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?

Lately I’ve been thinking about happiness.  How do we live happy lives, or in some cases, return to a happy life after being sorrowful? What makes me happy? Am I happy right now? Is that ok?

Happiness in the midst of heavy grief is an elusive and, for me, fraught emotion. For weeks after Kevin’s death, even laughing at a joke felt wrong. As with everything in grieving, each person has their own timeline. In my case, it took nearly a year before I could even laugh with close friends. I distinctly remember an evening shortly after Kevin’s passing when friends came over to watch Project Runway. In an effort to cheer my daughter, we brought out popcorn, chips, and pop, and made it a girls’ night. As the critiques of the designers and their creations began, jokes were made and we were all supposed to laugh, but I couldn’t. I remember it as being close to an out-of-body or metaphysical experience. I was observing myself, sitting among friends who were there because they were concerned about leaving us alone. They were concerned because I was a widow and my daughter had just—at the age of twelve—lost her father. They were with us because my husband was not. There were the usual feelings of disbelief and impossibility, but there was also the overwhelming understanding that I would never again find even simple enjoyment, nor did I want to, or feel I deserved to.

Over the past three years, enjoyment has managed to creep back into my life—sometimes accidentally, sometimes because I’ve sought it out. Most of those times though, it is accompanied by considerable heartache and guilt. Milestone events, which should be happy and enjoyable, are now and will forever, be bittersweet. This term will always be attached to any occasion with my children: birthdays, performances, graduations, weddings, the births of grandchildren, as it should be. None of these life events will be the same without Kevin present. He should be here, experiencing them with us, and he’s not. The amount of unfairness in that realization is indescribable.

This understanding that Kevin isn’t here to enjoy these moments makes movement toward happiness a slow and troubled process. It is a complicated mixture of guilt and longing. I may always feel guilty for still being here, enjoying the achievements of our children, or participating in both the simplicity and awesomeness of life. In the quiet moments after a joyful experience I always come to the questions that can’t be answered: why is Kevin gone, why am I still here?

Too, I simply miss having my best friend to share in the wonderful and the mundane. Both of us traveled for business, and whenever one of us returned, we would talk about experiences we had on our trips, always ending the story with “I wish you had been there, you would have loved it.” So often I say that now, whether it’s seeing a bright flash of the Aurora Borealis from our deck, or feeling comfort in a gathering of old friends, or attending a particularly lovely poetry reading: I wish he could have been here, he would have loved it.

Despite the questions and the wishing, I also know that I tend toward happiness. I need it in my life and fear the alternative darkness. Knowing this has propelled me forward over the past three years. I recall a conversation with Kevin a few years into our marriage. He was writing a paper for a college class and as I proofread, I jokingly commented on how unfair it was that he was so smart; that math and science and even writing came easily for him, while I studied hard, read and then re-read a text, or worked to make a single sentence just right. He responded with the usual good-husband response: that I was smart, too--I think he stopped short of saying that I was equally smart :), and that I had qualities he didn’t have, like a sense of happiness, a lack of cynicism, a belief in the goodness of people, the ability to make friends with anyone, and the desire to live in a place of light. Those were things that he was struggling to learn that seemingly came easily to me. Over the years we taught and learned from each other. I believe he became a happy person who lived with me in that lightness.

I recently came across this story by Madonna Badger, who lost her parents and her three children in a house fire on Christmas morning, 2011. In it, she talks about how she has carried on. Those who haven’t experienced loss (and hers was certainly greater than most), struggle with understanding how those who grieve can carry on. There is much to admire about her, particularly her response to this question. She says, “…trying really hard to not feel sorry for myself makes me feel good. Being of service helps the pain to go away, if only for a little while, and giving and receiving love makes me feel good. Basically, I go to wherever the light is, because anything else is darkness, and it can be a deeply black darkness.”

I understand this, and I so admire her ability to so clearly articulate it.

This forward momentum (some may call it resilience but I’m not sure that’s accurate) isn’t for everyone. Some may also say that we all have a choice to be happy or sad, but for those in grief I don’t believe that’s always true, either. For me, I move toward an eventual happiness because that is just who I am, no less than having long fingers or red hair. It is a part of me that has been beaten up and nearly suffocated, but it was always there. 

And, with the slow steps of someone walking through an uncharted, muck-filled, foggy swamp, I will continue to walk toward it.