Dimes In The Grass

One of my friends lost her mom to suicide, about eight years ago. It was hard, and horrible, and always will be. Like losing a piece of you always is. Because there are people in this world that we each love, deeply and fiercely, within our souls. And a part of you dies when they do.

People have a lot of opinions about suicide and what it should mean to the people left behind. None of those opinions are accurate. Some people have less empathy when they learn that three-syllable word, suicide, is on the death certificate. Like the three syllables in accident or terminal give you more permission to grieve news that shattered you.

But the reality is, life no longer fits when death is part of the equation. The world changes in an instant. You change in an instant. Now, you have to navigate the crushing weight of every breath. Weight that wasn’t there when you were more whole in the world you knew before. Why someone is gone matters so much less than the simple fact that they are gone. 

My friend and I met by chance, ten years ago. She is one of the strongest, best people I know. What began as small talk and pleasantries on snowy sidewalks grew into real conversations under dark skies of a Chicago suburb. One run group together a week turned into two. And by that next summer, we were adjusting our schedules to fit in more runs together on whatever days we could.

It was on hilly trails lined with crunchy yellow and orange leaves that I first opened up about losing my sister. The five-year anniversary of her death was approaching, and the beautiful days of fall always seem to make my heart ache the most. It’s pretty much this: The more idyllic the day in my sister’s favorite season, the more it crushes me that she isn’t here to feel the warm sun and crisp breeze rustling fire-colored leaves.

Not everyone knows how to handle it, and you try your best to not hold it against them. Grief and the reminder of our own fragile mortality makes a lot of people uncomfortable. When you show someone a glimpse of your invisible backpack, you do so knowing that you may need to hide it again immediately. That they are ill-equipped to ever acknowledge the glimpse you gave them under the cloak. So, you remember every time that someone doesn’t balk. [After almost half a lifetime knowing, I assure you that someone’s solidness in that moment is rare.]

Since that run, our friendship has been forged in both the fiery hell and comfort of knowing what it is to carry a grief that will never fade. Because as the years pass, sometimes it’s the days that knock the wind out of you that also give you the most hope. You can’t properly put words to that feeling. And, you never want someone else to know how it feels for themselves. But when you find those other people that do, it sure is nice to have them in your corner.

Shortly after my friend lost her mom, her family went to group therapy with other people who were all survivors of suicide loss. And just last week, she shared a story on her social media about that experience. A story someone in the group shared about dimes. Dimes they started finding everywhere after they lost someone they loved to suicide. Dimes that person knew were coming as a sign from their loved one. 

After my friend heard that story, she started to find dimes in the most random of places too. Dimes that have brought her comfort that her mom is still here, in her universe, dropping by to say hello. So, every time my friend picks up a dime, she smiles, thanks her mom and says hello too. I’ve found few enough dimes randomly on the ground in the last eight years to know her dime collection is not simply a coincidence.

I’d never heard the dime story until that day last week. An early fall week when I’d already been feeling the impact of bright blue skies, the crisp breeze, and the first yellow leaves. The days that make most people want to go apple picking are the same days that make me want to curl up on my couch, gorge on rice pudding and read a book I don’t even like that much but my sister would have loved. It’s the perfect cross country weather days that make my heart ache the most.

By yesterday, I was deep in my fall funk. A funk that will come and go for the next couple months as I ebb and flow with the season. Yesterday morning, I wanted nothing more than to craw into a dark hole and binge watch The O.C. while crying quietly. On those kinds of days, I don’t say much. But my husband and my dog asked me to join them for a morning walk. While I was dragging a little bit behind them, I spotted a heads up dime mostly buried in the grass.

I don’t expect to find dimes all the time. In fact, I know I probably won’t. But I know this one was specifically planted by my sister. A dime meant to slap me across the face and say that you don’t need to feel the breeze on your cheeks to enjoy the beauty of a fall day. That I can be sad sometimes, but there is a lot I don’t know. Like how it feels to actually be the breeze rustling those fiery leaves on trees. I think that might be a feeling that my sister, and my friend’s mom, both know. Maybe one day they’ll teach us all.