This weekend, I had the honor, the pleasure, and the good fortune to have decided to attend my first grief conference for military families. We gathered from far and wide to sail into Chesapeake Bay bringing lots of baggage to be unloaded over Labor Day weekend. I found irony in the fact that although Labor Day has become a holiday, I may well be doing some of the hardest work I have in a long time over what for most is a leisurely, entertaining weekend. My daughter-in-law had attended a TAPS (Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors) weekend with the children who went to "Good Grief" camp. The more I read about TAPS, the more impressed I was. I was excited to be flying to a waterfront location for the holiday which beats being at home alone knowing everyone in the entire universe would be having a better time than me. (We all know that isn't the truth, but it's easy to convince yourself it is when you're grieving.) I was prepared but slept horribly the night before. Ironically, every time I woke, I heard a train whistle in the distance. That was my whisper of love coming to reassure me all was well, but I was anxious - very anxious. I was heading into uncharted waters the next morning, sailing solo. Given that I was still waterlogged from the past storms I've endured within the last 9 months, I couldn't help but be concerned about the weather. The forecast about these seminars was good, however, any sailor knows that things can be very unpredictable in unfamiliar seas and things can go from calm to frightening in short order. But I was determined. I was tired of my surroundings and needed a change of scenery, climate and surroundings. A little salt in the air and riding the sea should be refreshing I reasoned.
All was well - I navigated easily to Norfolk, pulling into harbor at about 12:15. Quarters were available and I settled quickly and went in search of food. I had planned on exploring the waterfront, but was feeling a little seasick and decided to go to my berth until it was time for the first meeting later that evening. I found it all very odd, having no one to call to reassure that I had arrived safely. No one knew my itinerary, no one knew exactly where I was. It made me miss my husband a lot. I had a map so I found my way to the group - a lovely, smiling, kind group eager to welcome me. I approached the table and my voice was gone. The tears came, just as that unpredicted squall at sea, with no notice. The reality of why I was there felt as traumatic all over again, as if I were the Titanic hitting that iceberg, ready to go down. My son was dead. My charming, brave, witty, handsome firstborn who stole my heart 33 years ago and has had it in a death grip ever since was gone and I had no idea how to go forward in this life without him. He has been gone 6 1/2 months, but jumping into this felt like deja vu and I was afraid I may drown. Surprisingly, that couldn't have been further from the truth. At my first sign of dismay, one of the TAPS staff (all survivors themselves) came around that table as fast as a flash of lightning, with a comforting arm, a warm smile, reassuring me I was in the right place. Better than that, I was in the exact place I needed to be to begin to learn how to look for the stars to find my way. Every stop I made during the registration process was an answer to the "Mayday" expression on my face. The Coast Guard metaphorically had arrived and I was being gently towed into the safest harbor I've visited in a while.
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