My sister Carolyn was desperate to maintain order in the aftermath of Erik’s death. She showed up with her school teacher markers and chart paper and insisted we all document our comings and goings so she could wrap her brain around it. Seeking control and order is a very natural response to a trauma like we experienced. Especially with a suicide. It  is just a very different kind of complex trauma. I compared it to a grenade going off inside our home. And everyone is bleeding and wounded and we can’t seem to triage who needs acute care. Carolyn even had blank weekly calendars printed and had a different color of ink for each of us. 

We always had a family group text called “Setterlind 5” and that was our landing place for ongoing communication. That is where Sophie, the oldest, interrogated everyone to find her special pair of shorts. Or where we would send a photo of the empty water pitcher and wait for everyone to blame Anna. It is where Erik and I sent half ass threats and many words of affection to the kids. And it was sitting empty on December 4th. We all just stared at it like “he was just there yesterday.”

My sister started a new group text with the 4 of us and her and her husband Tom. It was labeled “Allison & her Peeps.” It was one very definitive way I could see that my family of 5 was fractured. Was I still even a parent without my co-parent? Am I still in charge here? Who is going to back me up when our kids are acting like assholes? That was the best part of parenting alongside Erik. He respected my approach to motherhood and I respected his way of being the Dad. We didn’t always agree and he had to peel me off the anxiety train many times when the kids became teens. But he always made me feel like a great mom. It was part of my identity through Erik’s eyes. 

So if Erik was dead now, what kind of parent am I? The first two weeks at my house post death were no rules days. We slept when we wanted to, had people and friends in and out all day, take out food, and sometimes showers. When I was a teenager, my dad had one very big rule for his two daughters. No boys in the bedroom. Somewhere around day 4, I walked into Anna’s room and there were about 8 kids all laying in her bed with her and on the floor all watching a movie. I waved and kind of muttered, “no boys in the bedroom.” And then I just walked out and thought, “why is that my rule?” I turned the corner to Owen’s bedroom and he was in bed with his college aged girlfriend, also watching TV. No one jumped or looked guilty. Was this even a rule I said out loud before? Will Erik haunt me if I don’t get this house under control?

I just didn’t have the bandwidth to hold any boundaries in place. We were bowling without the bumpers now. I was searching for my parenting identity while also grieving and enduring each of their pain. I actually wasn’t motivated by the obvious, “geez I hope they like me.” I was genuinely unable to handle all the details. I had to take the trash out the day after Erik died. I ran down the driveway in my pajamas waving for the truck to stop and I heard myself yell, “Sorry guys, all this shit is my job now, my husband is dead!” I couldn’t even remember to take our trash to the curb, how am I supposed to enforce curfews and consequences? 

Truth be told is that I wasn’t going to be the same mom anymore. I didn’t have my partner who helped be that parent. I had to let myself off the hook with all the guilt. They had food, water, and shelter and that was the best I could do for a little bit. But it was their well being that got me out of bed every morning. That first eye open when I stretched my arm over to Erik’s side was a make it or break it moment every single day. The pain in that millisecond of reality was like none other throughout the entire day. I had to keep going for these kids because I knew if I gave up they would too. And I refused to let Erik kill all of us. 

Just writing that on paper makes me judge me. What a martyr! Who am I? Joan of Arc? People have survived war and bigger tragedies than me. You aren’t special. That kind of self talk can really mess you up. I remember telling my therapist that I just knew everyone was judging me.I wasn’t playing the part of widow properly or my kids were not being parented properly.  And she said, “who is everyone?” And I had to basically admit that it was just the voices in my head. 

I had to really work on being kind to myself. Showing grace for myself. Accepting that we were the miracle in this tragedy. I am a miracle to have survived this experience. You are a miracle too. You endure, thrive, carry on, move forward, overcome, and grow every single day. Be in awe of yourself and be kind to you. That is a much healthier perspective than the one I was carrying around called “everyone.” I AM A FREAKING MIRACLE. 

So we have landed on a new family of 4 group text labeled, “FAMILY.” We still use our other one when we need to pull Carolyn and Tom into the conversation. But my kids see me as their parent again. The one who sends, “Does anyone know how my windshield got cracked?” I also send photos of the empty water pitcher and we all still blame Anna. I send all the funny memes and Facebook memories to them. It may not be who I was as a parent with Erik but it is who I am now on my own. I am working hard to collect all our broken parts. And I am not sure I can put us back together. We will always be the Setterlind 5 but different.