Grief, as the Years Go On
A look at the past, through the lens of the present without my mother
When does the fog clear? To me, grief is like water in the atmosphere. In the beginning, you’re standing alone in a downpour. As time goes on, the rain turns into a mist that covers everything, yet the world is visible. Little by little, there’s more sunny days than foggy or rainy days. Sometimes you predict the day just as well as a weatherman can predict the weather.
Six years later, I feel that the fog has lifted. For a long time, I wanted to keep my life the same as it was, to hold onto whatever I could. Eventually I realized, I am not the same, I cannot expect time to stand still.
I had a wonderful mother, but like anyone else, she was imperfect. The grief and loss I felt encompassed me like waves hitting me in the ocean. I wanted to hold onto her still, but I could hold onto her no better than I could have hugged the water in the sea.
One thing I regret, is not writing when I was younger. It’s the little things that really make a person, and in six years I am starting to forget. I don’t even have one video on my phone where I can hear her voice. The one I had, when she found out she was going to be a grandma, is lost forever somewhere.
Sometimes when I have a random memory pop up, or when I look at photos of her, it feels like she never existed. Other days it rains and I remember.
I didn’t post about my mother’s death, or my sadness, or anything on social media, until a year later. Below is my memorial I wrote for her, after that first year.
My mother died when I was seven months pregnant. On the one year anniversary of her death being tomorrow, with Mother’s Day approaching, I wanted to pause and reflect motherhood’s blessings and tribulations. We all know the cliché, “you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.” But what about needing a storm to appreciate the sunshine?
I genuinely believe hardship is valuable. “And not only so, but we glory in tribulations also; knowing that tribulation worketh patience; and patience, experience; and experience, hope; and hope maketh not ashamed; because the love of God is shed abroad in our hearts by the Holy Ghost which is given unto us.” Romans 5: 3–5 Losing my mother when I did left a hole in my heart that no one else can fill, but it also taught me how important I will be to my son one day.
I never knew I could cry, and hide, so many tears. I never knew that nothing on Earth compares to the comfort of a mother’s hug, until I needed one and would never again receive one. I never realized the selflessness of my mother, until I had to care for a newborn while my body felt like a train wreck. Selflessness is not just about serving others; it’s about putting your basic survival needs aside for someone else. It does not matter how exhausted, famished, gross, sleep deprived or utterly broken down to your very soul you may feel; baby comes first. I don’t see how mothers go through this more than once. Mothers everywhere: you have my new found respect.
It’s hard to explain the burden of mourning while experiencing the joys of pregnancy. Everything became tinged with a hue of sadness I could not escape, like the oppressive humidity of a muggy summer day. I couldn’t jog, I couldn’t drink, I couldn’t even cry without being kicked from the inside. I had more than one person forget that my mom even died. That’s when I knew, my mother understood how significant events shaped me into who I have become better than anyone else. I had several people, who didn’t know what I was going through, tell me they liked the new me better. What did that even mean? I had lost so much of the patience my mother taught me, like a pile of leaves blown away in the wind.
Mom’s death showed me the kindness of people in my life, and how so many people cared for her. She touched many people in her life that I never knew before. I never expressed it, but having a full church at her memorial service brought me comfort, when I just wanted to snap like a twig.
The agony of losing my mother made me appreciate my memories of her. Not like looking back through the lens of her death, but like going to the theatre to rewatch a favorite movie. She welcomed and treated everyone like family. She was kind and considerate, and drove me crazy. She had the loudest laugh, and stubborn as a mule does not even begin to describe her. The amount of stress and physical pain she could, and did withstand, was unimaginable. She was the toughest person I ever personally knew. For those that knew of her death, but never mentioned it, I don’t understand why. I am not ashamed of my mother’s death; we will all lose our mothers one day. Avoiding the topic only denies me the chance to share my memories of her.
I cried so hard when I realized she wasn’t going to get me a bag of fresh cherries for my birthday. My loving husband bought me some. No more Cadberry Bunny Eggs for Easter. That’s ok; I need to lose the baby weight anyways. I’ve learned to make her French Toast myself. She never met her one and only grandbaby, which broke our hearts. There’s just so much to pass down to my son. My best hope is for him to find the blessings in tribulation, and the ability to always find a reason to smile. Just like my mom taught me.
The first year is the hardest. That first year is the first year adjusting to not having that person on their birthday, or Christmas, or any other special celebration.
My mother had some health issues, that I will save for another story. The last time I saw or spoke to her was on Easter. One week later, I was 200 miles away serving in the reserves (seven months pregnant too) when my dad called me. He found her dead on the living room floor. She had a heart attack.
Celebrations aren’t the same without my mother. She brought warmth to them. She was so extra. I am basically the opposite, and keep holidays as simple as possible. She would insist on ham and turkey for Thanksgiving, with tons of sides of course. For Christmas, she would wrap everyone’s presents with a color theme, like silver and blue.
I wish I could hear her laugh again.
I sometimes get annoyed when people talk about or post trite messages of loving your family, because you never know when it will be the last time you see them. I get the sentiment that we need to make family and friends important. It’s annoying though because sometimes life gives you other priorities, and that’s okay for a bit. If you can only make time for someone sometimes, make it count.
I will always miss my mother. I can’t hold onto her anymore than I can hold the wind. I can only embrace the memories that float around like leaves in a breeze before a storm. As the years fly by, what I remember of her is dwindling, which is another type of grief in itself.
If you know someone is grieving, just give your condolences, feed them and check on them once in a while. They don’t need to hear that everything happens for a reason, or any other phrase that makes you feel better about being around them.
I do not publish behind a “paywall,” so read all you’d like.
