My Body Whispers the Story

This happens every summer, I think. It’s just the heat trapping me inside so I go days without feeling sun. This too shall pass; it always does.

But this year, it doesn’t pass—or, at least, it doesn’t stay as muted as usual. Instead of a low-and-slow crock-pot of seasonal affective disorder, my descent is rapid, painful, and physical. My emotions feel distant and yet all too present, bubbling under the surface and ready to make me burst into tears at a moment’s notice.

I blame it on hormones, but then my cycle moves on, and I don’t. I blame it on grad school, and VBS prep, and too many changes this summer—but those are exacerbating circumstances, not the underlying cause. But I can’t—daren’t—take the time to go deeper, to figure out why I’m struggling. My days are too full, and I’m never alone. I need privacy to hear that quiet voice and have space to process, and privacy is thin on the ground.

Secretly, I’m ok with that. I’m afraid that if I open the basement door and let out whatever’s rattling the doorknob, I won’t be able to get rid of this unwelcome houseguest. I’m afraid that it’ll burst into the living room and take up residence on the couch or hang from the corner like a malignant spider, spinning webs that keep me trapped as it feeds off my energy.

So I try to ignore it. I’ll let you guess how well that works. My blood pressure rises, anxiety runs away with me, and I suffer my first-ever real panic attack, the kind that makes you feel like you’re dying.

It takes almost three weeks for the light bulb moment. A simple notification from Google photos: “Memories for you.”

The picture is innocuous, just heads of dill, halfway between flower and seed, framed against a brilliantly blue sky. But my body knows, relives the visceral moment captured here.

It’s not depression in the basement. It’s Grief.

I took that picture by the greenhouses outside my grandparents' old farmhouse in late July, 2017. Inside, my grandma lay on a hospice bed. For three weeks, she slowly faded as her family milled around, coming and going. I was one of that number, and the photo is from an afternoon when I just needed to step away from the fraught emotions of everyone in the house and be still with my own tangled feelings, just for a few minutes. The fresh air and solitude centered me, and I snapped the image to remind myself that beauty persisted, even in the midst of a hard season.

Those weeks have become a hinge for my life: the time before, and then the time after. Still, I have largely considered it processed, the grief rarely felt. Apparently, my body disagrees. Apparently, it has been remembering for me every year, whether I’m aware of it or not, telling the story of the anxiety, the hyper-vigilance, the pressure I put on myself to be present, and the pain of unmet expectations.

Though the mental load is crystal clear, I struggle to remember what it felt like, physically, in those weeks. I’ve spent most of my life trapped in my head, trying to ignore my body, and I’m still learning to live in it more, to notice my quirks and silent cues. But if I close my eyes, I can picture it: the weight of my newborn son on my chest; the fizz and buzz of anxiety in my slack, postpartum belly; the heaviness of dreadful anticipation behind my sternum. I can feel the prickle at the nape of my neck of monitoring the air in the room, the moods of the various players that I felt so responsible to manage. I can feel my grandma’s eyes on mine, the discomfort of wondering if she’s waiting for me to say the same things I’m waiting for her to say.

Those things all still live in me, somewhere deep. My body has them bookmarked; my mind just took a while to realize it.

—————————

Acknowledging the grief isn’t enough, though. I think, after I realize what’s happening, that I’ll be ok on the anniversary of her death, that I’ve processed what I need to. Instead, as evening gets closer, I begin to cry, and I can’t quite seem to stop. My family leaves for a party—one I’m clearly in no state to attend—and I take to my bed, finally giving myself the privacy to open the basement door. Grief pours out, but not as a monster, just a wounded creature who wants to be heard.

So we sit together, Grief and I, as the sun sets. We remember how barn swallows soared over the fields that night, how that felt like a gift, just for us, and also like an omen.

We sit together, and I listen, and feel, and snot all over the place. I’m much calmer when my family returns, flowers in hand—which sets me off again, this time for the sheer gratitude of people who love and see me.

I tuck my children into their beds, including that baby who went with me that night, now a solid child of eight. I kiss my husband, and we snuggle and watch something silly and light together.

The grief shrinks back to a manageable size. I know it might grow again—maybe next summer, maybe sooner—but I’m grateful I understand it better now, grateful that my memories aren’t just in my head.

I thank my body for telling the story.

*Original Caption:

“Summer in the Midwest || My grandmother is dying. There is nothing about the process that is as simple as that statement, and there are many things that need to be said and lived and felt in this space of pre-mourning. But right now I'm simply overwhelmed by gratefulness. Grateful that this is on her own terms, just as she wants. I'm grateful she is still herself, still in her home, still surrounded by her family. I'm even grateful for the stubborn willfulness (which has been a hallmark of her life) that made this end even a possibility. And I'm grateful for this physical space, this land whose beauty is subtle, sweeping, gentle - an old and empathetic place to live this out. Through her, I've grown a powerful love of the prairie, and I'm so grateful she gets to live, die, and be buried in this beautiful place.”

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