Searching for pockets of air

When you’re drowning, each breath counts.

Hi, readers! It’s Becca, editor for My Sweet Dumb Brain and longtime friend of Katie’s.

As she wrote last week, there are times in life when we need to give a little love back to ourselves. This week is one of those times for Katie. As her editor and collaborator, it’s my duty to keep this newsletter on its publishing schedule as much as possible; as her friend, it’s my duty to help when she needs the space for self-care.

For this week’s issue, I’m sharing a piece that, when I wrote it, I never thought would see the light of day. Almost a year ago, on a particularly stormy Summer afternoon, I needed to get away—from my kids, from my grief, from my house. But the sky opened up, and I was stuck. In so many ways.

Instead of the walk I had planned, I experienced a different form of release. As it turns out, the time and space to write out my feelings was what I actually needed. Life has a funny way of giving you opportunities, sometimes, in the form of disappointment or adversity. If anyone knows that, it’s Katie, which is why I’m glad she encouraged me to share this piece with you all today.

I hope this reminds you of your own resilience—that tapping into your pain can be empowering and even life-saving. Revisiting my words almost a year later certainly provided that for me.

Becca xo

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Since quarantine began in mid-March, the walls of my house have become a container, slowly filling up with water. Since my father died in early May, that water has been coming full force.

I'm intimately familiar with the container’s interior, especially as it is now nearly full. I've been frantically seeking pockets of air in its most distant, unused corners. A small crevice between the cabinet and kitchen ceiling. The dusty, dog hair-matted floor of the office closet. Any place away from the rushing tidal waves of mourning. And from young children that cannot understand the relentless grief that comes with a parent's death or the overwhelming uncertainty that accompanies a global pandemic. 

My children do not stop their wants. They keep wanting and wanting and wanting. Needing, really. They need all the things. I can't give those things to them, not now. Not when I'm too busy searching for these last, desperate pockets of air. Not when I am aching for cathartic release, in the form of tears or words, both of which have not yet come.

It's mid-afternoon, and I'm sitting on my screened-in patio. I was supposed to go for a walk. To finally escape the shrinking confines of my home and incessant demands of confused and helpless young ones desperate for attention. Then it started to rain. Of course. 

So, instead, I'm here. It's pleasant, in its dark and moody way. Suits me fine for now. I have a tumbler of wine. So what if I've become an alcoholic? It's been a borderline concern for years; might as well make it official. Besides the occasional walk, weather permitting, alcohol and TV are the only means of escape I have from this strange existence I find myself drowning in.

Alcoholism runs in my family—a family with a long, long history of ignoring mental health via pleasurable, yet decidedly damaging vices. Unsurprisingly, many of my relatives have died young, my father included. Not that it was alcoholism or an overdose that did him in, but rather his stalwart belief that he was invincible, somehow.

Thunder shakes the world around me, and rain pours in torrents. The thin screened windows of my patio quiver in the wind. Rain blows through them, spraying me with a fine mist at every gust.

I wonder what’s happening inside. Is the baby screaming, awake from his nap, alarmed by the ferocity of this Summer storm? Are my husband and daughter marveling at the quickness with which the day turned seemingly into night?

Imagine had I actually tried to walk after all! Though being soaked to the bone doesn't sound that uncomfortable compared to the heavy wetness of grief.

Our dog stares through the French doors, his eyes pleading with me. He hates thunderstorms. I can tell he wants to come outside, but I fear that might make him more afraid. I'm not the best caregiver lately.

Perhaps he wants to give care to me instead.

Navigating both the stress of quarantine and the hollow solitude of mourning has me often feeling less-than as a mother. I believe I am useless, as though I myself am as vacuous as the grief that consumes every moment. Would my son and daughter be better off without me? Or I without them?

And yet I may not have survived through this trying time of isolation and bereavement without their small hands grasping at my arm, urging me to the next thing, and the next after that. The snacks, the clean-up, the nose-blowing, the diaper-changing. Those small things push me forward. I am like seaweed churned up in the surf, eventually finding myself ashore.

The storm begins to weaken; so, too, does the will to withhold the mounting surge inside me. 

The words which would not come—the things I could not let myself put into the world—tumble forth like a cascade gushing through me. These feelings, thoughts, and memories have swirled round and round my brain, a hurricane brewing somewhere distantly in the vast ocean. It appears, now, that landfall is imminent.

Between the easing raindrops, I can hear my own breath—in and out, in and out, the rhythmic tapping on the roof demonstrating something that should be instinctual. I know now what it is to watch the air go out of someone for the last time. It isn't the peaceful transition depicted in movies or shows. I watched as my father, removed from his ventilator and life-sustaining medications, mouth open, gasped for the last dregs of air in the corners of his own life. It's a scene I don't want to remember, but won't ever forget. Still, I wish I could hang onto every single detail, relive in its exact form, because it's the last time I ever got to be with him. 

The hospice nurse led us into the tiny ICU room, where Dad had been for two weeks. His eyes, which had been closed in suspended slumber, were suddenly open—we hadn't been warned of this, and it was disturbingly unexpected. His left eye, unfocused and hazy, pointed outward; his right eye looked ahead. Whether or not he could see in those last moments, I do not know. 

My mother, sister, and I huddled around him, masked and teary, exchanging emotional, rambling declarations of love. Hurriedly, we recounted all of our favorite memories, anxious to fill up every second with as much comfort as possible. Whether or not he could hear in those last moments, I do not know. 

At one point I removed my mask, a daring move to make at a hospital in the midst of a burgeoning pandemic, but I wanted him to see my face and know it was me. I didn't want my Dad's final moments to be filled with vague figures in masks, because how terrifying might that be? I held his stiff, fluid-swollen hand and kissed his forehead. Whether or not he could feel in those last moments, I do not know.

With each shaky, labored breath came the question: would another follow? Toward the end, several seconds passed between them, every pause coming with the realization that 'this is it,' only to be jolted back into wondering by the coming of yet another desperate gasp. He fought hard to find those pockets of air. He kept coming up even when he was being pulled under by his failing body. Of course he did. He was my dad. He would never leave without a fight.

My wine is gone, and the winds have died down. My words, like tiny chisels, have punctured through the dam I thought impenetrable. The floodwater finally has somewhere to go. I have a fighting chance to breathe a little easier. 

My children have found their way to the patio door and call for me to come back and tend to their needs once more. I turn from the screen and smile at my beautiful son and daughter. Their little bodies clamber toward me with baby-soft arms open wide. His eyes glossy with the remnants of sleep; her mouth sticky and crumb-covered with remnants of peanut butter and jelly.

My daughter deftly hoists herself into my lap. “Mama, your face is wet,” she says. I hadn’t noticed.

“It’s okay, my sweet,” I reply, taking her hand. “I will be okay.”

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⛅ It’s your turn

Hi, friends. Katie here. First, huge thanks to Becca for taking the reins with this week’s newsletter. She’s a beautiful writer, isn’t she? Seriously, her talents are limitless!

Reading Becca’s piece reminded me of how stifling those early pandemic months felt. Even if you weren’t dealing with the added heaviness of grief, home felt like an increasingly claustrophobic place.

Fortunately, with vaccines available to most of us and CDC guidelines loosening, we are no longer stuck like we once were. How does that make you feel? Does it also seem like you can breathe easier, or are you still feeling hesitant to get back out there? For those of you who are fully vaccinated, do you have any plans on the horizon you’re especially looking forward to?

I’d love to hear your thoughts. Reply to this email, leave a comment, or send me a message. I’ll feature your replies in Friday’s subscriber-only newsletter.

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💖 Sharing is caring

Yiqing Shao @yiqing_shao

"You can't pour from an empty cup." —@katiehawk, speaking directly to me.

mysweetdumbbrain.substack.comYou Can’t Pour From an Empty CupBut that doesn’t stop me from trying to do it!

Oh, Yiqing. I hear you. I sincerely hope your cup feels more full this week!

Thank you to everyone who’s shared, recommended, and subscribed to My Sweet Dumb Brain. We are getting so close to our goal of 5,000 readers and 500 paying subscribers in 2021. As of this week, we’re at 4,961 readers and 453 subscribers. Let’s keep it going!

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This issue of My Sweet Dumb Brain is written by Rebecca Coates. It’s edited by Katie Hawkins-Gaar, who got her second vaccine shot last week and is making a list of people to hug very soon—Becca included. Photo by Courtney Lindberg.