wheel of fortune

and the strange ways messages show up after someone dies

Two months and some change after someone dies is a very strange place to be.

In the beginning, when it’s acute, grief is so loud that it occupies the entire room. It’s truly impossible to miss because it’s at the head of the table and in the smell of my perfume. It’s in my face because I look like her. It’s just everywhere.

Then, I guess somewhere around the two-month mark, it starts moving differently.

I find myself laughing at dinner and then feeling a flicker of guilt that I don’t really know what to do with. I make plans three weeks in advance and realize, with an uncomfortable jolt, that my brain is now relearning a future that doesn’t include her. Sometimes I have entire afternoons where the grief disappears from view until something catches me sideways in the grocery store.

It sort of feels like walking around with a pebble in your shoe. I can function and even have fun. Then, every so often, I take a step and there it is again. Painful and unavoidable.

Last night, my friend invited a group of us out for her birthday to one of those immersive game show places that have started popping up everywhere. The premise is exactly how it sounds: you and your friends compete in versions of classic game shows for an hour and discover which one of you would become unbearable after five minutes on TV.

Our hour included Family Feud, The Price is Right, and Wheel of Fortune.

Now, this requires some context.

My mom died a little over two months ago. My mom was also, and I do not say this lightly, a Wheel of Fortune savant. She was frighteningly good. One letter would appear and she’d casually announce the answer while the rest of us were still trying to determine just how many words were on the board.

Sometimes she would solve puzzles with zero letters. It was equally impressive and infuriating. Truly, it was one of her defining personality traits. Our priest even mentioned it during her funeral homily. That is how serious this was.

So when we got to the Wheel of Fortune portion of the evening, I felt a self-imposed pressure to perform. This was mom’s game. It felt like I had to win to preserve her legacy. Unfortunately, I didn’t inherit whatever psychic gift allowed her to identify a six-word phrase from the appearance of a single vowel.

Our team was doing okay. We made it through the first few puzzles without embarrassing ourselves. But then we got to the lightning round.

The host explained that letters would quickly appear across the board and we’d have to identify the phrase as quickly as possible before the other team.

The puzzle began. A few letters appeared. I had nothing.

A few more, and still nothing.

Then I figured out the first word: “Buying”. Okay, we’re buying something. Great. Excellent. Consumerism. Love that.

More letters appeared and suddently, all at once, it clicked. I shot up my hand and the host called on me.

“Buying flowers for my mother.”

Here ya go, mom. Hope you like them. <3

Correct! We clapped and cheered. I felt jubilant because I got the answer right and that’s all that mattered.

Somehow, and this feels impossible in retrospect, it didn’t fully register. It wasn’t until later that my friend mentioned it. She told me that when she heard the answer, she looked across the room at me and immediately thought, Oh no.

From her perspective, my mom had died barely eight weeks ago. We were suddenly playing her favorite game and the answer I’d just solved was literally buying flowers for my mother. She thought there was a very real chance she was about to watch me burst into tears in a game show warehouse.

Instead, I apparently looked ecstatic. Which, honestly, feels very on-brand for my mother. The more I thought about it afterward, the more it made me laugh. If there is any chance of my mom being capable of influencing events from beyond this earthly realm, there is no chance she would use that power for something important.

She would use it to win Wheel of Fortune and she would use it to make sure I won Wheel of Fortune.

I can practically hear her. “You’re welcome, Liv. Also, those flowers aren’t going to buy themselves.”

Whether you believe in signs from people we’ve lost is besides the point, I think. Some people believe they’re messages or coincidences. Some believe grief changes the way we move through the world, making certain moments glow brighter than others.

I don’t know. Maybe it’s all of it. What I do know is that grief sometimes feels like standing outside of a house after everyone has gone home. The party is over, lights are off, the people you love aren’t there anymore. Then, every once in a while, a window lights up just for a second. Just long enough to remind you that love didn’t leave when the person did. It just changed addresses.

Last night, in a room full of game show sound effects and twenty- and thirty-something women screaming over imaginary money, I got one of those moments. A little wink from my mom in a very her-coded form of communication. Buying flowers for my mother.

Fine, mom. Message received. Today, I bought a bouquet of delicious purple flowers. Her favorite.

Because apparently death has not stopped her from assigning me errands.

xo,

liv

P.S. I haven’t actually watched Wheel of Fortune in ages, but I will start doing so again so I can at least have a fighting chance when we meet again.