Pretend

 I just broke down crying in the car on the way to Hamilton.  That hasn't happened in a while.

I pushed "Send" and my text whooshed off to Denise and Lisa.  They both replied almost immediately with a similar version of the same question:  Why?  Did something happen or is it just everything?

Life.  Life happened.  Shannon and I were just in Oregon for two weeks.  We attended his son, Clayton's, celebration of life and started tearing down the crushed remains of the house where Clayton had lived.  Shannon had lived with both of his sons in that same house for several years.  Lots of memories covered in soggy insulation, moldy drywall, and tree branches.  A house full of mementos now smashed to bits and loaded into 40-yard dumpsters.  

We came home to Montana just in time for Shannon to fly back to Oregon for work.  There was no time to decompress, to settle, to process.  We jumped right back into life and charged ahead.  Because life happens, with or without us.

The week after we got home, I was talking with a friend.  He asked a few questions about the trip to Oregon, how things went.  Then he said, "You seem to be doing really well.  You seem like you are thriving."

Thriving?  Thriving.  That comment has stuck with me.  Thriving.  I sure hope not.  I hope this isn't what thriving feels like.  I hope thriving feels a million times better than whatever this shit show of emotions is.  I think I have become adept at pretending; the old "fake it till you make it" adage.  

So I started noticing.  I started paying attention to people I know who are also grieving.  I see their tricks and adaptations.  The empty smile that disappears as soon as they turn away.  The forced laugh.  The blank stare.  The briefest hesitation before answering the question, "How are you?" as the brain calculates how much honesty to share or not share.  The vague answers and deflections.  We have become experts at pretending that things are okay, when things are quite far from okay.  But life goes on, and we have to go along with it.

I ran into some old river friends at the bike shop the other day.  I hadn't seen them in a few years.  My first thought as I got out of my truck was, I wonder if they know about Scott.  I walked up and greeted them.  The husband gave me a smile and nod, deep in conversation with the bike shop owner about the bike that was in front of them.  The wife gave me a big smile and a hug.

Here it comes, I thought.

"How are you?" she asked, her hand on my shoulder.  "You holding up okay?"

My brain did its quick calculation and decided on Vague Answer.  "Yeah, I'm alright," I replied with a shrug.

Get ready.  Here it comes.

She looked down at the ground, then back at me.  "I'm so sorry I didn't reach out last summer."

I nodded.  "It's okay."

"Scott saved my life, you know.  On the Grand Canyon.  He saved my life.  I flipped in my kayak and swam in a bad rapid.  Before I knew what was happening, I looked up and there he was in his boat.  He reached over the edge and just plucked me out of the river.  He saved my life," she said in a rush.  Then she started to cry.

I gave her a hug, comforting her as she continued to cry.  This was not the first time I had consoled someone over the loss of Scott.  The griever often seems to take on the role of comforter as well, and it feels strange and surreal.  

Its not always pretend.  Sometimes, my smile is genuine.  I laugh often from my belly and my soul.  Some days, when asked how I am, my honest answer is, "I'm good."  Because some days, I am truly good.  I am happy, and I can smile and laugh.  Other days are hard.  I find myself in a period of sadness right now.  Life feels heavy and big.  I know the light will return, and the heavy will lift, and I just need to ride it out until that time comes.  Until then, I will hesitate before I answer.  I will wear an empty smile, and I will laugh from my throat instead of my belly.  And that's okay.