The Thanksgiving Matrix
Grief and Gratitude in a parallel universe
There are a lot of things my “factory model” once took for granted that can’t belong to me anymore.
I think about her a lot. That woman who skimmed lightly and carried innocence carelessly; enjoying quotes and platitudes about embracing gratitude or dancing in the rain unperturbed by darker realities. My original settings factory model, she who existed before my 18-year-old son lost his silent battle with depression and parted from us.
It sounds weird, I know, referring to a previous version of myself as a whole separate woman, as if she were an old friend I remember fondly, but from whom I am now regretfully alienated, by time and circumstance.
I now intimately understand how profound loss divides time and everything in it into a before and after whether we want it to or not, including how our brains process everything around us. So as odd as it may seem to describe who I was before my son died as a different person, it feels appropriate to me.
Like me, you might be a fan of the Matrix films. If you are, you’d probably argue that Neo was so much better off once given the freedom to experience the reality of his existence and I think most would agree. Still, was the life he understood while plugged into the Matrix any less real? Was the NEO existing within the Matrix the same person as the Neo who escaped it? Or did the new information invalidate the actuality of the previous Neo?
Heavy stuff, but maybe you get my point.
Just as with Neo parting from the simplicity of his existence in the Matrix, I have learned slowly (and repeatedly) in the 622 days since my son’s death, there is no return to factory settings.
And because there isn’t, the world I lived in before is not available to me as it existed then either.
Its November. Pop culture and social media are awash with daily declarations of gratitude, reminders to be thankful for all gifts bestowed upon us by God, our neighbor, the universe or whatever floats your gratefulness boat. Facebook feed performances are required of good moms about the gifts received by raising up kids and all the accomplishments and pride that come with that. A husband who still brings flowers for no reason at all, that girls trip to Northern Michigan wineries, a chilly morning walk with a beloved fur baby and hot brown sugar oatmilk latte in hand — all worth being contented by and noting with appreciation, of course.
That other woman I remember was all too happy to sign up each November as a willing public cheerleader for the giving of thanks. She reveled in the notion that by sharing tiny victories and simple pleasures, she was connecting to a larger community of inspiration. And why shouldn’t it be so?
When Bing Crosby sang about counting his blessings, Factory-settings Mattie shed a happy tear with no need to reflect beyond the gentle nudge to set aside one’s worries in favor of all that has already been bestowed. Easy words for a largely untroubled heart.
She wasn’t wrong. At his moment in time, neither was Bing. And those that carry on in this endeavor should not feel frowned upon. I am not suggesting it, and in fact, I envy your thanksgiving without shadows or asterisks.
However, the she that is now me won’t be participating.
My saying so must lead you to assume that I am done with gratefulness, and you would be mistaken.
I can’t speak for him, but had Bing lived to witness the suicide deaths of two of his sons, he might have avoided that song forever after. And not because every blessing received and then lost must be regretted, no. But the perspective that some worries are not to be undone by counting sheep and blessings might have given him pause to step upon a ‘live gratefully’ soapbox ever again. And so it is with me.
Traumatic loss does not rob me of things to still be happy about, take pleasure in or yes, be grateful for. Not at all. I would submit that profound grief has amplified my connection to how precious life is. My sorrow has not erased how unhesitatingly lucky I feel that I got to be Mekbul’s mom for the time I was granted. And losing him has only made my remaining children, my spouse, my family and friends — who each wrapped themselves up in my despair with me, easing my burden — more priceless.
What I can’t have returned to me is the innocence of counting blessings as a means to an end. There is no commodity in Thanksgiving that can be passed easily from one hand to another. Infectious as it might seem, declaring our good fortune to the wider world might not be the invitation we think it is. In fact, it might be pushing someone we know further into their current condition of separateness or isolation. How can I appreciate with you your good luck in your car repair being so inexpensive anymore when I will never set eyes on my beautiful boy in this life again? Is that your fault? Not at all. Are those two things related? Hardly. Is it my new reality? Every damn day.
Honesty is tough. I’m not judging you. I’m struggling with not being you. Truthfully, I’m struggling with not being the me I didn’t sign up to relinquish.
I want the comfort of the Matrix back. I want Thankfulness November back, asterisk-free. These things can’t belong to me anymore.
I am grateful for the time I have ahead to figure out what can. And for the people who will stay close while I update my operating system. I’ll be paying extra for the Thanksgiving add-on.
