By Suzzette DeMers

I anticipated their arrival.  The cicadas would emerge, just as they had seventeen years ago shortly after the one-year anniversary of my widowhood, and 34 years ago when I played with them on the playground as a child.  I knew what to expect.  They would cover trees and walkways.  They would crawl with shaking legs and huge red eyes. They would fly clumsily, bumping into anything in their path.  I would see hundreds live and die once again.

My 4-year-old immediately took to the winged creatures.  He did not cringe at the gooey nymphs emerging from their exoskeletons.  He did not bat them away or shoo them.  Instead, as the cicadas started to make their appearances, he wanted to walk daily to the “cicada tree” where hundreds—no, thousands—seemed to convene.  Gently, he would pick each one up.  Their sticky legs impressed him.  He was amazed by how well they could cling to any surface.  He would place one on a stick and carry it around—his cicada torch.  Soon he started to let them take residence on his shorts and then his shirt.  And then one day, he brought a special one home to the backyard to be his pet.

We have family pets—an easy fish and a playful bunny—but the cicada belonged to him alone.  My son set up a play area in the sandbox and watched the cicada (interestingly, named “Bunny”) crawl all around. He pushed Bunny on the swing and exercised Bunny on the tree (climb up, come down, climb up, come down).  That night, when he closed the lid on the sandbox with Bunny inside he made sure to leave a gap big enough for air to get in.

I assumed Bunny would crawl out and be gone in the morning.  Unfortunately, the reality was much more tragic.  Stiff, dry, and dark, the life had oozed out of Bunny overnight.  When my son’s 4-year-old mind processed his observations of Bunny’s condition, the effect was immediate devastation.  His shoulders and head dropped, he inhaled his deepest breath, and began to sob—deeply, intensely, profoundly.  The impact of this loss, this death, reached his little heart, and his agony was evident.  I took my littlest in my arms and held him without words.  This was his first loss.  I wanted to get this right.

More than one cicada life cycle ago, I too wept in agony.  I had just buried my 25-year-old husband.  Shoulders and head low, shaking, I listened as many caring and well-intentioned friends and family members shared observations and inspirations based on their perspectives and experiences.  They all had so much to tell me.  There were heart-warming stories about widows who remarried later in life, with the implicit (or at times, explicit) prediction that I too would marry again.  There were stories about other forms of grief, loss, and recovery: childhood illnesses overcome, natural disasters survived, destruction rebuilt, and lessons learned as the result of personal trauma.  These stories were true and inspirational.  They exemplified the power of the human spirit and the triumph of recovery.  

I listened as best I could without screaming or running away.  I had the good sense and manners to tuck these stories away and made a promise to myself to revisit them later.  But in the depths of my agony, my heart and mind could not accept—let alone process—these stories.  Nor could I accept or process affirmations about the road ahead. Many told me that I would be okay and that I would “make him proud.”  Others reminded me I would have a full life—that there were more fish in the sea.  And they were right.  But in those dark moments, I did not care about the seemingly distant future. All I could see was my present reality.  The words were intended to encourage me to look forward, but the weight of my loss was too heavy.  My shoulders and head hung low, I could not lift my gaze to look forward. 

The griever in agony has a limited view of the world and its experiences. Her vision is myopic.  Her heart and mind operate in emergency (or merely survival) mode.  She can be transformed, in time; but in the darkest moments empathy is the balm she needs.  Empathy requires us to step into the shoes of another and feel the experience from her perspective.  Empathy requires that we consider the injured’s present reality and, with that, her ability or willingness to look and feel anything beyond her present ache.  The well-intentioned friends and family had my best interests at heart; I never doubted that.  But they viewed my loss through their own eyes.  

The friend who sat with me and held my hand while I wailed provided the empathetic comfort that I needed. The friend who sobbed with me in a parked car until the windows fogged up aided my healing.  Neither told me that it would be okay—that I would be okay.  Instead, they willingly stepped into my shoes and felt the grief with me.  And in doing that, they knew that at that time I did not need inspirational words or enlightened perspectives; I needed company in my anguish. I needed empathy, and that’s what they gave.  Experiencing empathy put air in my lungs and sun on my face so that I could lift my head just a bit.  I had to lift my head before I could look forward. 

A cicada life-cycle later, I held my littlest snuggly as he shuddered his sobs—his little head hanging low and nestled in my arm.  I did not utter one word about the thousands of other cicadas at the cicada tree.  I did not speak one sentence about the inconsequential lives of cicadas or the fact that thousands would be dying before our eyes in the weeks to come.  I did not try to distract him with a new cicada.  I allowed him to cry until he was tired from the exertion.  And then, as he was still in my arms, I asked him what he wanted next.  All he wanted, he explained, was to find a spot for Bunny’s body near our garden and to not play with any more cicadas for a while. Without a word, we walked hand in hand and placed the creature in a lovely spot of earth.

Days passed and, without my prompting, the joy of the cicadas returned.  Once again, my littlest was marching around the neighborhood with the creatures clinging to his shirt.  I never had to tell him that there would be other cicadas in the sea—he found them on his own.  

Joyously he tosses a cicada into the air and makes it fly away.  And as it flies, he lifts his head to follow it and runs forward to chase it.

Guest essay written by Suzzette DeMers. Suzzette lives in Vienna, Virginia with her husband and three young children. She spends her days homeschooling her children, daydreaming about the beach, running a small non-profit, taking deep breaths, helping things grow, and trying to make sense of life's experiences. She believes that a perfect day must include coffee, sweat, sunshine, belly laughs, books, and no laundry.

Photo by Kaytlyn Eggerding.