Spring is supposed to be this lovely time of noticing that there’s life again after a cold winter, appreciating the sunshine, literally stopping and smelling the flowers.
But for me, spring is a season of grief. It feels like a gauntlet I have to run, dodging blows that come every other week. The anniversary of my mom’s death is March 13. My dad’s is April 11. My dad’s birthday is April 20. Then there’s Mother’s Day. My mom’s birthday is May 30. By the time I get to my own birthday, in late June, I’m not relieved so much as tired of being sad.
I’ve been seeing this trend on social media (a note of caution, I have never once been early on a trend in my life, so this has probably existed for years) where people will post “give me your most unhinged tips” on something, like parenting, ADHD, etc. and folks will respond with crazy but effective things they do. And I keep thinking about it (probably because I’m in the middle of the aforementioned gauntlet) in the context of grief. So, I decided to share with you all.
Here are the most unhinged grief related things I do:
I wear my mom’s pajama pants regularly. They have snowmen on them. They don’t fit. I don’t care.
I don’t usually drop off flowers at the cemetery plot where my parents’ ashes are interred. I set out their favorite candies instead. I sit in the grass in front of their little stone and eat one as though we’re sharing the chocolate covered cherries, Hershey dark chocolates, or Snickers bars. I leave the box or bag on the stone. I know the cemetery staff will scoop them up quickly, but, again, I don’t care.
I still have my mom’s collection of ashtrays. She started out collecting ugly ashtrays, branched out to any that had casino logos on them, and then anything she liked. There are probably eight Rubbermaid tubs of them in my garage. I don’t know how many ashtrays that is; it might be a thousand. I use a few as ring dishes and candle holders. My husband recently undertook the project of photographing them for us to one day sell. (Today is not that day.)
I bake a chocolate pie on my dad’s birthday. I used to use my grandmother’s recipe, which is printed in a copy of the Pinckneyville Methodist Church Cookbook, but she wasn’t a great baker so I’ve been searching for a new one. This year, I might try this one. I don’t put a candle in it or sing (no judgment if you do!), but I feel closer to my dad just by making the pie.
I drink a Budweiser on my mom’s death anniversary and her birthday. She loved Budweiser. Okay, fine, I think Budweiser is disgusting, so this year I baked a bread with Bud Light in the batter, but it’s basically the same thing, right?
I force my kids to read “But No Elephants!", a book they do not like very much, because my dad used to read it to me.
I wear my parents’ wedding rings on a necklace. I delight when I am asked about them, even when the asker recoils a little when I say they belonged to my dead parents. Sorry, you asked!
I still use my dad’s PIN for my debit card. Punching in those four little numbers feels like saying hi.
I have a tattoo of my mom as a queen of hearts card. She loved gambling and was absolutely a queen, so in those early days of grief, it seemed fitting. Sometimes, people tell me the tattoo looks like Harry Potter. Other times, Ruth Bader Ginsburg. Honestly, both are fair. Somehow, she did kind of look like both the Boy Who Lived and the woman who fought for women to have the right to their own credit cards.
I take my kids to yard sales and say yes to buying almost anything that will fit in the car. My mom used to bribe me with Egg McMuffins to go to yard sales with her. She’d spread out the newspaper (back then, they printed newspapers and in the newspaper, they printed where the yard sales would be) and map out a route for us. This past week, I spent $10. The kids got coloring books, a Paw Patrol plane, a Hot Wheels monster truck, and some 3D printed dragons, none of which we needed.
I bake brownies from a box. My dad used to do this with me, so I do it with my kid. Every time, I tell him about how my dad would let me lick the spoon, and how my dad liked the corner pieces more than the middle pieces. Before I had kids, I made brownies from scratch, but there’s something about buying a box mix with my kid that makes me feel closer to my dad.
I keep a box of my mom’s clothes (these ones, I won’t wear) and shoes. Just one box. I never open it. I think sometimes about letting it go, but I can’t. I also have one of my mom’s glass jars and the only thing in it is her Chanel No. 5 perfume. She only wore it on special occasions, not even once a year, but I love to open the jar and smell that smell again.
I put pictures of my parents in places that I see often but where most people don’t look. Inside the bathroom cabinet, in my closet, in my wallet, on the side of the fridge. I don’t want my house to look like a shrine to my dead parents (though no shade if yours does!) but I want to see them all the time.
And finally, of course, I write this newsletter, so that all the things I learned while I was losing my parents can be useful to someone.
Maybe these things aren’t all that unhinged. Maybe these are similar to things you do? Maybe I just wanted to find a reason to talk about them. Sometimes, that’s what grief is. There are a lot of people in your life, especially if you lose a parent when you’re in your 20s, who want to avoid talking about your parent because they don’t want to make you sad. But sometimes what you want most is to talk about your parent! Sometimes, the thing making you most sad is that no one is talking about your parent, which makes you feel like no one is thinking about your parent except you, which is lonely. So, anyway, you have my permission (not that you needed it) to talk about your grief.
Tell me, what unhinged grief things do you do?
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