In some ways I think Jamey would love that I am comparing grief to a tiger since he was such an avid Auburn fan (though for his college football loving š ā¤ļø heartās sake, Iām kind of thankful heās in heaven and not able to watch Auburn play š these days. š)
But I think Aubie is a much more lovable tiger than what I have come to know as the āGrief Tiger.ā I first started thinking about grief as a tiger š after listening to a podcast about grief by Anderson Copper, All There Is, and it resonated with me. In the podcast, Stephen Colbert says that those who mourn are forever after accompanied by a tiger šÆ who sits next to them for the rest of their lives taking up space. (I also appreciate that he didnāt use an elephant as a metaphor, because we were a complete house divided when it came to college football, & Iād like to keep my mascot, Big Al, in a happy, positive light. šš š RTR!)
But I totally get the ever-present tiger metaphor, because with time, I am discovering that I can have moments of real happiness and laughter, but then a split second later, I can feel deep sadness and heartache, like a homesickness that cuts straight to the core of my soul.
Sometimes that sadness leaks out onto my face, or appears in my eyes, or can be heard in my voice, or felt by the sudden extreme heaviness of my feet. And sadness is such a vagabond, for it just shows up, unannounced, & at the darndest times. Like when on a Microsoft Teams meeting with my manager last week, our landline, (yes, we still have one of those āļø š mainly reserved for telemarketers) it decided to join our call. I was on camera chatting it up, & then that d**** tiger got up and growled right in my face & slashed my heart with a razor-sharp claw, right as Jameyās voice started explaining, loud & clear, that āweā canāt come to the phone... It undid me. And right there on my video call, with my manager (who is actually also a dear friend - treasures in the darkness right there), I had to bury my hands in my face & sob š for a moment. Other times I can just feel the warm, foul breath of the āGrief Tigerā on my neck, or the swish of its tail as he circles me staring me down & daring me to make a sound & carry on.
But fortunately for me, as I have come to know him, the āGrief Tigerā is not just your regular old tiger. The grief tiger, while ever present, does sleep a lot, praise God, allowing the mourner, me, to function. I attribute much of my tigerās sleepiness to the fact that I wore him out with my āanticipatory griefā the whole 10 months of Jameyās fight against cancer. I literally cried every day & most nights, frequently & hard, but the thing about a sleeping tiger is that you (I) never know what memory, what sound, what smell, what phrase, or what place will wake him up. But when he is awake, he often pounces, and his claws are sharp, and his fangs cut deep.
I can only hope that eventually, with time, those claws and fangs will dull, and while I am guessing his attacks will still hurt, I hope Iām building up some thick ole scar tissue that will protect my heart & prevent the attacks from ripping through me as completely, or hurting quite as much in the future as they still do today. But whether sleeping or awake, I am coming to realize that he will always be with me, my āplus oneā for the rest of my life. Maybe Iāll luck out, maybe tigers donāt really like turkey, because otherwise, oh what fun Thanksgiving will be.
šÆ+ š¦ = šā¤ļøāš©¹
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