May 2021 sparks memories, and the grief, of May 2020

Like poison ivy steadily invading my yard or the 17-year cicadas in northern Virginia that step-by-step reached the part of their life cycle in which they are now making a whole lot of noise, the one year anniversary of Chip’s passing creeps closer. This month, with the impending anniversary, has been harder than I expected. May Day began the tug on every fiber in my body, and I’ve felt the strain ever since.

The month held Mother’s Day to recognize me rather than the date of his death, but the trip to Richmond to celebrate my day with my 5 had me listening to music on the ride back that I hadn’t heard since last summer when I drove to Ohio for the 4th of July. The lyrics of the songs unearthed painful feelings of grief that stabbed just as deeply as they did last summer.

The song “Poet,” by Bastille (video), reminded me of why I started this blog in the song’s chorus:

“I have written you down now

You will live forever

And all the world will read you

You will live forever

In eyes not yet created

On tongues that are not born

I have written you down now

You will live forever”

Bastille’s lyrics in the song “Silence” (You can hear the song here) coldly reminded me that Chip’s death left behind a daily silence that I must fill with thoughts in my own head. Since he’s no longer here to talk to and to share my thoughts with, unembodied words frequently tumble around my head. Dan Smith, the lead singer of Bastille, explained it perfectly somewhere along 95 North:

“It is not enough to be dumbstruck

Can you fill this silence?

You must have the words

In that head of yours”

In the song “Mrs. Potter’s Lullaby,” (video) Counting Crows’ lead singer Adam Duritz sang out to me that “The price of a memory is the memory of the sorrow it brings.” Although not very many memories of Chip bring sadness, the price of the memories of Chip’s decline and eventual passing in May 2020 bring much misery.

As if May hadn't been hard enough, there was an annual Service of Remembrance put on by the Sidney Kimmel Cancer Center at Johns Hopkins, where Chip received his cancer treatment, this past Thursday. The service was only 15 minutes long, but it broke me under the weight of its depth. The song in the video service “I Been Prayin" (He plays the song live in this video) resonated intensely with me in this month of remembering (and praying). The poem in the video and the words of those who spoke in remembrance of those whom we lost this past year comforted me while also stirring up deep feelings of grief that I buried a couple months ago (The recording of the service can be found here until May 31, 2021).

And, then, just yesterday, the deep grief was unearthed again when Stella, Sam and I volunteered at an event for the organization Hope for Grieving Families. The organization delivered meals to us for 4 weeks this spring in order to comfort us in our loss, even as it was nearly one year ago. So, we decided to give back by volunteering at the event. At the field day event (which was intended to bring some joy to children who had lost their loved ones), I volunteered to work the registration table.

I had no idea how difficult that would be. Seeing one parent approaching the registration table with children in tow hurt on a deep level. Witnessing a mother or a father putting name tags on children (ranging in age from 2 up toward teenage years) who had lost the other parent felt like a million bandaids being ripped off at once. One mother, who expressed to me how grateful she was for the organization and the event as she signed in, told me how she had lost her daughter. With 4 other children alongside her, I could only imagine her pain of losing one. The grief bubbled to the surface as if someone turned the heat up in my body to rapidly reach a boiling point.

I broke down. The young mother (maybe 30? maybe younger?) kept herself together despite the tightening in her voice. As perfect strangers, we connected on a deep level. Stella hugged me (Sam was off playing the games at the event) and she proceeded to sob too. I whispered to her that I didn’t know if I could do this (meaning stand at this table any longer watching these families come in who had lost someone very special to them). Instead of running from the grief though, I decided to stand steadfast for the other families, for Stella and for myself.

I know that the grief of losing Chip will never be something I can ever run from or bury. I must forge on. Inspired by music and poetry, supported by family and friends (like my dear friend Stephanie who came from California to support me through some of my struggles this month), and standing in solidarity with strangers at future Hope for Grieving Families events who know the pain of loss, I am certain that I will make it through May 2021 and beyond.

May 2021 visit with Stephanie