Unsubscribe & Grief

This was possibly the worst day of my life.

But first...

A difficult part about the Boy going to Wilderness is untangling me from the administrivia of his previous life. What is so hard about removing the reminder from my google calendar that I don't need to write a check to his bassoon teacher on Tuesday for his Wednesday lesson, or deleting his weekly appointment with his psychiatrist? On the surface, it seems like that wouldn't be as big of an emotional deal as it but it is death by a thousand cuts. Part of me didn't want to do that until he was officially off, because--you know--mental health miracles occur every day.

And then it was unsubscribing from email lists for track, cross country and the high school in general. Thank goodness school ends Thursday so I won't get anymore voicemails from the high school telling me my son was not in school today, which I stopped listening to after the second one.

The Boy has played for the same club soccer team since 5th grade. Days after the Boy started wilderness, Jack wrote the Boy's soccer coach saying he wasn't going to be playing this summer and next fall due to mental health issues. Yesterday, I finally emailed a handful of moms asking them to find a new team treasurer. These are women I've spend years on the sidelines with, laughing and cheering on our sons. I am losing that group.

Now I have a new group, I am a member of a new club--mom's of kids who are in Wilderness. Sure there is a Facebook page exclusively for parents with kids in the Boy's wilderness program, but I am part of an email circle with four other moms where I wrote today "I cried for two hours." Which was them upped to probably three to four hours by the end of the night. And it is still early! Only 1:30 a.m. here in Seattle!

Fuck. I hate my life.

Grief snuck in on panther feet today, grabbing me by the jugular, shaking me around until I was a limp rag. A good friend of mine who is Indian took me to lunch today, but little did I know he had an agenda. The Indian part is important, because as he mentioned to me once before, where he grew up people considered it part of their responsibility to tell people directly how they are screwing up their lives. And I thought I knew how to have an agenda for a meeting, but he wins.

The agenda: The Fourth of July.

"Laaaauren, what are you doing for the Fourth of July?"

"Nothing..."

"What are your plans?"

"Eh..."

"You need to make plans," he said. "When I lived alone, I would spend the holidays by myself then Monday would come around and it would be awful. You need to leave town. You need a plan. That is your assignment. You could visit your dad."

I suppose my dad would be happy about that, but no. Spending a few days with my mom would make me more depressed, not better.

This conversation was making me deeply uncomfortable, but I didn't know why. I called Ellen and then my dad and I cried. The grief of the Boy being gone hit. I wouldn't need plans for the Fourth of July if he were here--he probably has a soccer tournament. (I should probably delete "Team Snap" while I am uncluttering electronic reminders about the Boy's past life.) I wouldn't need to make plans if the rest of my life were in order.

I have been reading a book called The Parallel Process about having a kid in wilderness therapy. My main way of coping with getting the Boy treatment was to be stoic. I was practical and organized and I had an agenda.

And now, I have fallen apart. When Ada died, I learned that grief waits. With the Boy, I had kept grief waiting at the door, and now she has arrived, to sit with me for a while. I have no choice but to let her in, and keep me company.

Between the tears and the anguish, I got out my laptop and booked a trip to see Claire-Adele in Maryland. Grief can sit with me on the plane, but she can have a break when I hangout with my daughter.