Space for grief

I saw a play last night, Next to Normal, part of a season-ticket package. I bought a pair of season tickets last fall with a triple purpose: to support the local theater, to ensure I'd get out into the world even when long nights make me less likely to leave the house, and to force myself to invite someone to join me. Three plays into a four-play run I've learned how foolish that last goal was.

I think I've been relatively successful at navigating grief this past 18+ months. But on reflection, that's because I've primarily listened to my instincts, not "forced myself" to do anything that I don't feel like doing. It's not that I haven't done painful things, or moved out of my comfort zone. But when I make progress, it's because I do what actually feels right, not what I think would be good for me based on some external calculation (e.g., the "keep busy" school of grief management).

I chose a photo pretty much at random this time. This was us
in Moses Lake for Sandy's mom's belated birthday
celebration, summer 2010, Sandy's hair sparse from chemo.

So here's how the whole pair of season tickets thing has worked out. Each time, I've known the performance is coming up. I've known the dates for all four since September, I think. I consider who might enjoy the show, who I'd like to catch up with. Time passes. I resent that I have to invite anyone, that Sandy isn't going to use the ticket. I miss having my default companion. More time passes. A few days before the show, I start making apologetic phone calls or sending email to people, one at a time, asking if they can join me. Turns out most people don't hold their Friday evenings open just in case Brie has a play ticket they could use. My resentment starts to turn to despair that I don't have a social life. It's really quite pathetic.

The upshot is that I was able to find someone to attend the first play with me, and that was great. But for the last two, one ticket has gone unused. I'd have gone alone regardless, but it's worked out much better than it might have. Two of my closest friends also have season tickets for the same performances, so I've ended up enjoying the evening with them each time instead. But the lesson I've learned is that trying to force myself to do something I deem "good for me" is likely to lead me to greater despair.

The play was pretty good, a little weird: a rock musical about manic depression and its effect on a family. More broadly, I interpreted it to be a cautionary tale about the destructive effects of suppressed grief. I suppose that's why I found it less depressing than many in the audience (I spoke with a few young women who sobbed through the entire second act). I guess I found it personally affirming. See what I've avoided by grieving openly and honestly? See how healthy I am? How okay it is that I still scream for Sandy most days? That even as I reshape my life, I'm constantly aware of the gaping hole left in it? Of course, as I watched the play, the seat next to mine was empty, reserved for the holder of the unused ticket. My friends sat directly in front of me, and we chatted before the play began and during intermission, so I didn't feel bereft and alone. But that empty seat next to me seemed fitting, appropriate. There's still space for Sandy, for my memory of her, and for my grief in my life. And I believe that's a healthy thing.