Straightjacket...

I’ve been picking up and putting down this obscure book of short stories lately. I keep waiting for something to happen, waiting for the author to tie the characters together. I picked it up again and started reading a story about this particular character named Patrick who loses his little brother in a freak accident. In his adult life, he is still continuing his dealings with grief and referring to it as being strapped into a straightjacket. His vices “loosen” the grip of the straightjacket for a short time before it’s tightened again. I don’t remember breathing while reading. Although his experience is different from mine, I’m quite intrigued by this straightjacket reference, because yes, I feel the same way. There’s nothing I feel I can do to get away from it.
It’s Rob’s 27th birthday today. I went about my usual routine wondering what I’d be doing if he were here. I was almost tempted to pick up the phone and call him, forgetting that he’s not within reach. This creates such frustration. He was just here! Why can’t I have him? I don’t understand.
I visit Karen, my therapist and melt into tears on the way home. I am so deeply saddened I have no words to describe what all this feels like. How do I acknowledge someone’s birthday when they aren’t here?
I get ready for work after a quick run. I’m going to cut my favorite client Stuart’s hair for the last time, at least for a little while. Detaching from these wonderful people who have shared their lives with me and going to a place where I don’t know anyone and have to start over again is more painful than I’d care to admit so I brush it aside for now. I know good and well it’s gonna kick my ass later. Maybe not now, but a month into my adventure in Chicago the weight of these experiences and how much I miss my Atlanta clientele will hit hard.
I have a handful of clients that have been coming to me since my career started. These are the hardest to leave. I’ve shared the most with them and their loyalty has meant more to me than they’ll know. Stuart and his wife Kathleen are among these people. I remember when they bought their first house, all their various vehicles, Stuart’s business opening and discussing furniture he’d put in the office, and Kathleen telling me that leaving my first job is toughest, but everything is easy afterwards when I was struggling with leaving Van Michael. We’ve swapped stories about various travels, the occasional dumbass I’d end up dating for a little while, and my elated excitement when I had met someone normal, Rob. They followed me to Candler Park when I finally left my previous position, I’ve watched Kathleen’s stomach grow and deflate, producing two beautiful boys and they were among the first people to know that Rob died after my dad called.
How do I even deal with this? They’re two people among the many that I have connected with, shared intimate details of my life and listened to theirs in the forty five to sixty minutes it takes to do my job every few weeks for years. How do I handle this when I’m still dealing with the loss of Rob, the stress of moving, and trying to squeeze everything in?
Cookies. That’s how I like to deal with it. I’ve already had some today and had to stop before it got out of hand. With Stuart in my chair I don’t think about any of that. It’s when my work day ends and I get one step closer to leaving that I want to eat everything in sight.
“This is my last haircut with you!” he exclaims.
“I know!”
“What am I gonna do?”
What am I going to do? I think to myself. I shake my head instead though. “Don’t know.” I don’t like thinking about it.
“You’re in denial aren’t you?” he asks me as I’m finishing up.
“Sure am! I couldn’t even say goodbye to Kathleen!” I had cut her hair right after my birthday. I turn on my dryer and dry his hair, neither of us saying anything. My mind races back through all the times I cut his hair at Van Michael. It was every three weeks at 7:15. I now barely recognize that person, usually dressed in all black, racing back to her station to take care of her last client after a long day of constant motion. Everything is so different now.
Time is still passing whether I like it or not. I finish his hair. He didn’t reschedule his next appointment but we didn’t say goodbye either.
“We’ll see you before you go.” he tells me.
“Yup!”
I have a few minutes before Nancy, my next one who is getting her color rinsed out. I sit in the break room and try to figure out what I’m feeling.
“Melissa, she’s in your chair.” Shali pops her head into the break room. No thinking for me!
“Hi!” I beam at her.
“Hey there! How are you?”
“Good. How are you? I’ve missed you!”
“I’m good.”
I see Nancy every four weeks and she likes the same haircut each time. She was in the salon when I cut Rob’s hair for the last time. She watched us walk up front and saw him turn to face me and tap his cheek wanting a kiss. I kissed him, turned eight shades of red and couldn’t stop smiling as he walked out and I went back to my station to finish the rest of my day.
When I told her about his accident shortly after returning to work she said that her husband died nearly ten years ago. She explained her grieving process to me and gave me her number incase I needed to talk. It’s so easy to tell her what’s in my head. It all comes pouring out before she can even ask. I don’t know why I’m not always like this with other people. Maybe I don’t trust myself around people who haven’t lost a spouse. I’m scared of any reaction they may have, good or bad. I’ve noticed the ones that have experienced this particular loss completely understand my weirdness. They get it when I say I want everyone and no one. They understand my incessant need for affection and my wanting to fill my huge void with things that aren’t so good for me. It requires little explanation because they know but because they don’t ask a trillion questions, they just listen it’s easiest to open up.
“It’s Rob’s birthday.” I blurt out to her.
“Oh honey. Wow. He’s twenty seven?”
“Yes.” I nod. “It’s weird. My birthday was the eighth and I had this wonderful day, it’s just that he wasn’t here and it was sad wondering what we’d be doing.”
“I know. I completely understand. Birthdays are hard. We’re still here going on without them.”
I nod. “What’s it like with your husband being gone ten years?’
“Hmm. Well. I don’t get sad anymore. I do think about him and I do feel his presence every so often.’ she smiles.
“I’m so jealous of that! I’d love to feel Rob! I believe he’s right here I just don’t actually feel anything.”
We talk about Chicago and what’s happening with that a little while later.
“You don’t seem stressed.” she says when I tell her I’m freaked out.
“I know.” I laugh. “No one really sees it. Especially at work. I can talk all day and not think much about it. It’s when I’m home either at night or even in the morning that it hits and I cry a lot. I do the same when I’m caught up in thoughts about Rob. I’m not really able to cry in front of most people for some reason.”
She nods. “You’re going to be just fine up there.”
“I think so too.” I smile.
I leave the salon a little while later. I don’t want to be home, I don’t want to be with people but on the other hand company wouldn’t be horrible. Hmm. I decide to get sushi at Rob’s favorite place. After ordering I settle into my journal writing about today and trying to make some sense out of it. It’s weird not to look up and see Rob across from me, his hands reaching for mine. I’ve never felt more alone but at the same time, I’m ok in my little bubble of thoughts and words splashing across the pages in front of me.
Dinner is good. I leave and stop by San Francisco coffee for cake. I sit there writing for another couple of hours remembering being here when dad called to tell me about Rob. I still don’t want to go home. Kat and Gordon are out of town and the emptiness in the house isn’t doing much for me at the moment.
The coffee shop is shutting down. There is no way I’m going to be able to sleep. I’ll just keep writing until my fingers won’t move anymore…