Surfing

What to do when a trillion pounds of grief unexpectedly(ish) comes crashing down?

Yesterday, I was going about my usual morning routine (feed cats, do dishes, laundry, layout/design work, blog, shower – thrilling, no?) when I took a wee break to zoom around the intertoobz. I came upon the GQ interview with Harrison Ford.

Since the dawn of Hollywood, no movie star has seemed to need stardom—or movies—less than Harrison Ford.

First sentence and already my snarkometer’s in fourth gear. He’s referring to Ford’s rep for granting interviews in which he tries to share the bare minimum about whoever it is he might really be.

Gee – hyperbole much, Chris? Gosh, lemme just see if I can think of any other celebrities who might fall into that seeming no need for stardom thing.
      Greta Garbo?
      Glenn Gould?
      John Hughes?
      Daniel Day-Lewis? 
      Steve Ditko? 
      Julie Kavner?

Nah, Ford MUST be the only stardom eschewing star EVAH!

And then I hit the second sentence and fell apart.

Chris Heath crisscrosses the country with the 75-year-old legend to find out why indifference has made all the difference in the world.

TAB and me on his 74th birthday

The Amazing Bob would’ve turned 75 this year – on January tenth. TAB didn’t get to be 75. I didn’t get 75 year old hunny-pie hugs and kisses from him. He’s not here to kill my diet with his awesome cookie baking and curry crafting. He’s not here to serve as Coco’s chief lap and bathing platform.

This blows so very fucking much.

I was having a reasonably good morning yesterday. As I walked downstairs, Coco in my arms, I thought – this is nice. I’ve an art and plant filled home, painting is once again giving me joy, Princess Kitten is healthy and full of strange matter and energy, Jen and Oni are breathtakingly wonderful and fabulously supportive, my newly rearranged, decluttered bedroom feels like a fresh, tremendous oasis – I think I’m happy!

And then, less than an hour later, I read the Harrison Ford interview – a wholly unexpected trigger.

I went from light, upbeat(ish) and all tranquillo-like to devastated – barely able to move. Christ almighty, this grief shit’s gonna give me whiplash. And here’s the deal – I totes recognize these sudden dives into the pits of wretched, missing-TAB gloom are just par for the fucking course.

There will be more days like this. I got that.

Grief is a wave – a motherfucking long series of them. If I’m gonna make it outta this alive, whole(ish), happy and not busted into a thousand tiny pieces, I gotta surf.

So then, the answer to the magical question, what to do when a trillion pounds of grief come crashing down? Paint. Read with Coco on top of me. Go to the gym. Work. Exist. Surf the grief waves.

I can do this.