Grief

I took a walk at one point today. The sun was shining and the sky was a deep azure blue.

I stopped walking and looked up. I shook my head and muttered a few words.

I kept walking.

And repeat.

I went back inside.

Grief manifests in each person differently.

Late at night on March 17, 1989, the first thing I did after hearing perhaps the worst news of my life was to get something to drink because my mouth went completely dry.

I grabbed orange juice and to paraphrase Ron Burgundy, I almost immediately regretted that decision.

Last September, I broadcast a Little League Baseball game hours after I watched a vehicle take my mother's body away.

Hours after police questioned me, just doing their job, as they had to.

As I've said, calling that game was something I wrestled with but felt it was the best place for me that night. To make sure I wasn't being heartless I consulted with a few loved ones who each said that I was making the right decision.

I still remember the stunned looks on the faces of people at the game in Bridgeport when they discovered what had happened. However, chances are I would have sat in the very house she had just died in -- either alone or with my son.

In fact, Sean elected to stay at his mother's house that day, joining me a day later. That's how he wanted -- even needed -- to process his grief.

I was sad but I respected it.

Broadcasting that game was how I dealt with my grief that day, and I'd do it again. In fact, if I could have, I would have called a game the following Thursday -- after my mother's funeral. The time didn't work and I was with my family. That's where I belonged.

I suppose what I'm saying is that unless it's really wrong (and who's to decide that?) everyone needs to grieve in their own way.

So what is that grieving about? Death, sure. But losses of all kinds, I suppose. 

We grieve over job losses and relationship failures and friendship issues and money problems and literally anything.

But there's no road map. There's no manual.

Then there are those who don't grieve and they often don't understand those who do. They think it's about "attention" or something else.

No. That answer doesn't work for me.

We take that phone call. We look that person in the eye. In that moment, we might say something dumb -- inevitably, "What?" is uttered in shock -- or laugh uncomfortably. 

If the last year has taught me anything, and I think it's taught me a lot, it's that we need to respect how everyone handles things.

And so, we process the pain, leading to staring at a bright blue sky before walking away and realizing that the sky has no answers.

Time, basically, is the only way.

And there's no right answer to how much time it takes either.

It's personal.