instructions on how to cry (and a safety advisory)

From Jodi:

People often scramble for tissues on my behalf, searching purses, pockets, drawers and the like for something to dry my tears and wipe my nose. In fact, this began the day Caemon died when we received fellow mourners in our tetris-shaped “privacy” room and has not abated since. Anytime people catch my eyes glistening or voice quavering, they begin the manic search for something to daub away the pain. I hardly bother. It’s like trying to mop up after Hurricane Katrina with a Swiffer: pointless.

I prefer to allow the tears to stream down my face in whatever pace or volume necessary to get through the worst of it. Tears fall on my clothes, the ground, photos of Caemon, forming pools and paths. Where they land doesn’t concern me; I just have to get them out.

But then there’s the snot, and everyone knows what I mean. A good cry always involves snot. Perhaps this is what the tissues are for. It’s not the tears but the snot people are concerned with. I take a cue from my dead son on this one and wipe my nose when necessary on whatever is handy (a sheet or pillowcase, Timaree’s shoulder, etc.). Clearly there is some regression happening during these periods and I become a disgusting snot-nosed toddler.

Sleeves are always handy, but if I’m bare-armed, so be it. Skin is not as absorbent as a good sleeve, but no matter. Some bouts are so drenching I remove my shirt altogether and use it as a towel, wiping it all away in one utilitarian motion like a boxer between rounds, then ball it up and toss it toward something that may or may not be a hamper. I shuffle to the dresser, pull out another wearable tissue, and wait for the next onslaught.

Some cries are like soliloquies, and others are more like slave spirituals. Some lack sound entirely. Some are for him; some are for me. Each one hurts like hell. Emotionally these moments are excruciating, but the physical toll is equally taxing: back spasms, cramps, headaches, dehydration, all byproducts of the daily spitting out of bottomless sorrow. Rest between cries becomes essential.

Some days I can’t take it, not one more loathsome second of it, and so I do something to avoid a downward spiral. On a good day, I can produce something positive, like the little patio fountain I built yesterday. Its soothing babble comforts me and coaxes me outdoors. On a bad day, I can drink a bottle of wine and pass out, but then I just wake up at four a.m., get out of bed, and spend an hour crying on the sofa before returning to bed to pass out again.

At Okizu, during family bereavement camp, there was an epic three-hour-long group discussion involving 8 couples who had all lost a child to cancer. Some were pretty far out, fifteen years being the longest, and then there was us, not even 3 full months removed from Caemon’s death, and I noted the similarities and differences between how we cried. The poor men didn’t cry at all; they sat stoically while their wives wept and told their stories, most projecting a resolve to do something or make something productive out of their tragedies. The women cried more readily. I made a point to not look away when someone cried. I looked them right in the eyes and let loose my own silent tears. The staff there came prepared with strategically placed boxes of tissue every third chair, and by the end of the session, our hands clutched tattered and soggy balled-up wads of white fiber, the pitiful emblem of the “Sad Parents Club” to which we now all loathingly belong.

I remember that I once went two years without crying. At the time I felt like I had spent so much of my childhood crying that I had become impervious to life’s woes. Imagine the hubris in thinking I had seen or felt it all by nineteen! Now that I’m a seasoned crier, I know that these tears don’t come from nothing, nor are they pointless; they’re plentiful because of how profoundly I love and miss Caemon. Given this, I honor every tear as an expression of that exquisite truth. I never apologize for crying.

 

Safety advisory: crying in the car is great for getting it out. You can be loud, curse, wail, sing out those sad songs, and it feels safe—even freeing—but bleary eyes make for distracted driving. Pull over during the worst of it.

Advertisements

7 thoughts on “instructions on how to cry (and a safety advisory)

  1. Mindy Luby (Sierra's mom)

    Thank you! I cry with and for you mamas! I think of you all and Caemon often. What you are enduring is truly unfair.

    Reply
  2. thechroniclesofconception

    Thank you for sharing this with us Jodi. I can only imagine how many tears have been shed. Lachlan talked about Caemon at length yesterday, asking me why did he have to go and that he was so sad because he wanted to show him his leaf blower. He had tears in his eyes and I couldn’t help the big lump in my throat and tears that came next. We’re crying with you friends. Sending all our love every day. xo

    Reply
    1. T Post author

      Oh, sweet Lachlan. Please tell him he can talk to Caemon any time. We do it all the time when we see a cool carwash or appliance. I’m certain he’ll hear him. My heart breaks for all the kids who are grieving for our boy. Give your little guys a hug from us. xoxo

      Reply
  3. Olive

    I’m glad you shared this. It really is funny to think of a tissue helping with that amount of sorrow. It’s such an instinct, isn’t it? To try to offer something (anything) that could help. I’m thinking of you both every day and sending love.

    Reply
  4. pepibebe

    The 5th paragraph is my absolute favorite.

    I’m a firm believer in letting it all out too. I’ve found a lot of balled up wads of tissue in all kinds of places in the last year. I can’t begin to imagine how many you will be going through.

    Reply
  5. Denise

    Jodi, you and T remind me so much of when my mother went through the loss of my brother at age 15. He was working under a farmhand and it came down on him. The guilt, the helplessness, the excruciating feeling of pain and hopelessness. It was the first time I ever saw my father cry. We never knew when or where the pain would overtake her. For the next five years my mother fled to the bathroom every Christmas during gift opening to cry for the want of her son. She explained it years later that the joy went out of everything. Flowers, sunshine, holidays, friends, vacations. Even if she found reason to laugh, there was no joy in the laughter. She remembers when she first felt it again, because it surprised her. She didn’t expect to ever feel joy in her life again. And after that, her thoughts of Tim were precious memories, not reminders for what she lost. She was able to thank God for allowing her to have him as long as she did, instead of hating Him for selfishly ripping him from her. And she was relieved that she could feel happy for his friends when they graduated from high school, instead of feeling her son was cheated out of life. Reading about your pain and your sorrow, I can’t help but pray for the day that you and Timaree once again feel joy.

    Denise

    Reply
  6. Roger

    Somehow I missed this missive when you first posted it. Great description of the Sad Parents Club. No great honor in saying “I haven’t cried in years”. That’s just a cop-out on feeling. Be Well, and much love, Roger

    Reply

Thank you for your replies. We appreciate every comment.

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s