Grief: Past the Days of the Anglerfish to Nemo

Grief will change you in ways you never expect.

Some say grief is an ocean. A truth exists in this extended metaphor. In the beginning—and sometimes for longer—you live in the ebony depths of the ocean where only the best cameras capture pictures of its creations. Some friends drop off because the depths are too dark and scary.  They have the natural reaction, as I do when I see the picture of the anglerfish. Your grief and who you are becomes the anglerfish, and you learn to survive in darkness.

They want to deal with you as you were before: a goldfish or Nemo.

But what was can never be again. A part of you died with the individual you lost. The mother and person I was before May 27, 2020 left with our daughter, Corrie.

People mistake grief as always staying the anglerfish. They misjudge grief as mourning, but grief escorts you into a new life.

You will always wish for your life with your loved one. I would give up almost everything to have Corrie back in my arms as a sassy 10 1/2-year-old girl on the verge of her preteen years.

But in our darkness; in our days of the anglerfish, we find our new talents, and strengths we never knew we possessed.

I wondered in darkness for a long time because I had witnessed by daughter’s sudden death due to an abdominal tumor. I have blamed myself for years because I was meant to keep her alive. Ten months later, I had a miscarriage, and by November 2021, my husband, John, faced a stage 3 colon cancer diagnosis. Everything happened back-to-back, and I could not work through any of the pain.

But, as J.R.R. Tolkien wrote, “Not all those who wander are lost.”

Writing was always a talent. I had worked as a reporter, and have had different styles of writing published. In the days of the anglerfish–my first three years of the journey through grief–my writing revealed the darkness. It exposed the raw emotions.

My writing in poems, fiction, and essays during the first three years of my journey with grief often reveal this darkness. It exposes the raw emotions.

Excerpt from When Nightmares Walk

There are nightmares 
                                   no wants 
to dream.
Murderers in hockey masks  
                                      with a 
                serrated knife, 
and the blood drip,
                            drop,
                                    drips.
Monsters with a face 
                               horror paints
      and fingernail blades
have nothing on my nightmares and me.

When nightmares walk, 
some people claim 
they never see blood
          		drip,
		      drop,
			drip.

They act as if they’re the first 
		in a horror scene
 	to face a knife or monster’s nails.
They squirt ketchup 
on their shirt before
the camera records their 
dead face and the fake drip,
     			drop,
			      drip.

The excerpt from the poem above, “When Nightmares Walk,” was written in July 2020 as part of a group of poems for a poetry book called When We Danced in the Rain. Some of the poems were published, but I always wanted to publish the complete collection. I created three different versions, and this poem was in at least one.

I share this poem because it displays the days of the anglerfish in which I found myself lost. I was gone. My memory tanked. One day, as I drove to school, I went another way towards the town where my parents live. I had forgotten where I was going. Some friends will drop quickly like a gambler thinking each new game offers a chance for riches. How fast the money goes.

The world appears to want you to find Nemo, and for this version of yourself to arrive in Amazon Prime style. They prefer one day shipping.

I already had struggles socializing with other people due to my neurodivergence. It grew worse after Corrie’s death. I became far more protective of my son with autism to whom I was already extremely attentive. For those who gave me time, they saw my strength come to the centerstage because by 2025, I was stronger than I had ever been before.

I reached a stage where I was more forthcoming in my thoughts. I had learned to cut out an individual and let go completely for the sake of my peace; a skill I was already acquiring at the time of Corrie’s graduation to heaven.

While some saw moss struggle to grow in sandy soil, my soul was building a world of gardens.

Nemo arrived in stages as I started gardening. When we lost Corrie, we requested plants for a garden because Corrie always wanted one. It was the vision of my husband and father because I knew nothing about it.

In the span of four years, I have learned everything I can about how to garden, including no dig gardening, and we now have 12 gardens on our farm. I arrange flowers and sell bouquets. I still write, but not as often. The gardens, rather than life by the pen, have helped shape me into a Nemo.

I share this, so if you are going through grief or loss of any kind, you know that you are not alone.

R.A. Bridges