Last week I was tired. Desperately tired, in body and soul. A ‘sore-shoulders-aching-legs-can’t-even-focus-on-Netflix’ level of worn out and done in. I slept for 11 hours one night and woke up so exhausted I couldn’t go to work.
I couldn’t work out why. Nothing much in my day-to-day life had changed. I’m busy at work, but it’s been that way for nearly six months. We went away for the weekend, and I’d worked hard for three days before to ensure all the things I wouldn’t get done over that time had been dealt with. That’s normal because I don’t want to return to an untidy house. I enjoyed the time away and the exquisitely random meeting with a friend from another state who was unexpectedly sent to work in the town where we were staying. The ride home was a little hairy, but I’ve been in the car in torrential downpours before. My son was driving, and I admit I used the ‘parent brake’ a few times, but we both got home safely and with the car in the same condition as when we left.
The only things that were different were the book I was reading and the date. The book is about a mother’s journey of diagnosis for her son and the challenge of schooling a child with autism. I don’t tend to read books that remind me about my similar journey, so this one surprised me with how it dredged up all those emotions again. Much as that unsettled me, I didn’t think it was behind my unusual tiredness.
That only left the date. This year’s June long weekend began on June 2nd and ended on June 5th. Two years ago, June 5th was a Saturday. I was in the same place – Bunbury, W.A. for the State Youth Games. My ADHD/ASD son likes to attend but doesn’t sleep well in a hall with other participants. For that reason, my husband and I rent a house or chalet for the weekend and head down to Bunbury with him. Having us nearby gives him somewhere private to sleep and to be himself when his ADHD medication has worn off, and he’s also tired, unsettled, and less capable of following accepted social conventions. In the morning, he heads back out to join his teammates, with everyone better off for the break.
On that Saturday, I was sitting in a Chinese restaurant, having lunch with my husband and younger son. My phone signalled that a text had arrived from my sister. Opening it revealed a single emoji – a crying face. My heart contracted at the sight of that symbol because I knew it could only mean one thing. My nephew had passed away, aged 19. I had been sitting by his bed the night before and had offered to stay until the end, but my sister wanted to be alone with him when he left the world. She also wanted me to be with my own family.
This year, June 5th was a Monday. That was the day I travelled back home through a storm with my oldest son. My sister had sent me an image of the memorial marker she had placed on her son’s grave, and I’d replied that I couldn’t believe it had been two years. I can’t imagine what two years without your child feels like. I don’t want to either. But that was the problem. I didn’t want to think about it other than acknowledging the date and replying to my sister. I was busy, and I let that busyness fill my day and my mind. I ignored the emotions building up inside me until they took over in the form of exhaustion. My brain decided that if I wasn’t going to take the time to process everything, it would do it regardless of my willing participation.
I’ve learned from this that we remember anniversaries for a reason. One reason is remembering the person who passed and letting their family know we still think about them. Another is for ourselves. We need to acknowledge our loss and grief and even our resentment of the passage of time that moves us further from our last engagement with the person who died. I chose to be busy; my body chose to let me know that wasn’t a good strategy. Once I realised why I was so tired and took an appropriate amount of time to let myself consider my nephew’s absence and the impact on not only my sister but the rest of our family, the tiredness lifted.
I have discovered that grief is an ever-present companion who walks alongside you as you go through your days but sometimes suddenly jumps in front of your face. It demands attention. Whatever the trigger – an object, an image, a song, a date – I am learning to stop and process those memories and thoughts instead of trying to fob them off with a promise to look more closely later. If I don’t acknowledge my thoughts and feelings and allow myself to sit in that place of hurt or sadness, my body will choose a far less convenient time to take me out until I do so. That’s not an outcome I recommend! Give grief its due, for your own sake.
A Glorious Mess 