Living with the grief of chronic illness
It is spring in Alaska, which means that the sun is out, the weather is warm enough to go outside without a coat, and the snow is clinging in stubborn mounds across the city. It is a tightrope kind of season. Summer is approaching, but everything is still brown and ugly. The air is full of dust from the gravel spread everywhere to keep the roads safe. Cars are covered in muddy water — and everything feels dirty. It’s a hard dichotomy — the hope of summer, the sense of it, and the constant cling of winter. Inevitably, in a fit of reckless abandon, I pull out a summer dress and sandals. That is the day it usually snows again — winter's last hurrah before finally settling into the short summer season.
It brings to mind the nature of grief. My grief feels suspended in an Alaskan springtime. There are times when there are glimmers of hope. Sometimes I see pieces of my daughter that are full of life and energy. Maybe she will write a song (she is a musician, or was before this disease). Maybe she will write a story or tell me about a dream. We will laugh over a tik tok or bicker over the garbage on her floor. For those moments, things will feel close to normal. I can feel it the way I can smell summer in the air when I open my patio door. It is just so almost there. But then the snow comes. She lies exhausted after sorting through makeup to give to a…