"Fine"

       When I was a young schoolgirl I woke up sick one morning and my mom let me stay home from school. The back room off the kitchen in our house in Northumberland, PA, had a red speckled linoleum floor, the washer and dryer, and a white upright piano. I was in this room when a washer repairman visited. He smiled at me and said, “Hi, how are you doing?” I promptly replied, “Fine.” “Fine?” said my mom, “then why are you home today?”

Early in the first decade of this century (the aughts? the naughts?), I went through a long period of moderate depression. My standard answer to “How are you?” was “Okay.” One day I revealed to a friend that I used different tones to indicate more precisely how I felt. If someone were close to me, they would recognize the differences, for the casual questioner the face value of “Okay” would suffice.
This sweet friend wanted to get to know me better and as time went on she would quiz me, “What kind of ‘okay’ are you?" I really appreciated her concern while also feeling vulnerable for revealing myself.

I’m back to answering ‘fine’but with just one tone. And when asked, I do feel just fine. It’s when I’m alone that sorrow overtakes me, and not often even then.

Around October 10th I started feeling poorly. My body felt achy, like the flu, but it wasn’t the flu. For Columbus Day, October 12th, I took a walk with my teacher friend, Amy, since she had the beautiful autumn day off from school. I told her I’d been feeling low for a few days, like the flu but not the flu. A widow for over 20 years, Amy said simply, “The body knows.” Yes, even though I hadn’t consciously remembered that October 12th was the second ‘monthiversary’ of David’s death, my body knew.

As the third monthiversary of David’s death approaches, I find a heaviness in myself. Last Friday Jim and I drove to the Newton office of Good Shepherd Hospice, which served David in the last two weeks of his life, for a grief support group. Turns out the website had incorrect dates, so there was no support group. However, a social worker, Jaye, generously spent an hour with us, talking about David and our experiences. It was very healing to talk to someone with 20 years of experience in grief counselling. She listened intently and added insight.

My new heaviness is no coincidence: the compassion and understanding Jaye offered us opened something up inside me. Or perhaps it allowed me to dip my toe into “The Well of Grief”. David Whyte says it’s a place where we cannot breath. Can I let my spirit go to that place while my body continues to breath? I’ll try? As the wise Jedi says, “Do or do not. There is no try.” I’ll do.