A Sorrow Shared

Making Lemonade on a Cold November Day

Lemons grown and photographed by me.

I want to buy her a present

Today is my daughter Lydia’s birthday. I won’t go anywhere near a mall, especially between October and January, but even all these years after her death I find myself thinking of gifts I’d like to give her. I look at things she’d have liked when she was a teenager. I wrote about that a few years ago in this essay, first published on American Foundation for Suicide Prevention’s Blog. Today is also International Survivors of Suicide Loss Day. In honor of both these things, my publisher, Loyola University’s Apprentice House Press, will put all ebook platforms of my book, Love in the Archives, a Patchwork of True Stories About Suicide Loss, on sale. (Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Apple Books, etc. It may be just for today, it’s always a mystery how these things work.

Speaking of gifts

I’ve been co-facilitating an online support group sponsored by The Alliance of Hope for mothers who’ve lost a child to suicide and who want to write about their children. We talk about how writing helps process trauma, but also how it helps us to share something of our children. They’ve written some beautiful poetry and prose and I’m so honored to be trusted with their words.

Being in community with these women, some very new to this unfathomable loss and sorrow, has both taken me back to the early days of my own raw grief and given me the gift of perspective on how time has helped smooth the edges of it.

This day is always hard, but I’m trying to focus on the best memories. I’m making metaphorical lemonade.

Some detect a whiff of joy

Last week I attended a local writer’s group where Steven Petrow, author of the new book, The Joy You Make: Finding the Silver Linings—Even on Your Darkest Days, spoke about his book and gave participants a few short writing prompts. I expected some standard toxic positivity. Some rainbow and teddy bear meme-worthy prose. But there was none of that. What came from the prompts were thoughtful, authentic words. From fresh-faced twenty-somethings to us older folk, there was mention of how grief and joy can coexist. They wrote beauty into the mundane—the aroma of brewing coffee, the turning of leaves, hearing a favorite song—stories of how these tiny events have the power to create a whiff of joy even when we’re in the throes of grief.

For others, it’s too soon

After the workshop, I told Mr. Petrow I’d like to use one of his prompts in the support group. We did that last night, and the response was similar to that of the workshop, with a few exceptions. It was very difficult for those in the earliest stages of grief to even imagine the existence of joy in their world. We all understood and remembered being there, wondering What fresh hell is this place we’ve come to?

Still, others have had years to figure it out

My dear friend and writing companion, Casey Mulligan Walsh, has been saying for years that grief and joy can coexist, like it’s her own personal mantra. And Casey should know. Despite a litany of loss beginning in early childhood, Casey is one of the most positive people I’ve ever met. How does she do that? I’ve read her forthcoming memoir, The Full Catastrophe, and I’m planning to read it again as soon as my pre-ordered copy arrives.

And a grief shared…

Today, I’ll be in Chapel Hill, NC, at the AFSP sponsored International Survivors Day event, co-facilitating a small group breakout session. If you would like to attend a virtual event, here’s one happening tonight.

Thnak you for reading and sticking with me as I navigate this new world of Substack.