Walking into Traffic
Six months after my son died, I walked into traffic. I am 90% certain that it wasn’t intentional. I’m 100% certain that I did not know how to respond when I came out of the fugue state to find a car moving towards me, horn announcing its arrival. The incident lasted no more than a few seconds, but it is seared into my memory, though slightly less than the day six months prior, when I got the call that my son had died.
Brain fog, be it from Covid or grief or trauma or hormones, can be a thick, down-to-the-ground fog. A black and white movie from London kind of fog. A fog that disguises the world so completely that you must move at a snail’s pace to navigate, grasping towards something—anything—to grab onto when nothing seems familiar.
Such as traffic. In the 48 years of my life, I had certainly become familiar with cars, yet when I looked up from the corner of 5th and Blair to see a loud metal box coming at me, I did not understand what it was, and I did not know what to do.
I shook as I shuffled towards the curb, ignored the worried looks of the few pedestrians who knew to stay put at times such as this. I located my car and sat in it until I was present enough to drive home.
Driving wasn’t safe for me either. Tears flowed so often and so heavily that my vision was constantly blurry. Suicidal thoughts made being behind the wheel risky. But I made it home and called surviving another day a success.
My son died suddenly in November, alone and far away. My husband and I drove six hours to bring him home. I put a seat belt on the box of his ashes, because my job as his protector hadn’t ended when his job as son did. I may have failed at protecting him three days earlier, but I’d be damned if I let something happen to him now that I had him close by.
I expected to be sad for a couple of months. Maybe by the new year I would snap out of this; maybe I’d be over it. Someone called me to get involved in a political campaign in December. I suggested he call back in January when I was feeling a little stronger.
Those who know grief can laugh at me and my expectations, which were ridiculously high above the pit of my despair. New Year’s Day was brutal, having to begin 2016 without him.
Six months was just the beginning of seeing color again. One year and a prescription for antidepressants allowed to me to venture into social events. At eighteen months, I let go of some of the guilt for having failed him so completely. Two years into my new reality, I could smile spontaneously at a child without the ache stabbing me in the heart. By five years, I recognized that I hadn’t actually caused his death.
Eight years later, the love for his life outweighs the pain I felt, but it is there. It is always there, like a small, heavy rock with a sharp edge in the corner of a pocket.
If we are to believe the shows and movies and books and social commentary, if we are to rush to “get over” grief, and if we are going to dismiss feelings by saying “At least you have other children” or “He’s in a better place” or “I know how you feel, my dog died”, we will collectively fail the many parents who feel they have to hide this pain. We will, as a society, fail as surely as I failed my boy for dying too young.
The consequences are greater than making people feel isolated and sad. The brain fog alone derailed my life. I wasn’t able to work, abruptly ending my 26 year career in social work. It was unfathomable for me to return to the high school, so the volunteer gig I did mentoring college-bound seniors was done.
And a neighbor said, “Well, at least you don’t have to worry about him anymore.” And an acquaintance asked, “What’s the upside?” And a relative told me, “God has a plan.” Hollywood implied my marriage would certainly be over now (it isn’t). The nurse ignored my signs of depression until I mentioned suicidal ideation.
In my pea-soup cloud of agony, I made the world a little bit worse for a lot longer than I’d like to admit. I stopped recycling because it was too much effort. I stopped brushing my teeth because hygiene was not important. I yelled at cashiers because I could not understand the world anymore, and maybe it was their fault. I walked into traffic.
“I wish it had been me,” said my husband.
“I do too,” I answered, and he did not feel insulted.
“I miss you,” he said, though we were lying inches apart.
“I miss me too,” I replied.
There are support groups online. I made new friends, learned new skills, found ways to heal. And I would forgo all of them in a heartbeat if I could have my son back.
There is no one approach to wrestling with the monster known as grief. Everyone has to find their own way. The one commonality is that mourning is not a phase, and loss is not something you get over. I can no more get over the feelings for my child who is dead than I can get over the feelings for my child who is alive. Nor would I want to. The fog still descends at random moments, and sometimes it feels like a hug. My pain proves my love for him.
We are approaching the nine year mark. Like every birthday and every death day, I don’t know how I’ll feel. One day he will be gone for as long as he was alive. That might be a tough anniversary. Or not. I don’t know yet.
What I do know now is that his death, despite the enormous impact it made on my future, is not as important as his life. As short as his life was—and 19 years is far too short—those years had meaning and love and frustration and learning and pain and joy and adventure.
To this day, I don’t know how I got to that corner or why. I don’t remember stepping into the street. The fog was so very thick.
Are you a bereaved parent? Do you love someone who is? A good place to start getting or giving support is The Compassionate Friends, who offer online and IRL groups, tips for how to be kind to parents in need, and validation that it’s okay to have all the feelings. This shit sucks and it’s okay to say it out loud.
Cover photo by Javier García on Unsplash
About the Author
Eileen Nittler retired from a long career in social work in 2016. She has found joy and healing in connecting with other bereaved parents, gardening, exploring the world, doing art, and learning languages. She has been published in Oregon Humanities (2023, 2024). She, along with her husband, is in the process of moving from Oregon to Montana to be closer to their daughter who, luckily, wants them to be closer to her, which is greatest of all compliments.
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