Padding for a harsh world

(pray for me tomorrow)

The first time I stepped into a Social Security office was in 2017, on a warm, muggy morning in St. Petersburg, Florida. I was 31 and freshly widowed. My friend Nicki came along but was promptly sent outside with her iced coffee; beverages were strictly prohibited. That’s how I wound up alone at the window when my name was called.

The worker gave me a pamphlet, a sad smile, and a check for $255.

“Do you have any questions?” she asked.

“Well, um—”

Words escaped me, as they often did in those foggy days.

She anticipated my question and confirmed my birth date.

I nodded.

“You’ll receive full survivor benefits in,” she paused to check her computer, “thirty-six years.”

The next time I stepped into a Social Security office was just last month, on a warm, muggy afternoon in Atlanta, Georgia. I was 41 and in a harried mood. My 5-year-old came along with a coloring book and colored pencils, which were, thankfully, allowed. We were there to get a replacement Social Security card, documentation we needed to register her for kindergarten.

(Years ago, in a mistake I deeply regret, we lost her card while traveling.)

When we arrived, we joined a long line of cars in the packed parking lot. We turned the corner to discover why: there was an ambulance with its back door open. Paramedics were loading someone on a stretcher into the vehicle.

I froze. Mentally, at least. Physically, I kept driving, inching past the scene, grabbing the first parking spot I could. I gripped my daughter’s hand as we walked past. She covered one ear with her free hand, anticipating how loud the siren would be.

Inside, we waited. We confirmed our appointment, pulled a ticket, and grabbed two open seats. We got called to a window, were asked a few questions, then were sent back to our seats. Later that night, when I asked my child what the hardest or most challenging part of her day was, her answer came easily: Waiting.

In all that waiting, my mind wandered. I couldn’t focus on the book I’d brought. Instead, I found myself vigilant. Agitated. I watched through the front windows as the ambulance left, sirenless. I took note of the people around me. I smoothed the papers we’d brought along in preparation for the appointment.

Finally, a half hour and two coloring pages later, we were called. I answered questions, repeating the information I’d filled out online, and handed over the paperwork.

It was promptly handed back.

“This won’t work,” the worker said to me, nodding to the stack I’d presented. “The rules have changed.”

Again, a slight freeze. I did my best to stay calm. The worker asked if I had an insurance card with my daughter’s name on it (yes!). Then she asked if that card also had her photo and date of birth on it (no! does such a thing even exist?). She asked if I had certified letters from her doctor or preschool (no?). She told me I would have to return with one of those things.

“Why isn’t this enough?” I said, pointing to the birth certificate I’d brought.

“We need proof the child is still alive,” the worker said.

Beside me, my daughter blinked.

For years now, I’ve documented the “glimmers” that brighten each month—the small moments that make me pause and feel safe, calm, or hopeful.

Glimmers, as coined by psychotherapist Deb Dana, are the opposite of triggers. Triggers, which are unique to each person, tend to pull us into fear or distress. Glimmers, also unique to each of us, bring us comfort and steadiness.

Documenting glimmers isn’t simply a saccharine exercise or reliable newsletter content. It’s a way to counter the more challenging moments of life. For me, glimmers are padding for a harsh world. By collecting them, I create some protection against the sharp edges that can snag and snarl a day.

It took me three days to realize that the sight of that ambulance, combined with the failed Social Security visit, triggered me.

I did not process that in the moment. Instead, I powered through. I was solo parenting that day, and soon after we loaded back into the car, I reminded my daughter that once we got home, she needed to play alone, quietly, while I conducted a Zoom call.

“You can play with your LEGOs. They’re all set out,” I told her. I tried to keep my voice steady; I was still reeling from being turned away. “When my call is over, I’ll check on you, but I’ll need to get a bit more work done after that, okay?”

In the backseat, she nodded.

“But Mom?” she asked.

“Yeah?”

“Can I give you a hug first?”

That should have been my first clue that I needed to take a moment to cry.

We drove home. I called Billy, explaining we’d have to return in a month—the earliest available appointment—to get the replacement card. My daughter and I got out of the car, grabbed the useless paperwork and useful coloring book, and hugged. She set off to create a birthday party out of blocks while I interviewed a publisher about her small-town newspaper.

I worked some more. I emailed the school system, explaining our situation. I ranted to a few friends. I felt increasingly agitated. Vigilant. Angry.

I pushed those feelings aside. Finished work. Ran a quick errand. Prepared dinner. My daughter and I talked about the day while she bathed, then read books we’ve read many times before. That night, I let her sleep in my bed. Billy was out of town, playing a show. She slept soundly.

I woke in the middle of the night, mind racing.

The sight of an ambulance has always been difficult for me. Mentally, I’m transported back to that horrible ride to the hospital: me in the front passenger seat; my husband on a stretcher in the back.

Other triggers are less obvious, more unique to my own brand of trauma. I’m flooded with memories whenever I’m near a race. I flinch when people say the phrase “it’s a marathon, not a sprint” (do you know how often people say this?!). I still struggle with the feeling of being out of breath.

It’s been almost ten years since my husband collapsed during a half marathon. Almost a decade, and those memories still feel as though they happened yesterday. I’ve gotten better at recognizing my triggers. Better at managing my responses to them. But they still exist. They probably always will.

Thankfully, so will the glimmers. I’m a broken record, but it’s true: there are always bright spots.

I finally realized that I’d been triggered days later, during a Saturday without screens. Like documenting glimmers, “screen-free Saturdays” are an experiment, an attempt to build a calmer, more centered life.

But screens can also serve as padding against a harsh world.

That day, I didn’t have my phone to distract me. I couldn’t scroll headlines, answer texts, or refresh emails. I couldn’t look at the weather forecast, google random questions, or photograph the little moments I wanted to remember.

Instead, I was left with my thoughts. My emotions. And the belated realization that the Social Security office visit wasn’t solely upsetting because we’d been turned away.

That night, I cried. A lot.

I was flooded with memories from the day Jamie died—how scared I was, how I tried to hide that fear, how I carried an inordinate amount of responsibility right from the start.

It’s been almost a decade, and some days those memories still feel impossibly close.

Sometimes I feel ashamed that I can still get bowled over by the grief of it all. But I try to be gentle. I try to remind myself the same thing I’d tell you: If you have hurts you’re carrying, memories that still come rushing back, triggers that other people wouldn’t recognize as triggers, that’s okay. You’re not the only one. It can be a heavy thing, to be human.

Tomorrow, I will return to the Social Security office for a third time—hopefully the last time, for a very long time. I will bring the certified letter from our daughter’s pediatrician. I will take deep breaths. My child will come with me again, just in case.

We’ll cheer if we’re successful. We might even get ice cream afterward. I’ll find a glimmer or two to ground me. And when I hold my child’s hand, I will remember what we came there to prove: that she’s alive.

I will be grateful that I was given another chance.

xoxo
KHG