I get that grief is predictably unpredictable. So why am I still surprised by the way it surprises me? When publishing consultant, Lindy, sends me four possible book covers, I quickly go from elation to tears. Seeing those covers evokes an avalanche of emotion, followed by a tizzy of activity as I jump into tweaking mode.
Lindy makes time for me, in the midst of a busy Friday. Upcoming jury duty is cramping my style, as is missing Mom, and she delivers. However, when I see the new options, I feel confused, bereft, embarrassed. Lindy made the changes I requested and still, something’s missing. What if I add more words to explain what I mean by the title Living Is for Living, Mom’s words I’d heeded in her care. Lindy works her magic and sends another set of covers, pronto. Nope, I realize, it isn’t more words that are needed, it’s something else.
Family conversations ensue. They help me clarify: this book calls for an elegant, finished presentation, like Mom, who preferred squared corners and straight lines. Which reminds me of the comfort I felt as a kid, seeing her dressed for work—professional, confident, and approachable too. Who knew a font could capture all that? Which brings me back around to one of the original covers… Lindy's no dummy!
Walking the dogs in the midst of this, I realize that grief, mine at least, resembles our feisty pack: fragile, resilient, loyal, needy, watchful, playful, ferocious, sweet. Much of the time it surrounds me peacefully. Then it gets riled up, the knock on the door real or not. I've finally learned, if I thank it for keeping me safe, it quiets a lot more quickly than when I bark too. While the care of this pack asks much of me, as does feeling my grief, it brings me endless love and connection, it gets me to laugh and to walk, which never fail to lift my eyes and my spirits.
I see now that this process of choosing a book cover is another opportunity to uncover where I stand, almost three years out, in caring for Mom: more than ever, I want to do her justice. It’s also another opportunity to recover—to feel what I feel, reach for support, choose my path forward, and keep on walking, like Mom would do. Now I just gotta choose a background color.
About the author:
Raised in Maine Terry Perkins Mitman graduated from Dartmouth College and Harvard Law School. She is the author of Living Is for Living: A Caregiver's Story. This piece originally appeared in The Joy of Caring