By the time everyone is up and going, we have a tight window to get packed up and out of the house.  Shelby gets up and packs quickly and efficiently.  I am vacuuming dog hair, striping beds.  Paul is tidying up the kitchen, cleaning out the fridge.  Matt needs to be pried out of bed.  He is grumbling, surly.  I need him to communicate with me.  I need him to want to be with us.  I don’t want to loose him to distance, sadness, or the inability to be around me.

We lay out options for the day.  Suddenly the activities that sounded just right yesterday sound all wrong.  We didn’t know how we would feel then.  We can only gauge our feelings 15 minutes to an hour out. Something else has come up for Shelby.   Matt stands his ground.  “Why do I have to?” like a stubborn two year old or a blossoming teen.  “I don’t want to go to the dog park”.  “I don’t care about the soccer game.”  I care.  I want to see the things Shelby has talked about.  Things John loved to do.  I want to go to the soccer game. Shelby’s friends are playing.  Kenzie is playing.  Kenzie is hurting.  Kenzie just lost a week of school in mourning and practicing the guitar and the songs for John’s memorial.

I am reminded once again that grieving is not a team sport. Paul and I go off to do what we want to do.  What we need to do.

Our choices are flawed.  The dog park is hot and desolate.  Not many doggies.  Ally isn’t interested.  We don’t play the way John played.  We don’t know how John played.  We go to the soccer game.  No dogs allowed, even if she is a service dog.  Not without her documentation.  We tie her up and go in without her.  She yelps and barks so loudly we can hear her over the game.  Paul is stressed about her.  He is hot and hungry, tired and cranky.  He leaves with the dog to rendezvous with Matt.  I am alone in a crowd.   I am invisible.

Matt, Paul and Ally return at halftime with the service dog documents. We retreat to the shade under the bleachers and lie down on the cool grass.

Lying down, I suddenly feel vulnerable and the tears start to flow, quietly, slowly, just squeezing out, running down the side of my face.  I take a risk and tell Matt how I feel.  “I need you.”,  I say. It’s loaded.  I need him to stay alive.  I need him to stay connected.  I need him to make it through this emotionally.  But I don’t say all that, I only say “I need you.”  I see in his eyes that at that moment he gets it.  He softens.  He will give me some time on the grass under the bleachers.  He offers up a few thought about the future, tomorrow, next week, this semester.  He tells me that Shelby is OK.  She has perspective.  She is smart. But her brain is cluttered and unable to process much like all of us.