OK is a Moving Target
Living with Grief
I know you’re just blowing off steam and everything, but when I read what you write I can’t help but wonder, is Bree OK?
I probably wouldn’t think twice about the interaction if I hadn’t hesitated, or if I had answered him at all. The conversation continued for a few awkward, cloying minutes. I cannot say with any confidence that I addressed his concern. Instead, I mumbled something about valuing our friendship then let my dear friend loose with a sincere hug- the kind with the extra squeeze held long enough to ensure the receiver knows it was intentional. With a sad, sheepish wave he wandered off into the concrete desert.
And I went on a search for a cup of coffee.
I didn’t need or even want the coffee. I needed the purpose. I needed a reason to walk a little bit further, alone with my thought, my one frustrating, discombobulating thought: Am I OK?
What does OK feel like? Look like? Write like?
Grief can be alienating. The fog of loss hovers over you and it can take forever to break. After the first death, reading Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking brings comfort. This uncomfortable feeling is actually you being sane. After the second and third deaths, you’ll get the audio book. Anymore than three passings, you’ll listen to it and start to sing along. It is you and Joan, voices in the fog.
He isn’t the first person to ask me this question. Usually, I have a response.
Oh, I’m fine! Don’t you worry!
Yes. I’m alright. Thank you for asking.
Once I write it down, its over. I promise.
This is just how I process.
I only ever write when I’m angsty! If I’m happy, I’m busy being happy and have no reason to write!
“Bummer” is my genre. Haha.
I didn’t say any of these things.
Do Stephen King’s friends ask him if he’s ok?
Of course, Stephen King has a fair amount of money and people tend tolerate the strangeness of the wealthy. Plus, Stephen King probably doesn’t spend an entire week doodling giant sphincter and joking to everyone that the title of said doodle is “Time Is An Asshole”.
Nobody ever laughs. They seem afraid that I might be serious.
Kinda like that time I got rip roaring drunk on moonshine at a party and showed everyone my super comfy clogs as I cackled, “These shoes are definitive proof that my sex life is over!”
I don’t remember much from that night, but I do remember a woman sighing deeply, pleading with sad eyes and a soft voice, “Please stop saying that…”
The more people I inspired to step away from me sideways, the funnier I thought it was to say. So I kept saying it. Sometimes I popped my leg back in a flirty fashion, like all those pin ups of comely lasses standing on tiptoes to peck some hunka hunka burnin’ love on a uniquely American beach. The juxtaposition of the clunky footwear in a dainty pose tickled my drunk-fancy but no one seemed to find it as funny as I did. Some found it weird, others found it sad, and they all seemed to think I was making fun of myself. Maybe I was, but not that I was sexless. Rather, I thought it was funny that I would choose those shoes in the first place.
They were seriously fugly shoes. Comfortable, but fugly.
I wasn’t unhappy in those shoes. I felt different in those shoes. In a room full of Timberlands, perky little wedges, and spotless $300+ sneaks, I was wearing $18 orthopedic-looking, pleather clogs and I felt compelled to point it out. See! I’m not like you! I’m awkward!
I feel like a square peg in nearly every room so I’ve learned to embrace it, maybe even purposefully accentuate it. I want people to know that I know I don’t fit.
Don’t mistake me for someone who is trying.
That would be more humiliation than I could bear. Stuff your acceptance and shove your love and admiration! I never wanted it in the first place! I’m fine! I meant to do that!
Shit. I’m probably not ok.
The only coffee shop open within walking distance was situated at the top of an escalator in the skyway.
Visitors to Minneapolis and St. Paul are always surprised to learn that the downtown buildings are all connected by a labyrinth of temperature controlled walkways. All the hustle and bustle of the city streets but usually 2 or 3 floors up and without cars or sidewalks. No coats necessary, not even in the freezing- dead-cold of a Minnesota winter.
Of course, the whole infrastructure shuts down around 4:00 as the business crowd shifts to 'going home mode’. At 3:45, I was already pushing my luck for a coffee.
“Hey. What can I getcha?”
The skinny geezer with the friendly smile waited patiently for my order. Two young girls, probably high school age, giggled with one another as they wiped down counters in their crisp, sage green aprons.
“Cappuccino. Skim if you got it.”
“Right-o!” He emphasized his button pushing by jauntily swinging his arm up as if the button had playfully pushed him back, “Anything else?”
“Nah. That’ll do.” I smiled back. I may have earned my status as a New Yorker, but I was born and raised in Minnesota. I speak fluent Friendly.
“I like your sweater.” he says as he waited for me to tap my debit card, “Looks chic and very cozy.”
“Well, thank you! It’s vintage.” I laughed.
He laughed, too. “What a coincidence! So am I.”
I pulled away with a playful grimace, “Oh come on now… you don’t mean that.” I pawed at the air dismissively then sucked my teeth in mock disapproval.
“Well, I’m definitely too old for the attentions of a pretty lady such as yourself.” He winked.
“Are you flirting with me?” I said, intentionally flirting back.
“AHA!” he pointed and then leaned across the counter conspiratorially, “Now I know you are vintage, too.” he peeked at the two high school girls clanking frothing jugs into the aluminum sink, “If I’d said that to these young’uns I’d get fired!”
I leaned toward him, swiveling my eyes in their sockets to make sure no one was listening in, “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Well then!” the skinny geezer stood up and brushed his apron flat, “I think we should celebrate by giving you a cookie!” He pulled a big chocolate chip cookie out of the display case and dropped it into a parchment bag, “These will go to waste if I don’t get rid of ‘em. I’m hoping you’ll give this one a good home.”
He winked as he handed me the bag. I gave him a salute as a sign that I took this solemn duty very seriously. He disappeared behind the counter and I disappeared inside my phone overflowing with emails, texts, and tasks that I’d put off to have lunch with an old friend.
- An old friend who wonders if I am OK.
Two minutes later I was riding down the escalator with my coffee and cookie in hand. The cookie was soft; a bit of salty-sweet regret washed down with a sensible froth on a too-short walk back to my sister’s apartment. I passed a plate glass fishbowl of a gym and peered at the two people working out inside. I took another delicious, sugary bite of serotonin and a sip of remorse. It was already well past the first of the month so I’d be on the hook for my gym membership back in Brooklyn. I forgot to apply for a 30 day hold before I left.
At least the cookie was free.
Nah, man. I’m not ok. I answered my long-gone friend in my head. I’m sad. I’m overwhelmed and I feel very alone. But it is bad manners to say that to someone who is sitting across from you, trying hard to reach you.
Don’t you worry! I’m fine.
Thank you for asking. Yes, I’m alright.
I promise, once I write it down, it’s over.
This is just how I process.
I only ever write when I’m angsty! If I’m happy, I’m busy being happy and have no reason to write!
“Bummer” is my genre. Haha.
I know you want me to talk about it, but nothing I say even scratches the surface. I can’t even find the surface to scratch because the fog is so thick.
I’m sorry it is hard to reach me. I’m sorry I can’t really find the words that would reassure you that this… this is me being sane.
There is nothing to fix.
I think this is what it is supposed to feel like.
So by that standard, I guess I really am OK.
Thanks for checking in.