Story by Marcy Kelly (BBO: sierra11)

My son Michael, my only child, had been dead for a year. During that time I’d been in grief therapy, attended parent support meetings, and looked for ways to honor his memory. I even took a cruise to Alaska seeking distraction. It didn’t work. Nothing worked. Days forward, I was sure, would be lived in various shades of despair.

How was it going to be possible to have a meaningful life without my son? I knew I needed something new to help distract me from myself, my work, and daily routines. One day, while reading our local newspaper, I saw a small notice: Learn Bridge in a Day. I signed up and, with a high level of apprehension, drove to a local community center to find out if such a thing were possible. The large drab room was filled with men and women I didn’t know sitting at black card tables. Good, I thought. No one will ask how I’m doing.

When I checked in, an instructor inquired about my level of play. “I learned the game from my parents but haven’t played since college.”

“Lots of new rules, you’ll have to start over,” he said, and handed me a folder with pages on how to count points and respond to a partner.

I didn’t learn to play bridge in a day, but I did reacquaint myself with the challenges of the game. The concentration required to relearn the rules allowed me, for hours at a time, to escape the ache I lived with. Thinking about what suit to bid or which card to play, as anxiety producing as it often was, provided a respite for me. Everyone was too busy playing to ask if I had children, the question I most dreaded.

For days after Michael died of an unexpected heart attack at age 45, I refused to believe he was dead. Finally, when I was able to see his body, I was forced to accept what had happened, but couldn’t say it aloud, couldn’t bring myself to tell anyone I didn’t know well that he’d died. In social situations, I dreaded being asked if I had children. If I answered honestly that my only child had died, it left people uncomfortable. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” was the standard response. And so, for a long time, if it came up, I lied and pretended he was still alive. Among acquaintances who knew what had happened, I tried to head off their questions about my how I was coping.

I took bridge lessons every Saturday morning and played in what were called supervised games where experienced players were available to consult with us beginners. It was probably a year or more before I ventured into what I called “the big boy” games on Thursday nights. There I was with my equally inexperienced partner, without anyone to ask for direction. I was terrified but, for the most part, people were kind and understanding about my lack of expertise. Usually, I didn’t even know the gaffes I made.

I joined the American Contract Bridge League and incrementally began accruing master points. I enjoyed checking the label on their monthly Bridge Bulletin to see how many I’d earned.

Sometimes I thought my brain would explode as I learned new conventions, what bid was forcing or alertable, the various ways to signal my partner. Filling out a convention card was a challenge. At one game, a man called the director because I had played the wrong suit. I was mortified. It was an innocent mistake, but everyone in the room seemed to be looking in my direction and thinking I’d done it deliberately. I persisted and little by little developed a modicum of skill at the game.

I made friends with some of the players I studied with. Eventually, I was able to share the loss of my son.

It’s now five years since I tried to Learn Bridge in a Day. I’ve come a long way in my understanding of the game. I know it will take my lifetime and then some to develop true bridge skills just as it will to accept the loss of my son. Bridge has truly been a lifeline to me, a unique form of grief therapy.

Marcy Kelly is a member of the Beverly Hills Bridge Club. This essay is excerpted from her forthcoming book, Finding Treasure: A Mother’s Memoir.

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