Grief Triggers

People have asked me how often I think of Luke. The short answer is all the time. On a typical day, I encounter so many reminders of him. In our house, we have pictures of him, his cello, the piano, and a whole curio cabinet full of gifts and mementos from the funeral. We still have the car he drove. Every time I go to Walmart and check out, I think of when he used to work there as a cashier. I drive around town and am flooded with memories of places we have been or experiences we had with him. Facebook memories often come up with him in them, not to mention the many photos of Luke on my camera roll on my phone. He was part of our life for 17 years. The memories are everywhere. Sometimes they make me sad. Sometimes they are a comfort and I relish them. 

Occasionally, however, I come across something that unexpectedly elicits an enormous emotional response. When these moments hit us out of nowhere like a rogue wave, we call this a grief trigger. I don’t have them frequently, but when they do happen, they always catch me off guard. 

The first one I remember having was driving home from the grocery store one day. There was a minor traffic accident and a couple of police cars and an emergency vehicle on the side of the road. I kept driving and within a few minutes, I found myself sobbing and couldn’t stop. I got home and could not figure out why I was crying so hard. As I thought about it, I realized it must have been seeing the accident and police cars lined up along the road. Perhaps it brought back memories of that night and the police SUVs lined up in front of our house. I don’t really know, but it sure hit me hard. 

Weeks after Luke died, I remember getting texts and reminder calls about upcoming doctor and dentist appointments for him. I decided to call the eye doctor to let them know about Luke so I would stop getting those texts. I called, but quickly realized I was not emotionally prepared for the task, as I stuttered and stammered out the words, “Luke passed away, so he is no longer, um… you can take him off… your records.” The receptionist gave her condolences and I hung up the phone and cried for about an hour. That was hard. I think I asked Greg to handle the dentist phone call. I couldn’t do any more of those. 

I have a different dentist than the kids. I didn’t go for over a year because of the pandemic. When I finally went in for a cleaning, the dentist asked how I had been. I gave a generic answer about the pandemic and how strange it’s been. I didn’t know how to say what I had really been through in a 5-minute interaction, but she kept pressing me. “Yeah, but besides the pandemic, how have you been? How is your family?” she asked. 

Feeling like I couldn’t hide it anymore,  I said, “Our 17-year-old son passed away last year.” 

She was stunned, sat down and looked at me, full of empathy and compassion, just the way you should react when you find out about something like this. She asked me a little more and talked to me for a few minutes. It was a beautiful interaction. She responded in the perfect way and it was very touching to me. After my appointment was over, I headed out the door. I didn’t even make it out to the car before breaking down. The drive home, I was shaking and crying hysterically, could barely see to drive. This was almost a year into my grieving. I didn’t expect to react this way. I didn’t recover for about half the day.   

Ryan turned twelve last year and that’s the age in our church where you enter the youth program. He went to his first youth activity on a Tuesday night. Greg drove the kids to the church and I stayed home. As soon as they left, I lost it. I fell to my knees and sobbed and sobbed and sobbed some more. It didn’t take me long to understand why I was crying. This was the age that Luke went into the youth program. We were in a new city and it was a new group of kids. He had some bad first experiences. He had both good and bad experiences over the next several years. He made friends and he lost friends. He came to know that he was gay. He grew in his talents and did some amazing things. He also made some mistakes. He was a teenager, after all. He did not always feel supported by those who should have been in his corner. These were difficult years for him. He was dealing with big things. We tried to help him, but made many mistakes ourselves. Every one of these moments and every painful memory hit me in an instant all from Ryan going to a simple youth activity. 

Why do I share all these things? This is the reality of grieving the loss of a child. This is the reality of suicide grieving. It’s not just missing Luke and feeling my own pain, though that’s a big part of it. But it’s also feeling and processing Luke’s pain. It’s a pretty profound and humbling experience. And one I wouldn’t wish on anyone. 

My husband and kids have all experienced these grief triggers as well. Bryn had one while running a cross country race. She gave me permission to share it. There was music playing throughout the race for the fans and for the runners. On one turn, she ran by the speakers and a Lizzo song blared loudly in her ears. It brought back memories of Luke blasting that song while she rode with him in his car. They were happy memories of being with her big brother. The flood of emotions came over her. She doesn’t remember if she cried, but said she lost all her mental focus. She kept running because she had no choice, but it wrecked her race. Her mental game was over. She didn’t place how she wanted and it was an important race because it determined her varsity status for the rest of the season. Grief doesn’t care about any of that. It happens when it happens. 

I have learned that triggers are normal and common in grief. For me, they usually come with lots of tears and ugly crying. For others, the sudden rush of heavy emotions manifests in other ways. They often come when we least expect it, metaphorically knocking us off our feet. Though painful, I don’t necessarily think of them as bad. Rather, they are not-so-subtle reminders of just how much we have lost. And how much we have loved. And how hard we tried. And that we’re human.