Covering My Head: On Grief

2020 was very challenging for me for reasons unrelated to the pandemic. As I reflect, it was difficult not only because of the tragedies themselves but also because of their proximity to one another.

I remember when I got jumped on as a teen by a group of girls in Chicago. Another quickly followed each blow until I could do nothing but allow myself to fall to the slippery floor of Nicky’s Restaurant and cover my head. They were too fast. The least I could do if I didn’t have the time to throw a punch was protect my face.

I walked away from that fight, blood trickling from my scalp. When I arrived at the hospital, it was so crowded that the blood had dried by the time I saw the doctor. I sat on the edge of a bed in the hallway while the doctor pierced me with the surgical stapler. I was not under anesthesia, but it didn’t hurt. It simply felt like pressure.

The staples dissolved and I healed nicely. I finished school and went on with my life like nothing happened. The scars from that night are invisible.

That’s how it feels to grieve the events of 2020 when I lost my mother and suffered multiple miscarriages in the span of a few months, each blow coming too fast for me to recover fully.

And I wonder if I am just balled up on the floor, covering my head to protect my face.