures: some tiny shells and a dead sea urchin, which she was thrilled about as she’d never found one on the beach before. We noted how releasing the uncomfortable feelings made space to discover something new. She skipped around the sand in her free childlike way, the wind blowing her long hair, until she found stick to draw with. Then she stopped and began to write: “We Miss You Vernin (Vernon)” and drew a family of four underneath. She seemed light again, creative, accepting.
There may be nothing I love more than the littleness of her hand in mine as it grows through the years. I often appreciate that its a way to feel each other’s hearts through the skin, palm on palm. One day soon she may stop holding mine, maybe before they are closer in size. She’s changing a lot, and already doesn’t need me as much as she used to, but I was deeply grateful to be available for her on this day. I’ve heard it said, its not the ‘special days’ you prepare for but the normal days, when you are just minding your own business, that the difficult feelings of grief can show up and knock the wind out of you. I was thankful to Grief that day for choosing to come to her when I would happen to be near. The trickster can also be a gentleman. As we walked back to the car, hand in hand, I suggested she find something small to take with her to remember our getaway, something she could put in her pocket to touch if the afternoon in school felt too unreal. She chose a small flat rock, and insisted I text her teacher so he wouldn’t take it away as a distraction. Of course, I knew he would understand, but I did it anyway.
Again, Justine gave me permission to write and share this story. It’s her story, I’m just remembering it. We both agreed it might help some other child who might be surprised by the pain in their heart. It’s completely normal, but sometimes, in the moment, it feels anything but. Anger is not an easy emotion for many of us to recognize. She taught me a lot that day too: how to better love her, for one thing…and in that, how to better love myself.
