The Truth About Grief.

 

It’s 10:50 pm on January 29, 2018. In an hour and ten minutes it will be January 30th and four years since I said goodbye to my favorite person in the whole world, my mommy.

Four years. Four Thanksgivings, Christmases, New Years, Easters, July 4ths, Mother’s Days Birthdays, Anniversaries…

Hundreds of conversations, stories, meals, laughs…

Four years. Four years of LIFE. LIFE without her. I still think about her every single day and sometimes several times throughout the day. As I write this I’m in my own apartment, listening to Rod Stewart’s “Have I Told You Lately That I Love You,” I’ve lost 100 lbs, I’m working at a great new job, my health is so much better, I’ve finally accepted myself and I’m finally comfortable being me.

How different life has become without her here. I wonder what she would say?

For as long as I live whether I die today or I thirty years from now or sixty years from now, I’ll never see her or talk to her in person on earth in this life. But life goes on.

I’ve been thinking a lot about writing something about my grief and how what things are like four years later. The truth is, and this just plain sucks, is that the grief never goes away. The part of me that misses my mother so badly doesn’t just turn off like a switch. The tangible love I feel for her doesn’t just stop. The memories and life lessons and stories and anecdotes etc that she taught me, they’re all still in me. When I start baking something she’s right there. And memories of her teaching me how to make her carrot cake and her rugelach cookies and how to measure and be precise… those memories are RIGHT THERE. And you know what? It’s tough sometimes because it’s like opening up a wound that is healing but will never fully heal but the pain has become manageable. That’s what the anniversary of her death is; it’s like opening up a wound that’s still a wound but has healed somewhat and the pain become manageable but then the wound gets ripped open all over again.

I was at work the other day in the hang out lounge and on the large screen TV this commercial came on:

I was 34 when my mother died and many nights over these four years when I’m leaving work, leaving my car, whatever, I look to the sky at night and see the brightest star and say: “Mommy, are you up there?” This is grief.

Grief is a longing that is never satisfied.

Grief is a pain that will fully heal.

Grief is anger.

Grief is confusion.

Grief is the new normal.

Grief is losing a piece of your heart.

Grief is pain both emotional and physical.

Grief is a process.

Grief is a beast.

Grief is haunting in your waking hours and your dreams.

Grief is missing someone so badly you hope that you see them in your dreams that night.

Grief is the great equalizer.

Grief is part of life.

Grief is life changing.

Grief is like weathering a storm and when it calms down you see the damage.

Grief leaves damage that will never be healed.

Grief fearing you’ll forget your loved one.

Grief is fighting to make sure the world knows they existed.

Grief is feeling guilty for all you didn’t do and should have done.

Grief is feeling guilty for argument you had ten years ago.

Grief is feeling sad when they’re not around to celebrate your good news.

Grief is feeling guilty for enjoying life again.

Grief is picking up the phone to call your mother and in one tiny second realizing she’s gone.

Grief is… I could go on forever, I’m sure.

It’s different for everyone. The level of relationship with the loved one that’s been lost also determines the level grief. And in my family where my mother was our queen the level of grief is astounding. Simply put, my entire immediate family will never be the same.

It’s sad but life is a moving train and we’re ALL on it so, whether we like it or not, it does go on. Holidays come, birthdays as well, wedding anniversaries anniversaries mark the start of the love that brought me into this world and death anniversaries mark the end of the lives of my parents. Bills are paid, food shopping is done, TV is watched, laughter is there as well, sickness comes too, new babies are born, children get older, cousins get married… it all just keeps going, except, my mommy and daddy aren’t here. They’re no longer part of the earthly story. Their chapters are done in the story of mankind. This is one of the most difficult things to rationalize. Living and enjoying life without her.

Her death came like a sudden storm. On January 15, 2014 she was brought to the ER and a scan of her abdomen was done revealing spots on her liver. From there she would never recover and I would never have a conversation with her again. The spots were cancer, spreading from lung to liver, stage four, small celled carcinoma, and she died in our house on January 30, 2014. As I write this it makes me ANGRY. I was just a month before that we celebrated Christmas she seemed FINE. I bought her a ton of gifts and have video of her opening the gifts. She loved them. How does this happen? There are no answers. I’ve given up trying to figure it out. What I do now is cry when I miss her if the tears are there, I think about happy times and cherished memories, and try to keep her memory alive by talking about her. When the grief is rolling over me like a wave after something upsetting has happened and all I want to do is talk to her, I close my eyes, and whisper: “I miss you so much, Ma.” Then I wonder what she would say to me about said upsetting situation. The truth is, I’m truly grateful I had her in my life for 34 years but I’m also devastated I only had her for 34 years. But, life goes on.

And as I look at the pictures and reminisce about the life my mother lived I remember that she truly lived. She married the man she loved and had a 52 year romance. She wanted to be a mother and had six sons. She loved being a grandmother, she enjoyed baking, she worked a full time job for 30 years, she enjoyed good movies and trashy reality TV, a good cup of coffee and a really good cake, she came alive during the holidays  and was generous to a fault, she was lively, engaging, funny, tough, demanding, a clean freak, and if she wanted something she made it happen. She was smarter, so smart. She had a story for everything, a wise word when I needed it, a listening ear at all times, and boy could she cook. She made people feel loved, she accepted the underdogs, the outcasts, the nobodies and they loved her for it. She was a friend, a sister, an aunt, a cousin, a daughter, a mother, a wife, a grandmother, a godmother, and so much more.

Several days before she died, while she was still coherent and able to talk, my brother John prayed with her while driving her home from the hospital and he asked her to pray with him. Her prayer was simple and so telling of who she was: “Jesus, thank you for a beautiful life.”

And her very final words before she died were repeated over and over again with the voice of a whisper and barely any strength… she spoke them into a cell phone to one of her sons that is far away and that hasn’t seen her in quite some time: “I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.”

Just minutes before she died I was alone by her bedside asking her not to go. I told her I couldn’t live without her. She was in a comatose state and there was no way she could wake up and talk. But then, I saw her stirring around. I stood up and looked down at her. I said: “Ma?” Then in a deliberate voluntary move she slowly turned her face to the left where I was standing and I saw her try to open her eyes, as if it was the very last bit of strength she had, and finally she did. I burst into tears and locked eyes with her. “Ma? Ma!” I yelled. She looked right at me. And I know it was her because the light of her soul was still in her eyes. After a few seconds she closed them and within four or minutes she had taken her final breaths… six of them, one for each son.

So what do I do now that it’s been four years on those days I’m missing her so badly? I listen to sad songs that remind me of her like “Have I Told You Lately That I Love You” and when I see that brightest star in the night sky I say a little prayer to God and hope my mommy is on that star looking down on me.