Tales from rural Maine: Sometimes a girl just needs to dig in the dirt

A few years ago, I lost a baby. It gave tangible meaning to the word "heartwrenching." There was nothing I could do, nothing anyone could do, to save her, and my heart felt wrenched, physically, from my body. I bled. I suffered. And for several weeks, my doctor warned me every day that I was at risk of dying, too. I curled up in a ball, speechless, and did not leave my house for a month, except for daily visits to the lab for more hideous blood draws, to be sure that she was fully and truly gone. It took forever.

There was nothing anyone could do to help me. I had to breathe the swirling tumultuous tsunami water of grief until I either drowned or swam up to the surface. Peter was stalwart and loving. My sister-in-law held my hand. And then one day, a package came in the mail. My friend Michelle ("The Mickster") who had been with me when the bleeding started while I was on a trip to Massachusetts, sent me a care package. It contained a beautiful bounty of heirloom seed packets with vintage designs and a note that said, "Sometimes a girl just needs to dig in the dirt."

In that moment, I felt understood, beloved, and I glimpsed a future where flowers bloomed and my heart resumed its beating.

Yesterday, I got a call telling me that my favorite uncle (Rick Chase) had died suddenly from a heart attack while jogging with his beloved wife. My chest cleaved. My brain could not keep up. My face broke open and I wept. 

"What?" I kept saying. "He what??" My mind could not grasp the sudden, terrible finality of this crazy truth. The world was question marks and ambulances; blood and faces and a voice on the phone telling me something impossible. 

And then she asked, "Would you tell the family?"

How could I possibly? What could I say? A deep breath in, and out. Of course I will.

"Yes. Yes, I'll go now," I said.

I stopped crying. I stood up. I had forgotten I had legs. Peter held me. I breathed. I pulled myself together. I did one thing at a time. Find keys. Get in car. Should I bring tissues? Make choices. Where do I go first? Words? What words do I say? I wasn't even really dressed, I realized as I was leaving, but I couldn't remember how people put on clothes. This will have to do, I thought. This is what I will look like when they remember this moment, but there is no right thing to wear.

And then I drove to tell his parents in person the worst news anyone could ever possibly tell them. I told his father first. And then I went to see his mother. Her reaction was the worst thing I have ever seen in my entire life.

It was a bad, hard, long, heartwrenching day. It gave tangible meaning to the word "terrible." I lost someone so dear to me, someone healthy and kind and vibrant and quiet. And worse than that, a wife lost her lifemate, parents lost their son; siblings lost their brother; four children lost their dad.

How do we sleep now? How do we eat? How can there be a world without Uncle Ricky in it? The sturdiest dam let loose somehow and we are tumbling through debris, trying to grab hold, to know up from down, to breathe and not drown. How can this be?

Last night, I was supposed to be attending water rescue training. But instead, I was trying to keep myself, my family, afloat during a different sort of drowning. I was doing all that I could to keep my aunt Kim's head above water. I told my fire chief I couldn't come to training, after all, and why.

Today, he sent me a text and told me he would be around if I wanted some "truck therapy." In that moment, I felt understood, beloved, and I glimpsed a future where trucks gleamed, where strong, generous volunteers show up to help, and I began to imagine that I could breathe again. It will be a good long while before any of this feels okay. But after lunch today, I am going to the fire department with Bobby because sometimes a girl just needs to dig in the dirt. And sometimes a girl just needs to get her hands on the wheel of a fire truck.

In times of grief and loss, in times when we are drowning in despair, in times when anguish thrusts us off our center and leaves us wondering how we can breathe; when doubt unhinges us, what really and truly matters--at least to me--is kindness. These simple grounding acts of lovingkindness that come from the people who know us best.

Those seed packets saved my heart. I dug in the dirt. I admired each beautiful packet. I planted a memorial garden. I was able to feel connected again, to my full self, to the cycles of life, all of them. The water receded and I stood again on firm ground. I faced my future, I remembered my baby, and I knelt down and planted flowers in her name.

I am grateful that I am loved in this way. That in the midst of a nightmare, someone knows that the one thing I need are seeds, beautiful heirloom vintage seeds, and lots of them. And fire trucks. Giant, hulking, shiny red fire trucks.

Our loss steals our breath, compresses our hearts, explodes the comforts of our reality. But there is room, even in a grieving heart, for the magnificence of gratitude, when kindness comes. And I am grateful for it.

Om mani padme hum. And thank you.