Another Year In "The After"

Poppies are the flowers of remembrance, resilience, and peace.

We (the kids and I) divide our lives into two parts—"The Before" and "The After". We have now concluded two full years in The After. Two full years since my husband passed away. This past Tuesday, we went to Knott’s Berry Farm, one of his favorite places. We go every year now on his birthday and on the anniversary of his passing. It’s a tradition, but it’s also so much more. It’s a way for us to remember the joy he brought into our lives, to honor the man he was, and to feel his presence in the laughter and excitement of the day.

There are a few things we do every year that started with Donny.

1. We ride the log ride at least a few times,

2. Donny always bought the kids the self-serve pixie sticks from the candy store, and

3. We always get a funnel cake.

This year, shortly after we arrived, I found out the Log Ride was closed for the day. That was really the moment it started in me. It wasn’t a breakdown, but a crack—one I didn’t want anyone to see. I thought, The kids are not going to be okay with this. I watched my kids, waiting for the storm, the meltdown I was sure would come. But it didn’t. There was no meltdown. No tears. They just moved on.

I didn’t know what to do with that. I felt this strange knot in my chest, an ache that grew stronger. My mom, sister and her family were with us, and I whispered to her, “I’m worried they’re going to be upset.” The truth is, I wasn’t okay. I was the one holding it in, pretending I was fine when inside, I was falling apart. I needed someone to show their grief, to be vulnerable, so I could step in and comfort them, because if I didn’t, I would have to confront my own pain. And that was much harder than helping them through theirs. We moved on. I shoved it down, buried it deep, because it seemed like everyone else was fine.

Then, a few hours later, Belle went to get her pixie stick. For the first time in all the years we’ve been there, they were out of every flavor. I thought, Now she's going to lose it. But no. She wasn’t upset. She was just disappointed she couldn't get her candy. I smiled and told her we’d find something else, but inside, I was trying to ignore the breaking going on inside of me. Why did they seem fine but I didn't?

We went through the rest of the day, and as we were leaving, we realized we never got our funnel cake. That was it. Surely they would burst with the realization that NONE of the little dad traditions had happened on this special trip. But once again… nothing. They shrugged it off like it was nothing. How could they be okay? My heart screamed. Why wasn’t this hard for them? Why was it so hard for me? I couldn’t understand it. Why did I want them to struggle? Why did I need them to have a meltdown so I could step in and fix it?

It was as though, in order for me to let my grief out, they had to have their own. But that didn’t happen. And maybe that’s what unsettled me more than anything. I know it’s not fair to compare our grief. It’s always hard for them in ways I can’t always see, but on this day, this second anniversary, I expected them to feel the loss of their dad in the same way I was feeling it. But they didn’t. Then I realized, that’s okay. They don’t need to carry it the way I do. They don’t need to show it in the same way. Maybe I felt alone in my grief on Tuesday, though I don’t know if that’s entirely it. Sometimes, it’s as if I want to feel the sadness, but it doesn’t come the way I expect. I don’t know why I feel that way, but I do. Grief doesn't always look sad. It doesn't always appear the same way. It doesn't always happen when you expect it and sometimes it does happen when you don't. Sometimes it comes for my kids when I'm fine and I guess this time, it came for me when they were fine. As the adult, as the mom, I just always feel like I should just focus on them and their grief because I'm grown, I can handle what comes for me. So in the moment when I couldn't and they seemed stronger than me, my instinct was to bury it. I can't be weaker than my children. I can't bring them down when they are doing well. I don't know why I feel that way. In my head, I know that's not right. Why is it so hard to let go of control as a parent. Why is it so hard to be vulnerable when our children are doing well? I guess also when they aren't. Why is grief so confusing? And why is it no more clear even after two years?