Riding the Waves
When she passed in June, I thought there would be a seismic shift in my emotional state… that after 10 years of intimate caregiving, Mom’s death would leave me gutted with grief and I would be totally adrift without my maternal anchor.
Four months post-death, and - not really.
The grief has come in waves; a tsunami in the first few hours, white caps in the ensuing days, and now, like consistent little curls lapping at the shore. Arriving at the latest stage of grief so readily has given me pause… Perhaps I’m not sad enough at the loss of my mother? I reason that I must be suppressing my sorrow and, like the initial assault, it will surface again at some incredibly inopportune time. As someone who cries at cat food commercials, the alacrity with which I have seemingly arrived at acceptance seems almost abnormal.
But maybe not. Mom and I both knew her end was near, so our mutual expectations were reasonable. By the time her death actually dawned, we had already weathered a fair amount of pre-death grief together. We talked about dying – a lot. With the help of our local funeral home, we developed an action plan for the path to eternity, recording all her final wishes and instructions in a pink 3-ring binder. This was concrete evidence that I should be prepared for Mom’s eventual demise. And, I was.
Further, Mom’s death was unsurprising to either of us and, as she said many times, she was ready to go. I never doubted, and always respected, that fact. At 93, she felt she had done everything she ever wanted to do in life and with her failing physical health, she knew her future opportunities for action and adventure were limited. Over and over, Mom spoke of being tired… not in a 3pm-nap-time way, but in a my-body’s-broken way. Her declining physicality could be hard to watch at times, often with her wincing in pain. A part of me was relieved for her when she was permanently retired.
Through our shared time, Mom and I were able to resolve the outstanding childhood issues I brought into our neighboring/caregiving arrangement when it began; the air between us was clear. Resolution resulted not only from frequent conversation, but also as a result of my writing about her for three years. Most posts required a deep-dive into the depths of our relationship as a dynamic mother/daughter duo. With full veto authority, she might say, I never knew you felt that way, and a family history review would ensue, both of us offering distinctly different interpretations of our shared past. Like unintended couples therapy, our pre-post readings opened a path to mutual acceptance.
Mom believed whole-heartedly in God and the After Life, resolutely reasoning that departing this world would mean meeting up with lost loved ones in the next. She was pretty excited about that. I read a hospice brochure that said a dying person may appear as if they’re talking to dead people. In her final weeks, Mom would often open her eyes, smile, raise a finger, point, and follow something with her gaze before drifting off again. In those moments, I was sure she was seeing my father… my brother… her parents… I was also sure, she was happy for their visits.
I asked Mom once, “What does it feel like to know that you are going to die in the very foreseeable future?” Her response gave me a new perspective; she compared the end of life to having a baby. She explained that a pregnant woman has nine months to try the whole baby thing on… to get ready for this enormous change coming into her life. Similarly, by the time a woman turns 93, she’s had at least a decade to try death on… to reflect and to review. She doesn’t just wake up one day and say, Oh crap, I’m 93… She’s had time to gain some acceptance over the things she can’t change in life – including death. Maybe, through osmosis, I’ve absorbed Mom’s philosophy as a result of us being conjoined for so long.
No doubt, my emotional shore will be intermittently crashed by big, rogue waves in the years to come, and I’ll find myself swimming in sadness at times, but I think it’s ok to cancel my concern that I may not be morosely melancholy enough at the loss of my mother… that I’m some kind of an emotional aberrant. More aptly, I’m a practical person who’s processed Mom’s passing in a way that makes sense to me, and brings me comfort. Clearly, experiencing the death of a loved one is an intensely personal journey, and so far, acceptance has been the key to my own grief relief.