When you least expect it

The problem with grief is that it is unpredictable. Things can be clicking along pretty happily, when suddenly BOOM! It hits you like a slingshot to the face. It’s like that with all the tough stuff in life, our work-in-progress topics; they develop a mind of their own. No matter how much we ignore them or pretend they don’t exist, eventually they find their way back to us like an oozing, crusty cold sore that’s impossible to overlook.

What triggers the flare-ups can be anything from the obvious—a birthday, anniversary or holiday—to the unexpected—a song on the radio, a story in the paper, a glance from a stranger.

In the almost six months since my mom’s death, I’ve had my share of emotional breakdowns, some surprising, others not as much. What’s funny, though, is that so far the obvious, more planned treks toward pain and discomfort haven’t been as effective in helping me really experience the raw emotion of grief as the unplanned.

For example, when I called my dad and unexpectedly heard his answering machine say, “I’m not available” instead of, “We can’t come to the phone right now,” I instantly hung up. Tears filled my eyes and I was immediately pissed at him for moving on with his life. Sure, it was no secret my dad had started dating soon after my mom’s death, but it was that call, that 15 second recording, that helped me realize and feel the anger that was hidden in my grief.

The holidays, which everyone said would be terrible, weren’t so bad. I prepared and disconnected, steadied myself for a week of tears that would never come.

In a recent exchange of e-mails with a distant relative (someone who’d recognized me by my maiden name on a Facebook comment to a mutual friend), I was asked, “Was your mom Maggie?” (Emphasis on the word was.) Simple enough question, but hearing my mom referred to in the past tense, stung. “How dare you?” I thought. As if she wasn’t real anymore. But then I thought, “She gone, isn’t she?” and my mind painfully returned to the morning of her death.

Last week I decided to change my cell phone contact information from “Mom and Dad” to “Dad.” I’d avoided doing it for a while, but it hurt too much to see her name appear when I made or received a call from my parents’ home. It’s always been my mom who called, my mom I called. Seeing her name appear when my phone rang felt like bait and switch. I made the change and waited to feel the pain of my treachery. Nothing.

You just don’t get to plan for it.

Music—and not the stuff I downloaded for her during the last month or two of her life—no, that would make sense. Instead, anything that speaks to loss or love is a potential trigger.

Say something I’m giving up on you.

I’m sorry that I couldn’t get to you.

So I’ll sit in the back row of yoga, in the corner of the coffee shop, with tears streaming down my face. Right where I need to be.