On grief attacks, gratitude, not knowing who the fuck I am right now and making out when your life burns down around you:

Grief attacks is what my clients would call them. Back when I worked full time as a grief therapist. The term used to describe the feeling when a tidal wave crashes over you from behind and suddenly you are surrounded by grief. You don't realize you're crying for a few seconds. It is emotion so big that there is no pushing it down. It spills out everywhere. You just have to feel and know it will pass.

I cry almost every day right now. Maybe you're in a season of grieving as well? You are not alone. It feels so the opposite of summertime vibes! Leading up to my craniotomy I knew that the surgery and the first two/three months of recovery would probably not be the most difficult part for me. I knew the emotional aftermath was going to be where I maybe had a harder time (learned from my double mastectomy back in 2017).

So I knew the grief attacks would come. And sometimes it's actually being walloped by gratitude. I am doing something mundane like washing dishes, driving in my car or standing in the sun and I suddenly burst into tears. Because I am alive. Because I'm not undergoing further treatment. Because surgery was curative. Because this brain tumor should not have been found so early-it is a miracle. I am told this. I know this. Because I get to live right here and right now. Because I get to look at my husbands face while he sleeps (he looks like the sweetest angel baby and I for some reason look like a little gremlin when I slumber). And I will just cry, it bursting out of me. Tears of gratitude.

And then sometimes in a millisecond, the gratitude becomes grief. Because I cannot wrap my head around what has happened in my life and in my life with Chris in the last year. Because I cannot yet fully comprehend how things could have gone for me and this brain tumor. Because I could have been left unable to walk permanently from my surgery (bless Chris and my neurosurgeon for not telling me this until after). Because instead of continuing to rebuild some of the motor skills that I still struggle with and overcome cognitive struggles, I could have instead been trying to find new ways to walk or maneuver that I've never had to learn. I think about this all of the time. All. Of. The. Time. How lucky I am. How I cheated death. How I can run and dance and have sex and drive my car and do almost everything I did before. The magic in all of the mundane.

When I see pictures or videos of myself from just a year ago, it feels so strange. So disembodied. I look at myself and do not recognize myself. I feel time fold onto itself, collapsing and for several moments I feel this panic and terror. This urge to warn myself of what was to come. But what would I say? What would it do? When the only way out is and ever was through. I had to just go through it. I don't know why we went through what we did and in the condensed timeframe. I may never understand it. It just is. But I am forever changed.

I'm glad I didn't know what was coming. I grieve for the version of me who did not yet know the excruciating feeling of my husbands grief. Times two. Who was not familiar yet with what it would feel like to sit with my own mortality, to think that I am going to die or have a handful of years left to live. To look around at the people I love most and think: I might not get to be here with them. I grieve for my parents who had to watch me go through this. I know it has been painful for them. I know how scared they were. Their little warrior, getting cut into. Again. I grieve for my sister Kaela, whose biological mother died in her early 30s from a brain tumor. The terror and pain she experienced all over again when I was diagnosed. How she must have felt watching me go through this, knowing how things could go.

I do not know who I am right now. I know that I am not who I was. And in some ways I am exactly the same. I know I will not feel this way forever. I know it is wildly uncomfortable and it also makes perfect sense that I feel this way. I would be more concerned if I just forced myself to pretend none of this happened. That I am not different. That everything is fine!

It's a strange thing to know you must keep moving forward (and I want to) while also trying to find ways to honor what you have been through. To create space to process and integrate. To bow down to the version of me that walked myself into an operating room (again), climbed up on the table (again) and knew I would not be the same on the other side.

I know there are tendrils of hope surrounding me right now. I know part of me wants to fold into myself, curl up and hermit until it is time to leave this cocoon. I am not saying any of this to be dramatic. It would be incredibly easy and convenient if I could just clap my hands together and say, "Woah! That was wild. Anyways" and then promptly return to life as usual. I am sharing this because I know it to be a universal experience. I find immense comfort in knowing there are tens of thousands of people who know the exact feeling I am describing. Maybe you are one of them?

And once more, I am learning about patience. That I cannot bypass this part of my healing and of my life. This time of both immense grief and immense gratitude. Of becoming. Of old, younger parts of me that died off over the last year. No matter that I aged with every year that passed, I sometimes still felt very young-looking around for the more "adult" adult in the room. "Tell me what to do. What do I do? What next?"

I do not feel that way now. I feel incredibly adult. And tired. Maybe a bit jaded and cynical right now (can you blame me) but also much more aware of the preciousness of my life and of living in general. Although this year was one of the hardest of my life, I have never felt more sure of my own strength. Of myself. That I can weather any storm. And if I can't, that means I died and at that point, what can a girl do??? That while I may complain loudly and cry often, I will also cackle, make inappropriate jokes at my own expense and find levity in all of it. That there is grace offered to us in the darkest and scariest moments. I get it now-why people in movies in the middle of the most stressful shit will stop, turn and makeout with their love interest. I used to wonder: WHAT! There are zombies coming (or a tidal wave or or or fill in the blank with any terrifying threat). How could you possibly even be thinking about making out right now?!?

Well. Because in some moments as your entire life crumbles, you look around at the wreckage and you know you will cry. You know you will grieve. And also you know you could tongue your crush too. Just to remember you're alive. Just in case it's the last thing you'll get to do. Turn on versus terror: Why making out in apocalyptic times matters (another title of a book chapter).

So in the moments I can feel my inner voice trying to chastise myself for feeling so incredibly lost or being a "drama queen" in announcing that I don't quite know who I am right now, I remind every part of me: I could have died. I sat with my own mortality. I watched every part of my life catch fire. Chris and I sat closely with death for months and months. Every time I came up for air, another crisis emerged. I am different now. Of course I am. And it takes time to arrive and embody fully who I am right now at this point in my life. It will probably take longer than I think. And that's okay. We can't rush this process. So the lesson once more is...drumroll please!!! PATIENCE!!! Hate that/love that for me.

In conclusion, I once again have no answers for you! I regularly feel overcome by grief. And by gratitude. I am so grateful to be alive. I am so sad for my body and my heart and my brain for all they endured this last year. I am heartbroken my husband knows such traumatic loss and grief. I am angry at some of the bullshit people around us put us through during our most vulnerable times. I am forever humbled and grateful for the way people and community showed up for us and offered love and support (talking to y'all here too)! I am all of it. I feel all of it.

I am incredibly clear about myself in some very important ways. I feel incredibly unsure and lost about who I am in other ways. I know all will unfold with time (and therapy, amen).

So when all feels lost, when you're not sure what comes next or what you should do next...you could always find someone you want to tongue you and you could take a few minutes to makeout. The grief will still be there. Why not makeout first??

*You can kiss anyone except Chris, his mouth will be full ;) Sorry mom!

Love y'all for real,

Alyssa