Keep Going by Lauren McGovern

The smallest of talk, then the wide gaping hole. The pit of awkward. I steered clear of conversations with people outside my snug bubble, conversations that brought my personal life into focus during my after. It’s not like I didn’t prepare for the question, “How many children do you have?” I had a go-to response but it lacked follow-up, a way to crawl out of the pit and carry on. I didn’t have a postscript to navigate the silence that stretches out and slaps the innocent bystander. If a breezy chat veered into something else, I just wanted to be able to string the words together as quickly as possible—like the single line every first-grader belts out in the fall play, take off my cardboard tree costume, and go home.

My initial Tony award-winning performance happened in summer 2020 at a local bakery-cafe and farm market. I’d finished my final semester as a school counselor and took the advice of newly-minted experts to infuse some structure into those long, simmering months with the part-time position. A pandemic debut.

The mountains, valleys, and rivers where I live are a haven for cyclists, hikers, rock climbers, and anyone else ready to bust out of lockdown. They swarmed and swam. They camped and rented cabins. They weren’t allowed in the store. Everything was handled by phone or on the front porch. The kitchen staff served as stage crew, supplying the goods in the background so we front-of-the-house performers could deliver coffee, sandwiches, whoopie pies, and groceries to the customers sprawled six feet apart on the lawn. Many days: misplaced props, temper tantrums, and wardrobe malfunctions.

During an intermission, folding pie boxes, I asked the teenagers, “What do you look forward to about growing up?” They threw their heads back and shrieked, “Getting out of this hick town!” then waxed on about college plans, dream careers, apps they’d invent, prospective partners, procreating. The more senior actor—quick on the register—paused, turned to me and asked, “Do you have any kids?” I said, “Yes. One is alive and one is dead.” It was my line, said on cue. Their faces fell. I blinked. My brain rendered my mouth immobile. The beverage cooler hummed. The newest recruit, all limbs and nervousness in the role of This-Is-My-First-Summer-Job, whispered, “We didn’t know.” I nodded, swallowed, and folded. They fled to stock shelves and hid in the coffee room.

Dragging the mop back to its place in the employee bathroom, alone much later, I wagged a finger at my reflection—stop throwing an ice bucket! I told myself to keep showing up for rehearsals. Develop the script. Try something honest and welcoming. Try. You didn’t know and now you do. I love talking about both of my children. I’ll let you know what I can handle. Grief is a big part of my life, but it’s not my whole life.

The next show: A mid-life crisis career move. September with sixth graders! An end-of-term solo involved a video-conference with kind and caring parents from Virginia new to my boarding school community. Oohs and ahhs. Their middle schooler was thriving. We headed toward the final scene. They pivoted to a question about my previous role at the school: “Why did you leave counseling to go into the classroom full-time?” I was blinded by the spotlight. I couldn’t furnish a workable answer right away.

This appeared in my head:

“I thought I could hold my family together with magic and then this purple octopus cowboy riding an elephant came galloping out of nowhere. The yee-hawing monster shredded the wand I’d used for years. So, yeah, I really needed a new job!”

Then this:

“I was so burned out I was barely recognizable, just a wisp of smoke on an ash pile, so I needed a spritzer of change. Now I’m a teacher!”

Finally, I sputtered into the mic, “I, um, was super stressed and oh, something bad happened in my family and I couldn’t really do that work anymore.” The lights dimmed. I exited the stage.

Notes for next time: I needed a change. Professional. True. Devoid of drama.

As the school year came to a close, Virginia video-conference mom requested one last phone call. We reviewed her son’s progress. She’d heard I was a parent and asked me how many children I had. I told her the bite-sized backstory—sixteen, suicide, two years, eight months, and 21 days ago—mixed in with my standard response. We traversed the silence together. She stayed on the line with me.

Her note about my performance arrived in my inbox later, telling me what her child gained from my teaching, and how grateful she felt witnessing so much emotional and academic growth. She praised the way I’ve transformed my pain into a meaningful connection with kids, showing patience and energy. She respected my sorrow, validating the love I’d shared about the son I’d lost. The message lies flat and face-up in the box in my closet. When I remove the lid, it’s the first thing I see, an 8 ½ x 11 blanket draped over a pile of condolences. I am the director now. I wrote a note across the top of the page: KEEP GOING.

-END-

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The story behind the story:

I’ve been able to write about the loss of my son, Owen, through creative nonfiction essays like this one, but I know suicide is everywhere and I’m not special. I am a statistic and so is he, and yet, the grief is so personal, so raw. Reading an audience and figuring out my script, editing myself or opening up, in this new life without him is an engaging learning process. While the connections I’ve made as a result have not fully closed the immense hole he left, they’ve definitely helped me keep going. 

“Keep Going” was first published in Coffee+Crumbs.

Photo by Diane Picchiottino on Unsplash.