Since my son Henry learned to crawl, his body and mind were constantly moving. It was hard to miss his inattention, hyperactivity, and impulsivity. A trip to the market with my preschooler was an adventure. He’d run down the aisle holding a jug and yelling, “I found the milk!” He’d check boxes for broken eggs and, despite my protests, try to alert management. Then he’d push the buttons on the credit card machine while people gave me dirty looks. By the time he was about six, it was clear to me that he had attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder (ADHD). A diagnosis confirmed it.
As I watched Henry grow, I saw how his brain worked differently from mine. He was constantly distracted. He’d stare at his toothbrush for ten minutes before finally cleaning his teeth. He’d forget he was headed to the shower on his way to the bathroom. He’d sit at the table with his homework, stare into space, and slowly lean his torso toward the floor.
I wasn’t always patient or understanding with Henry. I’d yell at him to “hurry up!” I remember getting worked up one afternoon when he couldn’t finish his homework and we wanted to go out for pizza. Why did I do that? One night’s homework didn’t matter then. It certainly doesn’t matter now.
My husband and I found workarounds. We designed an elaborate incentive system to encourage good choices. He’d dictate his homework answers to save time. We took lots of breaks. There were treats — okay, bribes.
The ADHD medication he was prescribed helped when he remembered to take it. But it was a chicken and egg situation. He needed to take his meds before he could focus enough to remember to take them. One morning, when Henry was around 14, he quipped, “I forgot to take my meds because I forgot to take my meds.” He understood the problem better than anyone.
Now I’m the one having trouble focusing. Unfortunately, Adderall won’t help. My diagnosis is “grief brain.” Henry was killed in an accident on his first day of college, a month shy of his 19th birthday. His death was cataclysmic for me and my family. My brain is still working overtime to adjust to the new reality.
Since Henry’s death, I can’t keep track of anything. My thoughts are switchbacks jumping between laundry and Henry’s laugh. I zoom off in the middle of a Zoom call. I’ll think of Henry and suddenly, an hour has passed. What was I supposed to be doing?
Grief brain is like a gremlin who crumbles cellophane when I’m trying to read. He eats the ticket I need to exit the parking lot. He knocks over the liquid detergent which then runs across the floor and under the washer. Now I use laundry pods.
Grief brain is like a gremlin who crumbles cellophane when I’m trying to read. He eats the ticket I need to exit the parking lot. He knocks over the liquid detergent which then runs across the floor and under the washer. Now I use laundry pods.
The gremlin reminds me a little of Henry. When he was about seven, he started hiding a shoe under the stairwell each morning. The shoe pile he and his younger brother shared got smaller and smaller. Where are they? We’re going to be late! One morning, when a single sneaker remained, Henry admitted his scheme. I said, “YOU DID WHAT?”
I don’t think I ever asked Henry if his ADHD bothered him. I simply saw it as a problem to fix. If I’d taken the time to ask, I might have better understood his challenges. I wish I hadn’t pushed him to fit into a smaller box.
I’m not alone in my muddle-mind. I’ve met dozens of grieving parents with the same experience. One arrives at a meeting wearing a hairdressing gown under her coat. Another gets on the wrong train. We’ve all left pots on the stove too long and narrowly avoided a house fire.
Over time, Henry found ways to manage his ADHD. When he met someone new, he’d write down their name. He started scheduling events on his phone. He’d remove distractions, like noise and electronics when he needed to work.
I’m still trying to manage my new handicap. I try to only do one thing at a time. It helps when people are patient with me. I try to be patient with myself.
Henry’s ADHD was an integral part of him. His enthusiasm for life sparked joy in the people around him. It’s the reason his thoughts were unique and often brilliant. Even with meds, coaching, and motivation, he thought in a thousand directions at once. Now that I have less control over my thoughts and actions, I can better relate to his challenges.
I, too, see my new mind as part of my identity as a grieving mom. Nothing about me feels the same — inside or out. And that’s as it should be: My grief brain is an expression of my bottomless love for Henry.
Elizabeth Kopple works in content marketing and lives with her husband in Santa Monica. Read and follow her Substack newsletter, Channeling Grief.
