A death in the family

Accept no subsitute for grief.

For most of my childhood, I was the worst crybaby you could imagine.

It was so bad, even my kindergarten report card bears witness. In the margin, alongside a column of S’s (Satisfactory) and NI’s (Needs Improvement) is a single sentence.

‘Must learn to control his emotions.’

That was written by a nun — someone you’d think would have more sympathy for a wide-eyed boy, constantly getting stung by the world.

I guess she’d be in heaven now — though I do hope they asked her some tough questions during her interview at the Pearly Gates.

It would have been cool if the heavenly tribunal mentioned to the sister the method I eventually came up with for controlling those troublesome emotions.

It was crack cocaine that finally put my tears on lockdown.

You see, it’s very difficult to shed them when you’re high. It’s not that you don’t suffer as an addict. There’s every reason to cry. But also a certain detachment, like the plumbing is disconnected. As a junkie, I was well aware of my condition. Every waking moment was tragic. But the tear ducts had been disconnected. I didn’t even know what I should specifically be crying about. Everything was just so uniformly… shit.

Lately, there have been more tears than usual in our family. My sister and mom lost a little dog that they had been co-parenting. It was Doogie’s time.

“It’s been a while since I felt sad,” my mom says, sullenly from the couch.

As a natural brightener of hearts, Doogie left this world a little dimmer. But he’s doing his own thing now.

“He won’t even miss a beat,” my mom adds. “He’s so adaptable. He’ll adapt to being dead.”

It will be much harder to adapt to his absence on this side of the rainbow bridge. But at least, it’s an honest sadness — the kind you can point a finger at and say, “This is why I’m sad.”

Not that niggling sense of doom that can sometimes bedevil our days. You know, when we can’t pinpoint the source, but deep down, know that something is wrong.

Sure, it might be tempting to get another dog. A replacement. It’s often what people do. Instead of facing sorrow, we heap things on top of it — cars, clothes, candy, crack cocaine — and hope to bury it.

It seeps out in other ways though. And then that honest sadness becomes the other kind — the kind that you can no longer put your finger on. It’s buried under so many layers of bandaids, we can’t get at it easily and find the true source of the injury. We’re walking wounded, blinded by the gauze so assiduously wrapped around our heart.

When I stopped getting high, I could feel those bandages peeling away, revealing the source of the hurt — and allowing the wound to be properly dressed.

It hurt.

But it took my whole life to understand that my kindergarten nun gave me bad advice — that it is, in fact, okay to be a crybaby.

Besides, have you tasted tears? Delicious! They’re wasted just rolling off your cheeks. Think about it. They’re brewed lukewarm with all kinds of natural flavors. I get notes of chicken noodle soup, and even a little miso. It’s always just the right saltiness. And, if you’re particularly health-conscious, tears are bursting with electrolytes, as well as a dash of potassium.

You can even let your runny nose chip in and turn that comfort tea into a hearty stew — perfect for winter!

The best part is they’re brewed just for you — a warm cup of tea for the soul.

Believe me. I used to chug this stuff as a kid.

Of course, tears do come to crack smokers. Mostly when the dope runs out. And those are my least favorite. They’re sour and acidic with a hint of preachiness. Every tear tastes like I-told-you-so.

What a relief to have my old tears back. Straight from the source: honest to goodness grief.

A little advice from an ex-crack smoker? Meet each sorrow as it arises. Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can grieve today. It will kill you down the road.

As for me, I learned not to take advice from nuns. I should have accepted no substitute for honest grief. The hole in my heart isn’t shaped like a lost dog or lover or even an entire childhood. It’s shaped like love. And, finally, it’s time to drink my fill.