I’ve heard often how tragedy, trauma, and grief change a person. I’ve been told by grief counselors and others who’ve had experiences similar to mine that I’ll come out on the other side a different person than who I was before. I understand this to be true, but I wasn’t really certain how I am different. Although I can say that I have participated in much more self-reflection in the past three years than at any other time in my life, I don’t know that I've spent too much time focused on the ways in which I am a different person. Am I stronger, better at letting little things go, do I have a better understanding of living every day to the fullest? I suppose so.

After making a New Year’s resolution to get out more, I’ve had several opportunities recently to be out with friends, both in one-on-one situations and with groups. A few of these interactions have prompted some thought in the days afterward. What occurred to me most was that, though I had a nice time, I still barely felt like myself—the self that existed for many years before Kevin became sick and died. Where had that essential-self gone, I wondered. The essence that most seemed to be missing was the part of me that made things fun. I can still make a few jokes, I can have a glass of wine or a cocktail and loosen up a bit, but I don’t seem to be quite able to shake the sense of seriousness that has come to fully inhabit my personality in recent years. I've written before about being happy, and I think I am generally a happy person now. But being fun is different. I really want my fun back.

If I think back to the last time I felt fully carefree and funny, it would be during the residency of the first semester of my MFA program. It’s hard to imagine a better setting—sequestered in an opulent hotel, in the company of writers, spending hours in bourbon-fueled discussions of our lives and our craft. That first semester I connected easily with a few other students; we laughed, we danced barefoot in fountains, we were by turns flirtatious and silly. It was a joyful time. Of course it was also in the months just after Kevin’s first diagnosis, when he had completed treatment, we believed the doctors’ stories of 90% success rates, and his first scans were clear. I was learning to enjoy every minute, and now had new friends with a most beloved common interest to share in this elation.

I recall also around that time, publisher parties and other get-togethers for work, gatherings of neighborhood friends, and the occasional reunion of co-workers from my days at The Ann Arbor News. In remembering all of these events, I see myself at or near the center, joking, laughing, telling stories with a lightheartedness and an ease that seem now to be tarnished at best, even worn away. I went to dinner last April with a work colleague who said very directly that I had become so much more serious than I used to be. “You’re not sad,” she said, “just serious; as though you carry this great weight. I just want you to have fun and be happy again.” And yes, she and I had shared some very late nights that included long stories of our youth, dares, and even a bit of carousing with Dave Eggers and Father Guido Sarducci.

Little did I know how much some of these memories would come to mean to me; how they would nourish and sustain me during a time of hibernation.

In thinking of this new me and the old me that even others are missing, I at times feel as though Old Me (who is actually not old, but young) is locked away somewhere, with her hands bound and duct tape over her mouth so she doesn’t say the wrong thing or act inappropriately. If her kidnappers released her, Old Me may not know what to do, or where to go. The sunshine as she leaves the secret hide-out would cause her to squint and withdraw. This isn’t just the pre-widowed me, but perhaps even the pre-kids-mortgage-career-etc. me. I understand that responsibility and maturity wear away some of the sheen of wild youth. The Lori that danced at bars until 2 a.m. in a mini-skirt, or sang Me and Bobby Magee at the karaoke lounge, or jumped onto a band’s tour bus, has grown up. That happens to everyone. But I believe I retained a bit of the essence of that mildly wild child as an adult. That is, until recently.

So how to get it back? Is there some remediation process by which I can remember to laugh and joke, to sing and dance, to take small chances even?  How do I train myself to occasionally release the tangled yoke of only-parent responsibility and survivor guilt long enough to simply enjoy myself? And how do I work at becoming fun again? Is that kernel of comedic playfulness lying dormant, or am I truly a different person on this side of grief, one that knows too much about the seriousness of life to ever again be carefree? I suppose there's only one way to find out.

Karaoke anyone?