It could be part of a children’s book series.

Little Bunny takes the train

Little Bunny goes to the park

Except my series will be called Broken.

Broken in my yard

Broken at my job

Broken in my car

Broken on a bus

I’m writing this Sunday September 29th, on my way back to Chicago, on the Van Galder bus from Madison where I’ve spent the weekend with Heidi. At first I thought I’d sleep. Or read. Definitely not think about everything that’s just happened. I’d have to tell the story soon enough—to my husband, to my sister Erica—why torture myself now.

Except then I started to let it all play.

The horrible pain that struck Heidi out of nowhere Saturday night, minutes after we were laughing at the table. It was the worse pain Heidi’s felt so far, which is saying a lot. How she writhed and cried into her pillow. She was being stabbed in the head with a knife and she couldn’t get away. It went on for hours–at home, then in the ER.

The moment the next morning when we sat in the living room in the gray rainy light, me with my coffee and the Bible shoved aside, and Heidi said, all I want for my birthday is to die.

She said, In books and movies people hang onto life for their loved ones. But it’s not enough for me anymore. I can’t do it for my kids. I can’t do it for my husband, or for you and Erica. All I want is to die.

She said, I just want to escape. I just want the pain to end. Because it will never be the same, even if I survive. I will always be afraid of it coming back.

Heidi looked at me, her eyes puffy, her body shaking. She said, I broke.

Broken in the ER.

Broken in the hospital.

Broken on a couch.

Broken in bed.

Broken as she brushes her teeth and drinks her coffee.

I just had a panic attack on the bus. It was very undignified. It didn’t start that way, though. I was thinking my sad thoughts to myself. Replaying the moment I looked at Heidi’s curtains and couch and thought, one day soon she’ll be gone and how will I ever look at these things she chose for her house because they were pretty? The couch nearly broke my heart. She was so excited about it, happy to get a good deal. It’s a great couch.

As the bus hurried down the rainy interstate, I looked out the window, letting all my thoughts and feelings from the weekend flip through my head. I was staying calm. I didn’t need to take a Xanax. I am calm. I am Zen. I am fine.

Then, at the Janesville stop, a pert young blond college student in leggings and a sweatshirt pointed at my stuff, which I had plunked down into the seat next to me to protect my space. The bus was mostly single riders at this point. But of all the seats she could have requested, she asked for mine.

“I’m not feeling very well,” I warned her, hoping that she’d imagine flu contagion and pick another seat. “Just to warn you.”

But that did not deter this young woman, who promptly sat down and got busy on Instagram with her phone.

The minute she was there in the seat, occupying the space I wanted to grieve in privately, stealing the remaining hour and a half of the ride to Chicago and making me—again—a public display—someone who needs to keep it together because this is polite society—I cracked. It started with tears streaming down my face, faster and faster. Then, the occasional gulping breath. Then, the silent spasms rocking my body as grief’s fist tightened around my heart, my lungs, my ribs.

Heidi wants to die.

She wants to die now. Starting this week. This October. It’s what she wants. And I will have to watch. And then go on. And on. And on. Year after wrenching year. It’s not my choice. But I will hurt forever.

I will hurt when I look at her kids. I will hurt when Erica and I are together. I will hurt, and hurt, and hurt.

The sobs became stronger. Soon everyone in a two-seat radius had to know I was crying. Then I started to hyperventilate. I grasped the ledge of the window and pressed my forehead against the cold glass.

“Is there anything I can do?” said the blond person in a tentative voice.

I shook my head. I couldn’t even speak. My sister is dying. My sister is dying. My sister is giving up. My sister wants to go. The story is nearly over. Except it’s not—it won’t be—not for me. It keeps going past The End for an unbearable amount of pages.

Finally I thought I would lose my mind, because breaking right next to someone who is busily tapping away on their laptop, it turns out, is unbearable.

I said, “Could you please give me some space?” My blond seatmate moved. I buried my head on the now-free seat next to me, not caring how I looked, and sobbed. And hyperventilated, and clutched my hair. I broke. On the bus. Surrounded by people. And besides my seatmate’s initial contact, no one said a thing. No one looked at me afterwards. There was no eye contact.

Hello, I am a Rare Unicorn of Grief.

It’s better not to touch me because I am a magical creature. Except that instead of rainbows, I am darkness. Instead of glitter, I am tears. Instead of fairytales, I am a nightmare. This is a nightmare. This is me in my nightmare, falling apart on a bus like a crazy person.

So—what am I saying? Of course you don’t want to touch me.

You wish I wasn’t here. It’s uncomfortable to you. Also I might be crazy. Unbalanced. You never know. Better to pretend she’s not there. How awkward. Maybe I’ll be an interesting story you’ll tell someone when you get off the bus. Oh my God, there was this lady who totally lost it on the bus, it was freaky. In fact, you’re an interesting story I’m telling on my blog. So go for it. Let’s be each other’s stories. But please, no actual contact between us. It’s all too strange.

Grief squeezed me like a tube of toothpaste. Everyone looked away from the mess. Not my business.

My strange private public grief.

Mine and mine alone. No one will carry it for me. It’s mine. So look away. There’s nothing you can do anyway.