There was this tacky pithy catchphrase back in the day...the 80s maybe...can't remember exactly when..."Live, Love, Laugh." It was on plaques, mugs, greeting cards, shirts. Now it would be a meme, back then it was just saccharine sweet slogan porn. But over the past few months, it keeps creeping back into my mind...slightly altered. Now it's "Live, Love, Grieve." I can't get it out of my head. It's become my new slogan.
I said to my angel-on-earth grief therapist, Marilyn, that I thought when Owen passed that I would be unable to get out of bed for a month and that the world would stop. She (being oh so wise) said there may be a month when I can't get out of bed. But the reality is that life goes on. Owen wanted nothing more than for life to go on for me and the kids. And so it does, with moments where I am brought to my knees, and other moments of radical gratitude for the 33 years of life we shared and I have these moments of pure unadulterated joy and then, of course, life swings back to my heart breaking in a million pieces. Live, Love, Grieve.
But that's not the theme of today's unsolicited post. The theme is, we all live, love and grieve every minute of every day. My fellow parents with kids going off to college, I see your joy and your grief - a mix of so many things as we send our babies off on their way to adulting. But parenting in general is grieving, every time Ben and Nicola outgrew a fave onesie or favorite toy - I felt grief that that stage was over - that child was no more and though I had a new older child in different clothing with new toys and favorite books and cute phrases, the previous stage of their being was no more. Live, love, grieve.
I am reading a book that is transformative that talks about how as human beings we are so afraid to show our vulnerability, lest we be weak or at risk. But if we all have the courage to truly show up as we are for each other, utterly flawed and honest and real - we give each other permission to also just be exactly who we are and to truly live, fully and without judgement.
I am in Eugene, Oregon with Ben as he experiences a two-day orientation for University of Oregon. He gets to hang with the other incoming freshman and I attend programs with the other parents for two days. Tonight, as he is staying in the dorm, I was by myself for dinner. I went down the the lovely outdoor restaurant at my hotel - with a free glass of wine given to me by the front desk - just because - and sat outside and ate alone for the first time since Owen passed. Alone. Surrounded by couples eating together. So I ordered my dinner and sipped my wine and took a deep breath. And worried that it would be really, really hard. And yet the food was exquisite. Beyond. The weather lovely, the wine exceptional. I texted a friend during dinner so I could at least share the experience with her.
As the waitress cleared my plate and asked how everything was, instead of saying "Fine, thanks." I actually told her: "This is my first meal alone since my husband died of cancer two months ago. My son is at UO orientation. I can't call my husband and tell him all about it. But this meal was amazing (cue crying). It was special and delicious and I did it and I'm okay." She told me she was sorry and we chatted and she told me about her kids in college and we mused about life and parenting for a minute or two. She walked away - and I thought "that was a really nice dinner, and a really nice moment with this other human being.” And that would have been more than enough.
But then, a few minutes later she came back to my table and said "Someone in the restaurant has picked up your tab for your dinner." I have no idea who. I don't know who was watching or listening. I cried more and thanked her. And left her a huge tip.
So here's the thing. When she asked how my dinner was I didn't just say "Fine, thanks." I actually told her. I told her all of it. And she came along for the ride, as did some other kind strangers who overheard.
I will never forget this dinner. Neither will she most likely, nor will the person or people who paid for my dinner. We all shared dinner together.
Live. Love. Grieve. Every. Single. Day.