Messy, muddy January. Mud that seems to take on a life of its own, transformed into artwork as the puppy knucklehead dances across the floor. Sometimes I stare at the mud like they are Rorschach ink blots, sometimes I just stare. Thawing is messy. Think about the last time you thawed something in the refrigerator without proper wrapping or placing a plate underneath. Drippings, water, juice, whatever it was, seeped into all the nooks and crannies of the refrigerator, touching other stuff, more frequently dripping into impossibly difficult to reach places. Thawing is messy.
I can relate with the frozen turkey purchased on sale thawing in the back of the refrigerator. Cold, clammy, flabby pale skin, leftover pin feathers, just dripping away. I am thawing and unlike the dead fowl, I hurt as I thaw. Feeling returns to those parts that were protected and numb.
“I am sorry to tell you, your son Justin is dead.” Frozen in time. We are paradox. We are frozen, yet we move, speak, can be highly organized, and productive. Frozen, not in denial. For the love of all that is holy, please don’t tell us that we are in denial that our child is dead. I kept the mud from my heels that sank into the graveyard for a long time so that I could touch that reality. Perhaps we can be in denial how our child died, we tell ourselves that they were unconscious when they drowned because the reality that they were aware would send us screaming into the night and over the abyss. Perhaps that denial is acceptable, even necessary. But we know our child is dead, we know we have to build a new life.
The first year is a deep freeze, a blur, it goes by in a moment. The second year the thaw begins, searing pain as the ice retreats. First two years of grief is considered “new grief”, we are strangers in a strange land. The third year, messy. Able to speak Justin’s name freely that first year, now his name cannot pass through our lips without tears, the great thaw, the slow thaw. Eyes fill when looking at your spouse as you try to communicate a thought, an idea. Grateful for years of practice so there is no need for many words.
Drop a frozen turkey and it slides across the floor, undamaged. Drop a thawed turkey and it becomes inert, leaving quite a mess and a splatter that touches the far cabinets. Thawing leaves us vulnerable to bruising. Thawing leaves us challenged to move, parts still frozen, parts thawing, dripping, awkward. It is easier to cut a partially thawed bird, but when totally thawed it is far more difficult to cut. Newly grieving parents are so vulnerable to cuts, but with time we aren’t so easy anymore. Our joints start to move as we continue the great thaw, we start to slowly move our muscles, there are new muscles that we don’t recognize, they need to be honed and flexed. The slow thaw.
I am grateful to those of you who have not feared the thaw, but simply waded in with a roll of paper towels to absorb the drips, you either dodged the awkward flexing of new muscle, or got hit and flowed with the motion. You are rare gifts and humble me with your courage and compassion. That is what grieving parents need, compassion. We don’t need some jackass telling us that we should be over it, through it, closing it, or done with it, we can do without that braying pandering thank you.
We have entered into a new way of life, I believe we have shed a lot in the thawing. Preconceived notions of life, death, faith, it all drips out. We are much leaner emotionally, more direct. The startling brevity of life hangs before our eyes, couches and colors our call and response to the world and those around us.
The great thaw is not over, may this slow thaw lead to a new spring one day.
