Overcoming grief takes heat, heart and the humans of Fresno | Opinion

Last year about this time, I announced to my inner circle I was officially done writing about grief. I had grown tired of being head cheerleader of the cemetery club – a club that, over time, had grown exponentially amid my cherished community. Then, a few weeks ago while traveling, my phone rang and a voice on the other side said, “Are you sitting down?” There it was again.

Without sharing details, you might surmise those words brought sad news. Determined to follow through with my commitment, I sat down to write using a different voice — the one that writes happy. I wrote pages and pages of stories about family travels and celebrations, chance meetings with people who wound up changing my life, but somewhere around page 22, I noticed my tone hijacked, my heart sinking back to this dreaded month of July.

It’s been 21 years since our son, Alex, died. Most of you who know me and my family will assess that we’re doing well, we’ve survived and continue to survive — our friends, work and passion for living keeping us vertical as we continue navigating the journey. Admittedly, the grip of grief dulls with time, but never really goes away. Mine hides out in the recesses of my mind — sneaking up on me when I least expect it: a random Tuesday in the grocery aisle of baby foods or that unsuspecting moment when I catch a glimpse of something he loved — macaroni and cheese made from a box, Rice Krispies cereal — “triggers” they’re called. The reality of gone slaps me in the face: My son is dead. That ugly date, July 17, 2004, now permanently etched in time and memory.

I’ve penned and published four books and numerous opinion pieces on this tender, taboo “grief” topic, essentially pouring my heart out ad nauseum. Doing so enables me to keep my boy in the present tense. I’ve written of mothers, sons, of loss, of grief hangovers and relapses, of friends coming to my rescue in the middle of the night.

This also explains my reason for teaching. Everyone has a story — a wound. An ache that nags. A missing piece. A secret dying to be shared. One of my favorite writing prompts with students is asking them to imagine a box filled with everything they’ve ever lost. If they could have one thing back, what would it be? A parent, grandparent, a sibling, a child? A pet, breast, youth or innocence? Their sacred stories remind me we are all part of a human race that spares no one in the vast department of loss.

Our aches persist while life moves forward. My husband and daughter remain my center of gravity. And the grandkids are my greatest source of joy and hope for the future — no matter what is happening on the world landscape. I also have those sister/friends I mentioned earlier — each willing to lean into my mood swings, hear the repetition of stories, the endless whys and what ifs, even after all these years. They listen with their hearts. They are my drug of choice.

From the vulnerability of my first book, “Griefland” to the determination and resilience contained in the pages of my more recent book writing project, “Daring to Breathe,” I’ve gone from feeling backed into a dark corner to writing my way out.

How? By finding human connection and flickers of light in the dark. Imagine fireflies illuminating the night sky. The healing hasn’t been linear though, believe me. Some days just making it to the kitchen and back is a spiritual act.

On the bright side, this place called Fresno showers me with comfort and support on a daily basis. Everywhere I turn, I see family. Roots that run deep. Branches extending outward like pairs of welcoming arms. Although our summers are hot, the people are real and the sky opens up wide enough to embrace both my joy and grief, including any lingering fears and self-doubts about what tomorrow holds. I like to think of it as the heat, heart and humanness of the San Joaquin Valley. We are a community of stories. And because of them, we are intertwined and really never traveling solo. For that I am eternally grateful. Even (and especially) during this dreaded month of July.