I was insistent that Logan’s death would not define our lives. We would not, could not, fall apart as a family because Logan was gone. We would find a way to celebrate what we used to be, in order to find worth in what remained. We did quite well for a while. We got complacent, though, thinking we had trudged through the worst of the agony, soldiering through the murky, muddy waters of loss until finally finding a dry bank on which to rest. Grief, it turns out, is an insidious, deceiving bastard. It is happy to watch you sink comfortably to your knees and close your eyes, taking respite. That’s when it begins to worm its way into your relationships. When you think , we’re ok, grief whispers, “The fuck you are!” and it blows its foul breath in your face. You open your eyes to see that the tide has risen and the dry land you stood on is once again covered in filthy water. The muck beneath your feet tries to suck you down. It holds your legs immobile. You get to your feet, and as far as your eyes can see, grief has set to rot what you had worked so hard to preserve.
By his own admission, my husband is a workaholic. His day begins before 5:00 am and ends about 10:00 pm. Occasionally, if it’s raining, and we’re caught up on every single act that will keep the sky from immediately falling on our heads, he will take off Sunday afternoon from noon to 4:30. The busiest time of year is spring. And summer. And fall. And winter. There is about a one-week window, usually the last one of August, when all crops of hay are up, the beef and youngstock are out to pasture, we have dried down in the barn to about 40 cows, and we have not yet started to ‘freshen’, so there are no calves to feed twice a day. During the first week of September, the milk cows start to calve and the fall field work and preparations for winter begin. That one-week time frame in August is the best time to get married, go on vacation, do a home renovation, or bury a son. Logan died September 3rd. It was early in the month; the new season wasn’t in full swing, but it had begun, and the work loomed large in the distance. It was a very inconvenient time to die.
As I said before, thank goodness for generous people. Because of their help, we were able to get through calving season. They showed up to help us chop our corn. They helped us dig a new water line from the wood stove, which is housed in the detached garage, to the house. They helped us haul sand for a new hay shed we were building. They helped us cut wood, haul manure, and bag earlage. Their company showed us there is so much more to life than work. My husband and I would remark that we had to change how we lived. We could not exist solely for the work, and we had to reach out a helping hand to others as they had done for us. We would never look at the farm as anything other than a means of support again. The months rolled along and we concentrated so hard on slogging through our pain, that when we were finally able to fill our lungs with air again, and see without that shroud of darkness limiting our vision, we simply rested there. Before we knew it, it was spring again. The land called to my husband and he threw himself headlong into his work. 18-hour days were the norm. I would try to say, “We weren’t going to do this, remember? It’s Sunday, let’s…” And he would explode.
“If you want to spend time with me, get your ass out there and do something to help!”
I can be made to feel I’m a lot of things, like fat, grumpy, opinionated, or ugly, and I can shrug that off. But, being made to feel lazy is like a punch in the gut. You cannot be lazy in this marriage and have any worth. And I need worth. The stench of grief meets me each morning as I crawl from my bed to face the new day. My husband has already walked out the door to start morning chores. “You’re lazy,” grief casually nudges me, defying me to prove it wrong. Here we are again, with no time to reach out to those in need. We are not putting marriage and family first. There have been four Sundays off in 13 months. That equals about 16 hours of time we might have devoted to family. My husband’s eyes look upward, constantly checking that the sky is not in danger of falling. Greif encourages the fear of not having enough to outshine the understanding of what really matters. And, grief, that dirty, uncouth bastard, has shown my husband the card that trumps me every time: laziness, not measuring up to the standard he sets. Grief has the power to steal my voice and suffocate my dreams. For his part, I know my husband doesn‘t see things that way. I know he deals with life, the good and bad, by burying himself in his work. He measures success in dollars; he measures love by what he provides in terms of financial security; he measures the worth of a man’s life by his willingness to toil. It probably boils down to how we were raised, combined with the differences in males and females in general, but no matter how hard I search for success in our lives, I cannot see it in this farm. I see it in my boys and their ability to balance work and play, making a living and making a life.
My marriage isn’t the only relationship to suffer here. Our youngest son has always been moody, particularly in the morning. I attributed much of his behavior to the fact that he and Logan were often at each other’s throats. Logan usually came out the winner; he was still stronger physically, and had the advantage of being able to best my youngest verbally as well. I would often tell Logan, “When you steal someone’s voice, you’ve lost more than you’ve won.“ However, he could usually turn my words on me and silence me, too, so I don’t think I had much effect on him.
Over the years, I dealt with my youngest son’s moodiness by refusing to be drawn in by it. I encouraged him to remain true to himself, regardless of how Logan viewed his beliefs and interests. As I said, mornings are especially hard for him. Daylight is not his friend. Through the years, I would go out to the barn and feed silage, then come into the house at about 6:45am to make breakfast and wake up the kids. Starting last September, I only had one kid left at home to awaken in the morning, and this year is the last year I would get to do it. I love making a hot breakfast and drinking a cup of coffee before school, but it became less enjoyable when the ‘morning boys’ left and it was just ’the baby’ and me. I felt like an unpaid lion tamer. When he would finally get out of bed, he was sullen at best, and belligerent at worst. I was torn between cracking the whip and stroking his messy mane. One morning, about a month ago, I was a little late in getting the French toast started. I stood in the kitchen, dipping the bread into the eggs and setting them on the hot griddle. I would run to the top of the stairs and yell down, “Wake up! Breakfast is ready!” No answer. I yelled at least 5 times and finally made the trip down to turn on his light with the thought that it would slowly creep into his dreams that the new day was at hand. Finally, at 7:25, I hollered as loud as I could, “WAAAAAAAKE UUUUUUUUUUP!” I had just gotten the milk and juice out of the fridge and set them on the counter when my furious ‘baby’ stomped up the stairs. His brows were drawn down and his lips were pulled in a thin line across his teeth. Not an uncommon sight, for sure, but the tick in his cheek gave hint that this was more serious than the usual morning roar. I said, “Kiddo, you gotta start going to bed earlier.”
“I didn’t fucking hear you,” you sneered.
“What did you say?” I was incredulous.
“I didn’t FUCKING hear you, alright?! You fucking bitch at me every morning!” he bellowed.
I think my skin lost much of its leathery quality after we buried Logan. The surface of it feels like it’s lightly bruised all over. The tiny hairs covering it are stiff and sensitive, like they are coated in a mist of super-hold hair spray. The wound in my heart hasn’t crusted over yet, so it still bleeds tears when it’s bumped too hard. I set the French toast in front of him. I would have grabbed the juice and set it there, too, but I couldn’t see through the tears in my eyes. My poor wounded heart couldn‘t pump on its own and the blood backed up in my veins. Grief overloaded my system and reminded me that I still have more boys to lose. Of the hundred ways I could have, and in the past would have, diffused the situation, I chose instead to slog through more shit. “That is the last breakfast I hurry in to make for you,” I said. “You are on your own in the mornings from here on out.” And he has been. I no longer rush in to get him up and out the door on time. One morning it was nearly 9:00 when I got in the house. I didn’t know it, but he was still asleep. He as awakened by the ringing phone, which caused him to scrurry into action. “You gonna write me a note?” he asked accusingly.
“What would I write?” I asked.
“I don’t care what you write. Tell them I had to help Dad.”
“No. I will write a note that says you overslept, though. You’ll have to ask your dad for note that lies.” The Bitch of Grief that had taken up residence in my body wanted my husband to know that the lazy member of our union had been taking care of things he didn’t even know required taking care of through the years. And she dared my baby to ask his father to lie for him.
“Why the fuck didn’t you just get me up?”
“You know why I won’t go there anymore. You are 17 years old. You are either responsible for yourself in the morning or you are civil to the person who is responsible for you.” I still don’t know if his dad wrote the note or if he went to school without one. He hasn’t spoken to me in a civil tone since the last-French-toast day. I’ve tried everything to build a bridge, except offer an apology, which I just don‘t know how to frame. Maybe my heart has finally crusted over.
My oldest son has made a life for himself about 90 miles away from us. 90 miles seems far enough for him not to feel the gravitational pull of the farm and all its work. He appears to have abandoned his love of hunting and fishing, and concentrates on his girlfriend and his dog. My husband is taken aback by the fact that he could be content living in an apartment in an urban area, no longer rushing home to bow or rifle hunt, or shoot at targets just for fun. He can’t imagine what kind of man would spend the weekend catching up on laundry and housework, and whiling away the hours with a woman. I think he turned out to be the kind of man who refuses to devote his life to work, who cannot separate the intimacy of grief from the intimacy of immediate family, who needs distance from where he came in order to be who he wants to be. Our oldest has been working to convince our youngest, who has dreams of taking over the farm, to move to the city for a while, after graduation next spring, and work a normal job before marrying the land. I am silently cheering his efforts. I believe it’s his way of loving the baby brother he has so little in common with these days. He still calls a couple of times a week. He stops in every couple of months for a short visit. He isn’t comfortable in the home in which he grew up, but I’m not sure any of are these days.
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