Preoccupied, according to Webster, and the art of Wave Riding

1. completely engrossed in thought; absorbed. 2. previously occupied; taken; filled.

A good description of me these days.

My target time to be out the door is 6:30 AM with a buffer built into that time. As that window of buffer time was rapidly collapsing, I quick put on a short pot of “travel coffee” for Doug and I.  I turned to do other things and gradually on my periphery of hearing, I sense something different, just what is that sizzling sound, that sound of liquid hitting a hot surface and skittering about?  I had neglected to place the coffee pot on the machine and that precious black gold was pouring out onto the counter creating great pools of Fancy Bourbon Santos under the toaster, the coffee maker, rivulets making their way to the edge, same place where I currently reside…the edge, into the dishwasher.  The name we used to call our cat from Hades escaped my lips.  Kiba thought his name was Dammit Kiba and would come when called, he is now part of our dead pet walk in the backyard. I mopped up the mess and continued to make my way to the door. Usually I can hear heaven laughing a wee bit with me, but today I felt a reserved, quiet compassion, and understanding of the heaviness of my heart.

As I write and visit with other parents who have had a child die, a strong common thread binds us, preoccupation of our mind. It is there when we go to bed, it is a haunt through the night, and it is still there when the alarm goes off.  A sense that all is not right, it ebbs and flows, sometimes it recedes a bit, other times it is front and center. It reminds me of the ocean.

My brothers are all excellent ocean swimmers as was my mother. I was never as proficient as they were negotiating a really strong ocean, but I did learn to not fight the waves but to read them and to learn how to ride the waves. Soft knees is what I remember most, don’t lock your knees, don’t be so rigid that you cannot bend.  Riding waves is not so different than living with grief.  I can remember the terror of looking up at a wave and knowing that I was at its mercy. When your timing if off, you get picked up by the wave and slammed into the sand somewhere close to the shore…shells and seaweed tumbling with you. The wave recedes and you cough and splutter salt water, pick yourself up and decide whether you are sitting out a bit or will you make your way back out to wrestle with the next wave.  Sometimes that terrifying wave comes over me, how do I live without hearing that voice, that laugh, those dark eyes that telegraphed his soul? There is no place to escape that wave, it cannot be held back, soft knees I hear whispered to me, soft knees. All waves eventually recede, not all waves are as tall and threatening. Somehow, somewhere there will be peace with that turbulent ocean.

Starting the coffee without said pot isn’t like me I said to myself, and no, it wasn’t like the old me, it is very much the “new me” though, learning the art of wave riding all over again.