Random and unexpected things and places have become significant recently, as they evoke memories of my 34 years with Emery. She was so woven into my life that it’s hard for me to know who I am without her. My search for her continues, even though I know she’s gone. It was Emery who asked me to leave Kansas City and move to Boulder, knowing only her, Miles, and baby Arlo. It was Emery who bought me bone broth every day after my knee surgery, braided my hair, and remade my couch bed and instructed Arlo and Muna not to get too close to Laudie’s bandaged leg. It was Emery who drove me to my colonoscopies, my four rounds of gum surgery several years ago, and brought food and flowers when I had COVID (3 times) and FaceTimed daily during the lockdown. After delivering bags of groceries to my porch, always with flowers, we would stand on opposite sides of my yard, maintaining a safe distance, and talk. We’d both be in tears when we said goodbye. She once told me we were so intertwined that sometimes she didn’t know where I ended and she started. I had thought only moms said things like that. Not only does it feel like a large part of my heart is gone, but it feels like a part of my very being has also left. The memories, often surprising, are tiny sparks of connection that I either grab onto to absorb what they have to offer, or I avoid them, as I don’t feel emotionally ready. Videos of Emery fall into that category. I still can’t watch them.
Sometimes the nudges of yet one more thread that has started to unravel in the way Emery and I were woven together come unexpectedly, as well as the tears that follow. I was at the doctor’s office earlier today to see how my ankle is healing. Before meeting with the orthopedic doctor, a nurse came in to go over my information. She asked if Emery Golson was still my emergency contact. I bit my lip and said, “No. I’ll change it.” She didn’t comment, but why would she? She didn’t know or need to know why Emery Golson was no longer my emergency contact. A few minutes later, when Dr. Kramer told me my ankle was worse and I needed a different boot, one that came to my knee, and would need to wear it whenever I was upright. I asked, “Even in the middle of the night…” and he interrupted me before I could finish. “Yes, when you go to the bathroom,” adding it’s the first question patients ask. He added that if it isn’t better in three weeks, we would need to talk about surgery.
Tears started rolling down my face. It wasn’t the surgery that brought on the tears. It was doing all of the hard stuff without Emery; without having Emery to call on my drive home, who would tell me it would be OK because she’d be there for me every step of the way. Without Emery to bring the bone broth and anything else I needed because I was also told I can’t drive (it’s my right ankle). I had not seen Dr. Kramer initially, or he would have said no to my drive to Sedona. Instead, I went to Urgent Care, and they said the drive was OK, and also put me in the wrong boot. I had driven over 1,500 miles in the past few weeks, likely not helping my injury, and now, I’ve been told not to drive – not even to the store. Dr. Kramer noted the tears, then went on to tell me that although the recovery would be longer, the surgery would be pretty simple. I nodded and thanked him. He told me there was no need to thank me as he knew he had just ruined my day. I thought about the woman at the bar in Santa Fe who saw my boot (my very short and incorrect boot ) and said, “You just never know, do you?” No. You never know. Those words have become my mantra.
Another memory took me by surprise yesterday, and I followed the nudge to understand it further. I was coming home from some errands, and passed a park that had a teeter-totter. It’s not a piece of equipment commonly seen in parks now, as they have been replaced with climbing apparatuses and structures far cooler than the plank on a fulcrum. I slowed down for a better look. I don’t know why. I pulled into the parking lot, still not sure why, but felt intrigued by the sight of the bright orange teeter-totter on the blue metal base. I followed the lead of a teeter-totter that became a door to so much more than a piece of dated playground equipment.
I recalled a park where Emery and I used to go when her brothers were in preschool. There was a playground area and a trail that went around a small lake. After she had had enough of the swings and slide, we’d walk around the lake, with her in the stroller or her stuffed animals in the stroller while we both pushed it. There was a teeter-totter in the playground area, and she was curious about it and wanted to “try it.” I put her on one end while I gently added weight to the other, lifting her slowly in an up-and-down motion. She was not impressed. I slowly released her to the ground so she could get off and make her way to a piece of equipment that was more interesting. My thoughts on the teeter-totter were similar, but I was more afraid of the piece of equipment than being bored by it. I don’t remember the specifics of what brought on the fear for me, only that I was knocked to the ground when the person providing ballast on the other side exited without warning. I’m sure it wasn’t as dramatic as my words might indicate, but when you’re a small child and are not anticipating being dropped to the ground, it’s scary. Teeter-totters only function if someone is on the opposite end and there is an element of trust that they won’t leave you up in the air or worse, won’t drop you when they’re done. Without the other person, the piece of equipment is useless.
So there I sat, in the parking lot of a park, completely devoid of children, focused on a piece of equipment that I had grown to hate as a child.
Playgrounds. Memories. I let my mind wander and thought about Emery and me as adults on a teeter-totter, with me having to adjust my placement as she was the lighter one. Of course, this wasn’t a memory as Emery and I had never been on a teeter-totter together as adults, but the visual came to mind. The teeter-totter was a picture of how I feel these days. It feels like Emery abruptly left the teeter-totter, leaving me to crash to the ground unexpectedly. She is no longer on the other side of the plank to offer ballast. I’m on the edge of the teeter-totter, my knees bent up to my shoulders, looking up at the other end where Emery should be, but she’s gone, and no one is there to help lift me off this spot where I’ve crashed. There are things you have to carry solo, and the grief of a mother losing a child is one such thing. A hug, a phone call, a FaceTime, or an attentive listener who hands over a Kleenex mid-story, are all beautiful and helpful, but at the end of the day, I am navigating this journey alone. It is a solo job.
Nothing makes sense, including me sitting in the parking lot at a park staring at a teeter-totter that is conjuring up memories and made-up stories. Yet, in the stillness, where I live now, I see what I need to see: the pieces to a very large puzzle whose placement of pieces has become a daunting task, not knowing what that something will ultimately become. It’s hard to put a puzzle together, knowing that a significant portion will be missing. Emery once told me while we were working on a jigsaw puzzle, “Border first, Mom, then the rest will be easier.” She was good at putting puzzles together, a skill her son, Arlo, also has. She was also good at denying she was good with puzzles or even liked them, for that matter. Well, Emery, I’m remembering what you told me regarding puzzles (whether you liked them or not). I’m searching for pieces with straight edges that will serve as a frame for everything else, then the rest will be easier. I don’t think the teeter-totter was a border piece, but I know it fits in there somewhere.
I believe with more time ahead, you should write a book about grief. Your words, your writing, draw a clear picture even if you don’t know the characters. But when you keep reading the characters come to life as if they are seated next to you. More time ahead, a book is in your future.
Thank you, Kim. Unknowingly, that’s exactly what I’m doing. I was on the 2nd edit of another book, but it has been “shelved.” Grief is what I know right now and where I live.