I couldn’t look at the faces in the Zoom boxes on my computer when it was my turn to share my story. Instead, I focused on a photo of Emery and me on a hike. I also couldn’t get through my story without tears, but I didn’t try. The tears came slowly and crescendoed into sobs as I shared my grief story with the group. I was not alone.
I’ve opened my computer many times since 2020 to join a Zoom class, usually for a writing workshop, but this time was different. This time, my screen wasn’t filled with boxes of writers, with pens poised to respond to writing prompts, ready (or not ready) to share their words. Instead, there were eight boxes with faces I recognized. Not because I knew them, because I didn’t, but because of the emotions their faces held. We are here because of our grief, the thread that connects us.
The eyes in the squares on my computer looked tired. Like mine. Pretenses and hiding behind masks have been replaced with raw emotions and vulnerability. It was my first day of a grief group on Zoom, facilitated by a therapist I’ve been seeing in Boulder. I was nervous, and while waiting to begin, I began to question my decision to sign up for this group, wondering if it was too late to withdraw, while gathering the words I would tell the therapist as to why I wouldn’t be joining them. This is a predictable response for me when something scares me. Although I’ve done this countless times, writing the script in my head as to why I have to quit, I rarely follow through with my quitting plans. This group was no different. Maybe the process of going through the steps of almost quitting is where I find my courage to stay. It’s just one of my steps.
I had pen and paper next to me to take notes, as well as a box of Kleenex, a small photo of Emery and me, a heart-shaped rock, and a rose quartz bracelet that was given to me shortly after Emery died. Talismans that felt necessary. Their presence felt comforting.
I’m not sure how the other women found this group, as most of them don’t live in Boulder or even in Colorado. I found it through my grief therapist, who I found through a friend who knew a friend who had heard of her. A very circuitous route, but somehow, someway, I have found the people I need to connect with.
There are eight people in my group, including the therapist. I felt a connection to these women, all strangers, and there was an ease in telling my story because I knew they understood in a way that others couldn’t. Our shared experiences of grief have brought us together.
As I looked at the faces on my computer screen, my son, Grant’s words echoed in my mind. “We have no idea what others carry.” Those words were punctuated with the stories I heard that morning. A woman whose husband had died two months earlier. A woman whose fertility journey of 13 years had ended with the birth of a dead baby. A woman who was grieving the loss of her mother, who had died a few years earlier. The story that hit me the hardest was a mother whose 6-year-old son was hit by a car and killed when he ran into the street. There were a lot of tears in the telling of the stories, and just as many shed by the listeners. We are connected by the common thread that none of us wanted. Not our love of travel, hiking, reading, or any other life hobby, but rather, our grief.
There is so much pain and sadness on my computer screen and I found myself leaning in towards my computer screen, as if it were bringing me physically closer to the person talking. I don’t know any of the people in the group but want to hug them all because they know. They know.
I couldn’t help but visualize Wanda in one of the boxes, as it only seemed right that she would be included in my grief group. The top of the prism on her Pink Floyd tee shirt would be visible in her square on the computer, and I’m guessing she would be the one that the facilitator would have to remind to turn off her mic, because if it wasn’t her smoker’s cough, it would be the crackle of cellophane as she unwrapped candy. Wanda is not in my Zoom grief group, but she’s seated next to me. I felt her presence as I shared my story with the group, a story she has heard countless times but offers comfort with each retelling, as if I were telling it for the first time.
I will spent two hours, every Tuesday, with this group, for the next six months. I know it won’t be a cure or what will make me whole again, but the community of shared experiences will be my soft spot to land, and right now, that feels good. Comfort in the community of shared experiences, two hours, once a week, for six months.