This is my mom. Stunning, isn’t she? Beautiful inside and out. It’s hard to believe it’s been two years since she died.
In some ways, the time has flown by. And much has changed. My strong and disciplined dad who used to swim three days a week, work out in the gym and write a nature column for the newsletter in the community where he lives, suffered a heart attack and now also battles dementia. My son, who was a little boy in his first real suit at his grandmother’s funeral, is now a young man, taller than both his parents with a deep and resonant voice that still surprises me on the phone. Who is that guy?
But one thing is constant. I still miss my mom. And I know that as long as I’m here, I always will. Dealing with all my feelings has been a process. Here are a few things I’ve discovered along the way.
Grief is a wild thing. You can’t tame it. You can’t control it. I mean, did I want to cry in the middle of a department store on a hot August evening? No. But there I was in Marshalls on my mom’s birthday, the year after she died. A sappy song from the ’80s was playing. And then I saw a beige blouse that was just her style. Man, did she rock a nice neutral. I wanted to buy it for her, but I couldn’t. I was once again slammed by the realization that I could no longer locate my mom on this planet in physical form. So I cried. Big sloppy tears in the aisle between summer clearance and formal dresses.
There are times when you really want the emotions to flow, you’re ready to just let go and feel your pain. You’re in a safe place. You’re with people you love. It’s “appropriate,” even expected, to express your feelings. And nothing happens. No matter how hard you try. In fact, in spite of trying, the expression of grief you so desperately want to release does not come.
Other times, crying is the last thing you want to do and there you are, perhaps as I was, but likely not, weeping in front of a bunch of bargain-hunting fashionistas.
This year, I’ve decided to stop fighting it and seize whatever opportunities I’m given to grieve, and surrender to them. What else can you do? As Jeff my meditation teacher says, “Better out than in.”
Grief has no expiration date. Some people tell you that grief gets easier over time. And I have noticed there is a rawness that scabs and callouses. Some people tell you to anticipate a year of grieving. But I have found that not to be true.
It’s been exactly two year since my mom died, and I am not done. In fact, there have been some days this second year that felt more gut-wrenching than the first, because I thought I was somehow supposed to be finished with all my sadness. So now I say maybe there are no rules, no deadlines. Maybe you just have to take grief as it comes.
Grief has a saving grace. For me, it feels like every major milestone in life comes with a host of surprising feelings that nobody lets you in on til you get there. Like after my son was born and they just let us take him home from the hospital – without a permit or any type of formal training whatsoever. It seemed amazing, insane, actually, that I could just stroll out the door with this exquisite bundle of humanity in my arms. Especially since we really had no idea how the car seat worked.
At the other end of the spectrum, I also remember one of the first times someone I cared about died. In the days after it happened, I was just as stunned, but in a different way. As I rode in a car to the funeral I looked out at the busy street in awe. How were all these people walking around, going about their business as if nothing was different? Did they not understand that the world had been irrevocably altered by the loss of someone so dear?
Recently, my friend Whit and I were talking about losing a parent, since we both had gone through the experience. At one point he said: “Grief is kind of like the most wonderful club you’d never wish to belong to.”
I had to think about this. Here was yet another surprising concept to take in. There was a club and I was a member, along with everybody else in the world who had ever lost someone they loved? He talked about how grief can provide a lens into a different way of seeing things, a shared understanding of how to live life with perspective.
So I thought about that, and how my life has changed since I have been not only been touched, but fueled, by grief.
Since my mom died, I quit a job that wasn’t right for me so that I could spend more time with my family. I grew more committed to my spiritual practice. I went back to school to study patient advocacy, and I will graduate in June armed with new skills, knowledge and a strong desire to fight for the rights of elderly patients as well as those who care for them. And most recently, I started writing this blog, something I have wanted to do for four years but finally found the courage to start.
And so I decided, maybe Whit is right. I certainly am a reluctant member of this club. But I also realized sometimes grief spurs us to challenge ourselves and realize dreams we didn’t know we had. And the way it can bring us all together, that can be something kind of wonderful.
21 thoughts on “Grief is a Wild Untamed Thing”
I lost my grandmother to Alzheimer’s last year. She was my everything, and seeing her deteriorate the way she did, and at the rate she did, was absolutely devastating. The last time I saw her, she looked at me and just stared, but I knew that she wasn’t there anymore.
I also still burst out in tears at random times; when I smell something that reminds me of her, when I see her favourite flowers, when I hear her favourite song, or a song she used to hate. I’ve often had strange looks from people when I cry in traffic or in friends’ company. Grief really is wild and untamed.
Hi and thanks for commenting. Yes, grief is crazy like that and it’s so much easier to let it out rather than to hold it in.
For me, it was standing in the grocery store among the cheap plastic “Wizard of Oz” margarita “glasses.” My teenage daughter could tell exactly what was setting me off, but had no idea how to respond.
It’s been three and half years since my mom died, and I know exactly what you mean. It does get easier, but it doesn’t mean it ever stops entirely. I think about her every day, but today, reading your blog, is the first time in a long time I’ve cried.
Sounds strange to say, but I’m glad you got a good cry out of the post. Grieve on! ok, it’s a weird slogan, but somehow it works. xo
Your mom is beautiful, and so, my dear, are you. As are these words. Thank you for so accurately capturing what so many of us know to be our truth. xo
Wow. That means a lot coming from you. Love you, my friend, and thank you for always being so good to me. xo
Beautifully written and articulated. It will ( and did) resonate and connect.
Very proud. I love you.
Thanks, Honey. xoxo
Thank you so much for sharing this story and journey. One of my dear friends, who also happened to be my daughter’s stepmom, passed away in November from brain cancer, at the unbelievable age of 38. My daughter has been concerned that she is not grieving the “right” way. I have tried to tell her that there is no outline, no correct way to grieve. I am going to share this with her and I think it will really help her young 21 year old soul.
You sound like an amazing person and I want you to know how many people you are helping. xoxo
I’m so sorry for your loss. Thank you so much for the kind words and for reading and sharing.
Beautifully expressed. We each have our own journey and your meditation teacher is right – better out than in. Thanks for sharing so candidly.
Thanks for writing. And yes, I already have a mantra for meditation, but if I didn’t I would probably choose “better out than in.” Such a good thing to practice.
Beautifully written. I’m sharing something I’ve never shared, a short poem written after the death of someone I lived with.. you have found a much gentler expression. I love the compassion of this piece/peace.
Every loss is pulled from inside
like handkerchiefs that endlessly spill
from the magician’s lips;
every loss a different color,
a different texture.
My body is wracked with the pain
of pulling corduroy
and burlap through my throat.
The material rips the sound
from my lungs.
I love that! Thank you so much for sharing. Beautiful and true. xo
Its beautiful. You shared such a sweet memory.
Thanks so much for reading and commenting. I appreciate it!
Reblogged this on Memory's Presents and commented:
Reading this in the neuropsychologist’s waiting room — where my dad is being tested. In one month it will be a year since my mom died. I haven’t written a single word on my own blog other than a very few words before any of my world was rocked — your words are exactly perfect — like a kindred spirit wrote to welcome me to this new normal that is my life. Very grateful.
Thanks so much for writing …it is hard adjusting to the new normal. Hang in there, and thanks so much for your kind words!
That photo is stunning. I thought it was a painting. And your words are even more beautiful. And funny! “man, did she rock a nice neutral” cracked me up. Thank you for such a beautiful post. It was worth reading every word. A friend of mine died two years ago and I suddenly burst out in tears missing her. She was so cool and left two beautiful daughters I admire and love dearly. They are 21 and 24 and I taught them when they were in first grade! Anyway, thanks for making me think of my friend. And cry.
Thanks for taking the time to write such a thoughtful comment. I really appreciate it and I’m glad it resonated with you. Thank you so much for the encouragement! xo
Having a support system is vital when caring for aging parents. The challenges presented with taking care of those we love in their advanced years is stressful and takes it’s toll on the best of us.