Everything that had been familiar and routine suddenly was undone. I would stand there in my house, staring out the window at the school bus going by, and wonder why it didn’t stop so I could send my son off to school as I had done for nearly 15 years. Silence suddenly had become the blanket that comforted me, and believe me, it’s no comfort at all.

Then there was the pain to deal with, a sickening depression, the kind that knots up your stomach and turns a 90-degree day into winter. I could always feel it coming, like a storm surge, a tidal wave sweeping over me. There was no way to fight it, though I tried. But I got smarter, and soon I let the wave take me. After an hour or so, I would find myself in a different place, my face dampened by tears and my gut burning hot with acid.

Experts say time heals even the deepest of wounds. So I looked to the calendar for help. But that was no good. Each day held what would have been — notes on doctors’ appointments, a reminder about high school photographs. I now found myself staring at the calendar, cursing it, and all of those unmarked days and months that followed the 8th of October, the day my son died.

I knew I couldn’t go on this way. I knew I had to start moving from where I was. Grief will eat you up, and it will for anyone. You don’t have to lose a child. It can be a spouse, a parent, a grandmother, a favorite aunt, a college chum, a dog you reared from a puppy or a cat you once pulled out of a cage at the animal shelter. That’s when I decided to count steps. I figured that if I were able to take 100 steps, to move away from my grief in 100 different ways, I would be somewhere else, someplace other than the misery I was in.

Some of the steps were just that, moving one foot ahead of the other. That’s the case of my first step, on Oct. 18. I got into my car, drove to the Yakima Greenway parking lot at the end of North 16th Avenue and jogged for 33 minutes. I ran along the path that bordered Las Margaritas restaurant, and somewhere beyond Lake Aspen, among the burnt autumn leaves, I yelled at the top of my lungs. It was my version of a primal scream, a wild sound rushing up from my stomach where all the pain had settled. It was a lousy run. But the fact that I got up and did something deserved a mark on the calendar. So I gave myself “1 Step.”

Of course, not all of the steps involved running, or walking for that matter. Going to the symphony earned a notch on the calendar. Even showing up at work made the grade. But the most significant steps had to do with something we all take for granted — laughter. Back then, I figured I would never laugh again. I honestly couldn’t imagine ever making a joke, or hearing myself laugh at someone else’s. So I didn’t.

Until one day at Les Schwab. Yes, of all places, I made a joke at a tire store. I was paying my bill when the lady at the counter made a remark so utterly ridiculous I couldn’t help myself. I turned it into a joke. She burst out laughing. I stared at her for the longest time, and then I realized I had made a step, a big step. I wrote it on the calendar: “Nov. 18. Joke at Les Schwab’s.”

At first, a step a week was all I could muster. Soon, though, things began to change. I guess I started to laugh more. Three-step weeks began to pop up. Now the hated calendar had become an ally, a source of pride. I don’t know what a professional therapist would have to say about my 100-step program. But it worked. Sure, I still have days when I can feel the wave of depression coming at me, but now I know the pain will pass, as surely as I know the tears will dry. The color blue has returned to the sky and my voice is now spiced with laughter.

I also do what grief counselors recommend: I water my house plants, tend to our family cat, Sylvester, and remain close to those whom I love. So how many steps have I taken? I don’t know. I stopped counting a long time ago. The actual number seemed unimportant; it was the act of counting that meant something.

I know there are others like me who have to count steps. I guess we all have to do it at some point. How much simpler, though, life would be if what mattered most were counting crows.

Coordinating Editor Spencer Hatton can be reached at 509-577-7670 or by e-mail at shatton@yakimaherald.com

We thank the Yakima Herald Republic for their permission to reprint this article.