Grief is a sneaky bitch. 

You can be walking along fine, just trying to get through the day, when suddenly out of nowhere she stabs you between the ribs. In an instant you can’t breathe; you’re sinking to the floor, and all you know is pain. Exquisite pain. With any luck this doesn’t happen in a crowded space. Or if it does, maybe you can find a quiet corner to bleed in. But man, that bitch doesn’t care where you are or when.

Grief and I spend a lot more time together now than we used to. When we first met I was probably about seven and my white and tan kitten, Cuddles, had been hit by a car. My father broke the news to me with tears in his eyes as Grief walked over and promptly slapped me in the face. It hurt, I won’t lie; even back then she had a good arm. But there was only so much she could do when we were so young. 

Growing up there were a series of events that invited her back to use me as a punching bag. Moves, betrayals, disillusionment, lost friends, lost dreams  - all things humans have to deal with at one time or another.  While each loss bruised and scarred a little, Grief always disappeared, slinking back to wherever she came from. And I toughened up, as everyone does. Loss is an inevitable part of the human condition and eventually we all reach an equilibrium, a certain amount of loss that we are accustomed to so it no longer registers as more than just painful. At the age of twenty-seven I learned Grief had seriously stepped up her game.

In the spring of 2007 we discovered our second child was on the way. We had totally not been planning for that, but we were thrilled nonetheless. Our son had just turned two, we had recently moved closer to family; it seemed like good timing. I am one of those insane women who actually enjoyed being pregnant once the months of perpetual vomiting passed, so I was excited. We even had names picked out. 

Doctors say that the eight-week mark is a significant milestone in pregnancies, second only to the four-month mark. Before eight weeks it’s not even a fetus, it’s an embryo, although it does have a heartbeat after only five weeks. I know this because I was able to tell I was pregnant so early on that we were able to make a doctor’s appointment and heard our developing child’s heartbeat.

At almost exactly eight weeks, I woke up bleeding. We prayed it was just a random thing, but two days later I was in the ER feeling all the life drain out of me. Literally. Hospital workers are trained to be efficient, but they all offer a special measure of gentleness to a woman losing her child. Unfortunately, there are not enough warm hospital blankets in the world to thaw the cold that seeps inside. 

I didn’t realize at the time just how much Grief had grown. And she may have hit harder than she meant to because I spent the next month in an emotional coma, mostly numb, only coming out a few times when it hurt so much I couldn’t move. My husband says I was a zombie. I honestly don’t remember. 

After that Grief and I became constant companions. It’s interesting - you’d think she would be hideously ugly, and sometimes she is, but sometimes she looks pretty normal. She’s never attractive, don’t get me wrong; but she’s not always so hard to look at, especially the further out from an “event” we are. After a long time, she will still pinch and poke and prod, but it feels more habitual than actually malicious or ugly. Though she still gets a good punch in, so you don’t start to forget her; she might not be pretty, but she has her pride. And she is always ready for another chance to show off how her skills have grown. 

In the fall of 2009 my mother was diagnosed with cancer. Now, some people love their mothers; some people tolerate their mothers; some people can’t stand their mothers. My mother was hands down the best. When you see me, you see a good chunk of her, too.  

Once I passed the point of her having to worry about making me a viable member of society, we could just talk and laugh and it was perfect. We would make up stupid songs and sing them to each other's voice mails; we pondered deep philosophical mysteries; we argued the best way to kill someone and hide the body - theoretically. 

With the news that cancer had cast its shadow over our family, Grief grew claws and took to raking them across my flesh whenever the fancy struck her. As everyone who has walked the road of cancer knows, the journey can be a long one, which is both good and bad. It gave us more time with Mom, time when every moment was sweeter, even if sprinkled with desperation. It also gave me time to grieve continually, even though she wasn’t gone yet. I couldn't escape the knowledge that Death was sliping closer every day. And with each reminder, Grief took another pound of flesh. 

We had more time than the doctors expected - almost five years; and she had an incredible quality of life until the last four weeks. Most people who didn’t know her didn’t even realize she was sick. She came to visit me six weeks before the end and we had a wonderful time eating ice cream, watching movies, planning all the stupid things we could do at the funeral to shock people. Side note: Dad wouldn't let me do most of them. It was very disappointing. But cancer doesn’t last forever. Eventually Death comes and goes

I drove to my parent’s house in Virginia the day before she passed. I watched her breath her last and held my little sister as it felt like Grief ripped our hearts out with her bare hands. I’ve never seen my father so lost as he was that night. 

I spent the next month with my dad and my sister and Grief. We went through old cookbooks and cried; found our old baby teeth - ew - and cried; walked from the living room to the kitchen and just suddenly cried. Maybe because I expected Grief and embraced her so readily, she didn’t cut as deeply that month as I expected. Or maybe she did, but it was a clean cut, not so ragged around the edges. 

That month was full of tears, but unlike our last major encounter, I was never numb; I remember it well and, shockingly, fondly. My sister and I watched so many World Cup Matches that month, primarily for the Scottish announcer’s accent. We got in the car with our dad, rolled the windows down, and sang “Don’t Stop Believing” as loud as we could. We ate copious amounts of Chinese food. Grief was there, but Joy was also there holding her hand. Maybe Grief just  isn’t meant to be alone.

So many things bring Grief into our lives, you can’t escape her. She walks with us, sometimes quietly, sometimes like a raging harpy. Just last week I was watching something on Amazon Prime and it turned out the character’s motivation for everything she did was trying to save her mom from some disease. Grief stabbed me in the gut, and I spent a good half hour in the bathroom ugly crying. 

No matter what else she is, Grief is a sneaky bitch.