The things that everyone knows about grief are the supposed five stages. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. What they don’t tell you is that they’re less-so linear steps and more-so stops on an intense and terrifying rollercoaster ride that never ends. You may visit any of these five stages at any time, any number of times.
There’s no right or wrong way to grieve. I’ve learned a lot about that, too. For a little while, I was scared that I wasn’t grieving enough. If I didn’t think about my mom for a day or two, I would get this fear that I was forgetting her or disrespecting her memory. On the flip side, if I found myself in the dark place for a while, I would get anxious that I was letting my grief take over my life, and then I’d guilt trip myself because I know she wouldn’t want her death to ruin my life. As you may have guessed, there’s nothing wrong with either of these things. The only “right” way to grieve is exactly how you’re doing it.
Some days, I talk about her a lot. You’ll hear me say, “my mom did this..” Or “my mom used to say…” all day long, and that feels good. Some days, I talk about her a lot, and it feels terrible. Like I’m stabbing myself every time I mention her. But either way, I think it’s important I do it. It’s important to me that she isn’t forgotten, and she lives on through me. It’s important to me that everyone knows I had a mom. I have a mom. She’s just not here anymore. I got into a bad habit at first, saying, “I don’t have a mom anymore.” That’s not true, though. I have a mom. She guides me every day. She’s the reason why I get worried if someone doesn’t answer my calls. She’s the reason I brush my teeth twice a day. She’s the reason I start craving crab legs as soon as it gets warmer outside, and she’s the reason I try and script what everyone else should say for them. She’s my empathy and my concern. She’s my short temper and fierce love. She is all of me, and that is an honor.
I still have moments when the absolute unfairness of it all strikes me. Why did my mom have to die? Why didn’t I get to say goodbye? Why was our last conversation a petty fight? Why do I have to lose my mom when other people get to keep theirs? Why did I have to lose so much? Why me? Why her? I still don’t have these answers, and unfortunately, I never will. It makes me sick inside to think too hard about it, but some days are better than others.
I have a job that I love. I’m doing exactly what I went to school for, and I’m having so much fun doing it. I feel fulfilled and proud of myself every day. It kills me that she can’t be here to see it. I have a budget that I am incredibly proud of. I have never been good at money, which terrified her, but I have a strict budget that I stick to now. I have a savings account, an IRA, a life insurance policy, and I invest. She doesn’t get to be here to see that and be proud of me. I want to hear her, cautious but proud, telling me what a good job I’m doing. It isn’t fair, and it hurts. I want to share these things and more with her, but I don’t get that opportunity anymore. I can talk to the wind or find her in my dreams, but I will never get to see her face and hear her voice again, and that’s the biggest injustice I can think of.
Sometimes, on better days, I can see the good in all the bad. The silver linings, if you will. Despite how much I have lost, I have also gained so much. I have never felt more loved and protected in my entire life. My friends more than stepped up the to plate. I will never forget the things they did for me, from providing my family with food, helping coordinate the funeral and after-funeral reception, and sitting with me (even when I didn’t say anything, even while I just slept.) They made themselves available to me 24/7 and made sure I was never alone for too long. Jed, the love of my life, has done more for me than I could ever write down. He stepped up as a full-time cook and maid, on top of helping me feel safe and secure and loved and taking care of his own needs, family, and friends. I will never be able to repay him for that. My family, though much smaller, is much closer now. If you know my dad, you know he’s not a man of many emotions. That has changed in the past six months. He’ll never be my mom, and we both know that, but he’s taken on the role of advisor and emotional support person. These spots were vacated when my mom died, and I never thought I’d have them again. I am so grateful to my dad for stepping out of his comfort zone and help me fill these holes in my heart.
I am missing pieces of my heart. That will always be true. But it doesn’t make me broken, and that has been the most meaningful lesson I have ever learned.
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