Not-so-good grief

Two weeks ago, I sat in The Auditorium waiting for the Eureka Springs City Council to kick off its meeting. The agenda on my lap displayed the date — Nov. 27, 2017. I circled it and wrote a message underneath. “Four days without Melody,” it said.

As many of you know, we lost our graphic designer and dear friend Melody Rust over Thanksgiving. She was one of my best friends. She taught me to be adventurous and creative and to say “I love you” when I felt it. In the week following her death, I wrote a story about her life. I wrote a column about how wonderful she was. I attended her celebration of life.

Then it was over … business as usual. The world kept spinning, and we kept putting out newspapers. Realistically, I know that’s how the world works. Life doesn’t stop when we lose our loved ones. Everything keeps moving. The Christmas Parade still rolled through downtown Eureka Springs but I couldn’t go. I went last year with Melody and another friend. Once it ended, we walked through the residential part of Spring Street admiring all the holiday decor. I couldn’t stomach the thought of going to the parade without her. I took a nap at home instead.

I woke up feeling angry and sad. For the most part, that’s how I’ve been feeling since I realized I’ll never see Melody sitting at her desk or corralling her dog Oliver again. I can’t count how many times I’ve picked up my phone to call her before remembering she won’t be on the other line. Most of the time, I’m reduced to tears. I’ve cried enough over the past few weeks to fuel a rainstorm. It’s been my own personal storm, the kind that lets up occasionally and strikes back when you’re just starting to feel good again.

This is grief, and it’s not good. Lucky me, I’ve been experiencing every stage of grief in waves. Last Wednesday, I pulled a pitcher of water out of the refrigerator and began pouring it into a glass. The lid fell off just as I filled the glass, causing water to fly everywhere. In that moment, I couldn’t hold in my anger. I threw the pitcher on the ground, still half-full, and kicked a chair over. “Can anything go right?!?!” I screamed at the pitcher, lying in a puddle of its insides. “Can’t you just pour water the way you’re supposed to?”

Then I started sobbing, fell onto the floor and thought of everything I could’ve done differently to keep Melody with those who loved her. Of course there’s nothing I could’ve done. I know I couldn’t have saved her. Nobody could have. We all go when it’s our time, and it was her time. That doesn’t make it feel fair or right. That doesn’t make me feel like the world should keep spinning without her.

If it were up to me, it would still be Nov. 27. I’d still be able to say I spoke with Melody a week ago. I’d still be grieving, but it would be understandable. It won’t be long before it’s a month since we

talked. Then it’ll be a year. I still can’t grasp how I’m going to live a whole year without her. It doesn’t feel real yet. I suppose that’s how grief works. Eventually I’ll come out on the other side. People keep telling me that, so it has to be true.

In the meantime, I’ll be yelling at water pitchers and feeling empty inside. I’m embracing the grief as much as possible, because I want to overcome it. I want to live the way Melody would, full of excitement and adventure. She took on challenges with a smile.

I can’t do that yet, but I hope I can someday. I know she’d want me to.

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Samantha Jones is associate editor for Carroll County Newspapers. Her email address is Citizen.Editor.Eureka@gmail.com.