Spring Again

Two months ago one of my family members passed away unexpectedly. Something that feels impossible until it happens to you.

Part of me is grateful that I haven’t really had to face death before now. That for my first 26.6 years, I’ve been able to pretty much ignore the fact that both I and the people I love will die.

Another part feels guilty that so many other people have already had to go through this. Some multiple times. Multiple losses. And somehow they’ve been expected to carry on while the world keeps spinning.

Mostly, though, I’m just sad to lose him. My uncle was so important and my family is so small that his absence feels like an indescribable hole.

And underneath all of it is fear. Every single fiber in my being suddenly waiting, bracing for death. My dog, who just turned 11, twitching in his dream is now a seizure. My mom’s phone calls at night must be news of another tragic loss. My boyfriend’s heartbeat I used to love laying on is now a countdown to when it will stop beating.

I knew grief would show up in tears and missing and denial. What I didn’t know is that grief would make mortality feel visible everywhere I looked.

I’m untangling how to go back to living life after discovering death. Yes, I’ve always known everyone will die, but now I know. And it doesn’t always come with a warning or chance to say goodbye.

I guess I expected grief to arrive with clarity. As though losing someone suddenly unlocks the secret to living fully and appreciating every moment. Maybe that comes later. Right now I just feel betrayed. Death has made life feel more precious, yes, but also more threatening. Harder to relax into. Harder to trust. And I know, deep down, my uncle would not want the legacy of his life to become my fear of losing everyone else.

In very timely fashion, I walked out of therapy last week and remembered it was spring in Chicago. Trees that had been bare for months were covered in green. Tulips peeked open, preparing to fully bloom. The smell of dirt and rain and someone grilling nearby. Life was everywhere.

I decided to pick up a tiny plant for my tiny apartment to bring a little extra life inside my home. It certainly doesn’t make the fear and anxiety disappear, but it reminds me that grief may have changed the lens I see life through without taking away life itself.

Two months later, I already know I will never again see life the same way. This loss is too significant to be anything less than a pivotal before and after marker in time. My uncle was too important to go back to life as I knew it before.

But life prevails after death. Just like spring prevails after the coldest, darkest stretches of winter. And now spring is here, the days are getting longer, and me and my plant are alive.