Dear readers,

Facebook’s memories feature has been jarring lately. Just a few days ago, a picture popped up of my friends and I, our faces squeezed in the frame at Pattison’s North on the Sunday adult skate night. I saw another photo at Bonbon—likely we were playing Trivial Pursuit, wondering why we couldn’t come up with more states that start with the letter ‘C.’

“California…Connecticut… there must be one more…”

Maybe one too many Rainers was the culprit. Sorry, Colorado.

Seeing pictures like these is jarring, especially the unreality of the label “one year ago” for something that feels like a different lifetime. Images of people close together causes physical discomfort, even when it’s irrational. I was watching a rerun of Schitt’s Creek the other night, and I became aware that I was thinking, “Stop standing so close to one another.” 

But life used to be like this, and not too long ago. In a group text, Lindsey mentioned missing the Baby Bar, and immediately everyone agreed. Our friend Emma texted, “I miss Baby Bar turning into nachos and cramming ten of us into a tiny booth.”

Ten people in a booth? A different world. Going to Baby Bar after the newspaper is put to bed on Election Night—along with greasy pizza for the entire staff, descended upon like a plague of locusts—is a tradition that long predated my stint, and I wonder what November 3 will feel like for the staff in its absence. 

What we’re dealing with is loss on large and small scales, and one thing I’ve learned about loss—not in 2020, but in 2019, when my mom passed away—is that we all do it differently. Denial was a long stage for me, made easier since Mom had lived so far away that I had become accustomed to not seeing her on a regular basis. One night, I actually called her, and listened in disbelief to the message that her phone had been disconnected. 

I can’t imagine denial was as easy for my brother or sister, who lived close. My brother, T.J., lived across the street from her—she moved there when she started her lung cancer treatment at the hospital where he worked—and they had dinner together multiple times a week. When she was struggling, she stayed in the second bedroom of his condo. 

But because I didn’t live close—hadn’t for years—I could pretend that she wasn’t gone for long periods of my day, and this kept my head above water. Or, I thought it was working, but several times a day, everything would come flooding back, and I would experience jolts of grief. I couldn’t control where I was when it happened because my mind was calculating its own breaking points, like the cruelest version of hot potato.

The reason I finally broke from the fog was because of my eldest, who was so very close to his grandma. They had a connection that was beautiful to witness, partially because I could see the echoes of the way she loved me when I was a child, by taking so much interest in my life in such a genuine way. She gave the most thoughtful gifts, and that was because she gave thought to the person, made it a point to get to know the people she loved.

I saw Robby grieving by rereading the collection of Roald Dahl books she gave him—one of the last presents she gave him—over and over and over. I can vividly recall long phone conversations where they discussed The BFG. Life used to be like this, and not too long ago.

Robby memorized those books so thoroughly that when we watched the 1990 movie The Witches, he was able to point out inconsistencies with the book down to the dialogue. And when he sees the color yellow—anywhere—he says, “that was Grandma DD’s favorite color, right, Mom?” 

And when he so frankly stated, in Robby fashion, “Mom, the world just isn’t as good.”

No, the world just isn’t as good.

He was grieving by clutching onto every scrap of her, and eventually, I followed his lead: let everything in. And so far, that’s what’s worked, not turning off the memories, even when they’re painful.

What we’re going through right now is painful, but I think we need to feel it.

I would love to hear about how you’ve been coping during this time. Send an email, find me on social media, or write a letter.

Sincerely,

Megan Louise

[email protected]

157 S. Howard, Suite #603

Spokane, WA 99201