I’ve had permanent writer’s block for months. Fresh from my loss, it seems like I had a lot to say/blog. Was that an outpouring of grief? Is my grief less-so now? It isn’t that I have run out of topics. Truthfully, I have a good number of blog posts started. Here they sit, in Google Docs limbo, waiting for a finale, an ending, a punch. Something that will resonate with people. It’s not for lack of ideas. Maybe it’s lack of time. Motivation. Energy. Maybe my brain cells, exhausted from grief, are escaping me.
The other evening I had my second of four nutrition classes I’m running through an adult education program. After class, one woman, Bea, told us that she is 87 years old. Eighty-seven. Wow. She still lives alone too. I asked her what her secret is.
Here’s where people give answers like:
“Eat olive oil.”
“A good cup of coffee.”
“Vodka and hotdogs.”
Do you know what she said? (With a small smile on her face) “Just keep going.”
Just keep going.
That’s it. No declarations of daily bacon, or chocolate or yoga. No swearing off butter. Or wine.
That’s what I’ve been doing for 11 months now. For 48 weeks since I found out my baby girl died, I’ve been going. Through anger and tears. Going.
I’ve been going to work. Pulling myself out of bed, looking sort-of presentable.
I’ve been going to church. To the people who brought me food in the early days of grief.
I’ve been going to daycare, to pick up my daughter or drop her off, passing by the infant room where Corva would be, had she lived.
I’ve been going to the gym, running my grief into the treadmill.
I’ve been thinking about going to counseling (again).
Sometimes I’ve been going nowhere but bed, wishing to drown in my own tears.
I don’t know Bea’s story and she doesn’t know mine. I imagine she’s experienced grief in 87 years on earth. Her parents have passed away, maybe siblings, perhaps a husband, likely some of her friends have died. Maybe she’s even lost a child. I don’t know. But there she is, she keeps on going.