Life and Deaf

Of course it’s ridiculous that I’m trying to manage my grief the same way I manage everything else in my life. Of course I can’t make the grieving process more organized or follow a specific series of steps or look the way I want it to look. Of course.

But why not? 

My counselor looks at me funny when I ask that question to her, too. Just a few hours ago, I plopped down on her couch ready to tackle our session. I started strong with, “So, I think I’ve reached the stage of grief where it pops up out of nowhere and totally surprises me. What stage is that, again?” 

Her blank stare was enough. She didn’t need to use her words. She did, though, because that’s why I pay her. Her response?  “Is it still important to you that grief follows a checklist?”

Hello? Have you met me? I like every minute of my life to follow a checklist, yes. I like to know what’s coming.

I’ve reached the stage of grief where it pops up out of nowhere and totally surprises me. 

Over the weekend, I was prepping a wall in our front room for a coming Do-It-Yourself project. My husband was leaving for a weeklong business trip and, well, we’ve had some surprise stressors, courtesy of our eldest child. While many opt for retail therapy in such cases, I lean toward cleaning, organization, or projects. By the start of the weekend, I had already cleaned out the fridge and the pantry so…DIY, anyone? 

Among the DIY prep was to remove the old landline phone box. 

For those under thirty, it kind of looked like this, but what’s behind the phone is a box for the phone to latch onto, and the cord went all the way down the wall to the data port:

So, Lefty Lucy, easy peasy, right? Just take the box down and toss it. Well, that was my plan anyway.

As I started turning the very first screw, I was completely spun around by a wave of grief. The tears were halfway down my cheeks before I even knew they’d arrived. I backed away and turned around in one quick movement and right into Rich’s arms as he somehow saw what was happening from behind me. 

“I don’t know why I’m crying.”

He whispered quietly that it was all okay while kissing the top of my head. 

“Jeez. What’s wrong with me?”

Nothing, as it turns out. Just a rogue wave of grief popping up out of nowhere and taking me completely by surprise. 

When we installed that landline telephone, the kids were seven and ten. The front room was, then, a hangout spot for them. The room then became a homework zone and, a few years later, a place for the kids to be on their computers or phones with a little privacy because we were mean and insisted that all electronics stayed downstairs even though ALL of their friends could take EVERYTHING they owned upstairs in their much-better-parented homes. 

Where was I going with this?

Right, the landline. We installed the landline because our kids were among the last of their peers to get phones and the grandmas wanted a way to call them. Both Rich’s mom and my mom quickly learned that, between 3:30pm and 5:30pm each school day, the kids would be sitting just feet away from that landline plugging through their assignments. I have no doubt that the phone calls made in those hours were the Alexander Graham Bell version of ice cream before dinner. 

“Don’t worry about that math assignment…tell me about your day!”

In the beginning, it drove me nuts to hear that phone ring during homework time. Then, it brought me joy as I loved sitting out of view to listen in as the kids chattered away, talking to one of the grandmas. It turned out that, though I typically got a one-word grunt about their days, things actually DID happen while they were at school. I even joked, a few times, about calling that landline just to hear the juicy bits of fourth grade music class. 

Taking down that landline shouldn’t have been a big deal at all. There hasn’t been an actual phone attached to the box in five years. I’d even made an attempt at decorating over it, a disguise that really just looked like a flamingo hanging askew while trying to hide something that we could all still see. 

What was wrong with me?

Neither grandma had dialed that landline since the kids got smartphones–so why was removing it such a sad moment for me? Was there a great symbolism in which, as long as that land line was accessible, so too were grandmas? Was the landline really a life line of sorts?

I’m learning that grief may be the most unpredictable thing that life can throw at you.

Many have asked how my dad is doing in the grieving process and the short answer is: very well. Somedays, better than me. Somedays, probably not. What I do know is that he seems to have claimed some of my mom’s empathy skills. To be honest, I’m not sure that he hasn’t always had these skills but it was always my mom who I dialed up first when I needed to have a quick cry.

The tricky part of dialing up my dad for a quick cry is that, well, he’s mostly deaf. It is hard to remain serious when conversations follow this pattern:

I most often call my dad from the back porch while throwing the ball to our dogs and sometimes wonder if my neighbors enjoy these phone calls as much as I do. I have learned that grief-chatter is better served via email, which is absolutely fine and fully appreciated. 

I have reached the stage of grief where it pops up out of nowhere and surprises me but that also means I have reached the stage where I’m not thinking of my mom 24/7 on a lonely loop. Now, I just catch myself at odd moments remembering that, no, I cannot pick up that phone (landline or other) and ask her about the flooding in their area or tell her about our new TJ Maxx or  share the latest stressors provided by our eldest. 

Perhaps the hardest part is that, when I am feeling overcome with a wave of surprise-grief, it is her that I want to call first. When we talk about this, my counselor typically asks, “And what do you think she would say if you did?” 

I mean, if I’m being honest, Mom would probably say, “Oh, for Pete’s sake, don’t waste anymore time on that.”

I suppose that’s great advice but I’ve yet to reach that line on my checklist.