“I’m so tired,” said the first colleague.
“Me too,” said the second one.
And this is where I tripped straight into one of those landmines that have become fairly commonplace for my everyday. Because the only reaction I had was “Well, I haven’t really slept a good night since my son died in September.”
But I didn’t say that because I know, on some level, that I’m already freaking people out at work a little bit, so I just keep quiet and don’t talk about it.
But it happens all the time. I shared an elevator with a colleague last week and she was chit-chatting about the weather and what-not. And the whole time she was going on, my internal dialogue was “My son died in September. My son died in September.” Repeat ad nauseum. You begin to get the feeling that you’re not quite fit for normal society.
Don’t get me wrong. I don’t feel like a reject in the office. I don’t even feel like Quasmidodo. I just live in fear of revealing too much at the wrong time and pushing others and myself way over out of our comfort zones. So, I spend a lot of time being quiet.
And it’s going to keep getting harder. There’s at least one guy leaving the office soon (he spent his day today on the phone complaining about the logistical bureaucracy of a move to Switzerland. He tried to get my sympathy. It took a lot of self control to not point out that burying a 5-year-old in Germany also takes a lot of bureaucratic tap dancing), which means that, at some point, there will be a new hire, and this person isn’t going to know my deal. And it’s not like I’m going to want to pull him/her aside on day one and introduce myself as the dad of the dead kid. But will it be on day 2? Day 3? The first time we go out for a team for drinks, to make sure it’s a truly cheerful affair?
There’s also the fact that I started this ball rolling when I returned to work: I want to get my company to do an article about how nightmarish the home health care system is in Germany. I’ll admit, I have a bit of a chip on my shoulder, but I also think this is a good story. A lot of people could end up needing home health care someday, and they might want to know how awful that could end up being. I mentioned it to the chief editor when I got back and he seemed into the idea, even suggesting I write a firsthand account of what happened to us and Colin.
But, to make this happen, I need to sit down and talk with the health care reporter, who is a near stranger to me. We’ve been dancing around each other for about three weeks now. He has no idea what I want, other than a meeting to talk about a potential story. He has no idea that Colin is dead. And me? I could probably easily clear up time to talk to him, but I fill up every free moment I’ve got at work with busy projects to get my style guide -essentially our online dictionary – in place, because there is a part of me that is terrified to sit down with people I don’t really know to tell them “Hey, I’m the guy with the dead kid.” I wonder if I’m ever going to get this project going.
Because, on some level, it is terrifying to tell people about this. It’s almost like revealing some terrible, dark secret about yourself. It feels like it might even be easier to say out loud “Oh, I’m into kiddie porn” or “Hey, I kick puppies” than to say this truth out loud.
So, I’m quiet a lot. And I don’t think that’s a terribly good thing for me. But I don’t have any better ideas right now.