taking grief on vacation
The last time I went on vacation was back in November, right after my dad and stepmom had died. My (soon to be ex) husband and I had planned a special trip to Williamsburg for Libby. She was a history nerd like me and was SO excited to see all the museums and old buildings and to visit Yorktown. Her love of Hamilton led her to understand more than most kids her age about colonial life.
We had an absolute blast on that trip. As soon as we got back, I decided that for Christmas I would FINALLY surprise her with tickets to see Hamilton on Broadway. Everything had opened back up after Covid and the tickets were cheaper than they had ever been. She was ecstatic when she got the tickets on Christmas morning and we talked about our upcoming weekend in NYC constantly.
Libby died two weeks before our trip. I cancelled the hotel and sold the tickets, unable to bring myself to see a show that I’ve wanted to see for years because it just wouldn’t be the same without her sitting next to me.
This past weekend, I decided to take the boys on a trip in our travel camper. We went to Jim Thorpe, PA and stayed at a campground nearby. I looked forward to the trip as a chance to spend time with Max and Grayson, since they’re usually pretty busy at home.
I started out with great expectations and excitement, but soon realized that it didn’t matter where I traveled or whom I was with — I couldn’t leave my grief behind while I went on vacation.
Everywhere I turned, Libby was still there. In the days leading up to the trip I kept thinking that if she were there, we would’ve been talking about it nonstop — what we would pack, things we would do, sights we would see, games we should take along. On the car ride, she would’ve been talking my ear off or we would’ve been playing the Hamilton soundtrack and singing at the top of our lungs.
Don’t get me wrong— I love my boys with all my heart. But they are boys, and they are teenagers. I’m pretty sure they were only grudgingly going along out of guilt (and because I didn’t give them a choice.)
The first night I talked them into playing UNO, but then they wanted to retreat to their tent to be on their phones. The next day we went hiking, and after about three miles of them ribbing me that I had picked a lame trail, we came upon the most GORGEOUS overlook. I almost cried, it was so beautiful. I took pictures of Grayson and Max on the rocks, but the whole time grief kept tugging at my heart. Libby would’ve been SO amazed by the beauty of that place.
I appreciated the boys saying, “Yeah, this is really cool, Mom.”
But Libby? Libby would’ve been laughing, and dancing, and jumping up and down, and hugging me, and her excitement would’ve been contagious. I loved seeing the world through Libby’s eyes.
I ugly cried most of the hike back, taking the lead so the boys wouldn’t see me and rubbing Libby’s memorial stone in my pocket for solace.
We had fun going in and out of the shops in Jim Thorpe, but there was still that absence. That uneasy quiet. Seeing things that she would’ve loved to buy, not being able to show her stores that I love.
And then there was the train ride. See, there’s this train that winds through the beautiful scenery of the Lehigh Gorge State Park. We decided to try it out, even though it’s a 70-minute ride. It took about 10 minutes before Grayson was bored, and about 15 minutes for him to fall asleep. Max tried to be interested for a while, but then ended up on his phone.
And me? I sat right behind a family with three little girls. One adorable baby who kept waving at me and giggling — a blonde little girl (maybe 6 or 7) with long braided hair and rainbow charms on her Crocs — and an older, long-haired pre-teen. I tried not to look at them, because I could feel the heavy weight building on my chest. But the girl with the braids kept turning around and smiling at me, and the pre-teen girl acted like a mom, taking care of the baby, and the baby was laughing and gurgling and it was like looking at Libby’s stages of life all right there in front of me.
Tears poured down my cheeks for 3/4 of that train ride. Grief caught up to me and wrapped me in a giant bear hug that I couldn’t escape. I missed everything my daughter had been, and everything she will never get to be.
I guess it’s impossible to take a vacation from grief, because Libby was with me the whole time, and her absence was palpable and painful. I know the boys understood, and I tried to keep my mourning to a minimum and enjoy the time I had with them. They are great kids. We are just a different family now. And it’s going to be a while before we all get used to not having Libby with us, but I’m going to keep trying to make new memories and hope that as time goes on, the sadness will creep in a little less often.
