I LOST MY MOM FIVE MONTHS AGO

Grief is not an episode of depression, although it can be episodic. It is not a period of loneliness. It is not a moment in time or a phase. Grief is a part of you. From the instant you lose someone, you are different. You are not the same person you were and never will be again, not entirely.

To grieve is to be uncomfortable. Unsettled. Unpredictable. To grieve is to cry and scream and  grow mad and perplexed when your voice echoes back because the person you need isn’t on the other end of the phone. They are not a drive or quick flight away. 

My mother died of cancer a few weeks after my 24th birthday, on a hospital bed in our living room. I kneeled next to her as a hospice care nurse somberly sat on the couch behind me. For her nurse, this was another day. Another shift. Another phone call to make. Another form to fill out and procedure to follow. It was familiar. For me, it was the exact instance my life became extraordinarily unrecognizable. The lines between reality and nightmare intertwined.

To grieve is to cry and scream and  grow mad and perplexed when your voice echoes back because the person you need isn’t on the other end of the phone.

Abigail Thomas

The several days leading up to her death, the amount of people in our home was overwhelming. Family members, hospice nurses, chaplains, social workers. I was medicating her every two hours; crushing up pills, recording the dosage, and measuring out the morphine. I was tired. I was scared. I wanted to hear her voice. I wanted to see her spark. I wanted her to tell me what to do to make all the people leave our house. But when it was clear her breathing was slowing, and death was rapidly upon us, my mom even in all her pain and inabilities, sent me a miracle: A moment with just me, mother and daughter together again. She waited until everyone else had left the room (besides the hospice nurse) to transition to her next journey. 

I held her hand as she passed and told her I loved her. It was not the same hand I had grown up with. It was fragile. The temperature was different. The texture too. I told her it was okay if she needed to go. It was the two of us. It would always be the two of us.

I still get to see her sometimes when I look in the mirror. I see her reflection in my small, button nose and my round cheeks. I feel her in the texture of my curls, which are longer versions of hers. I see her in the wide shape of my hips and the thickness of my thighs. Sometimes it brings me a smile; other times a swelling pressure to hurry, pick myself up, and continue what she started. She is a part of me and me of her. I am my own story and always, still, a continuation of hers. 

But there are also times I look in the mirror and I don’t see her at all. I don’t even see me. Instead, I see bags under my eyes. I see flushed skin. I see knotted, unkempt hair and a droopy face. Because sometimes, I don’t sleep. I look in the mirror and I see a tiny little stomach and tiny, fragile little legs. Because sometimes I can’t eat. Sometimes I can’t even remember the last time I thought about eating or found it pleasurable.

She is a part of me and me of her. I am my own story and always, still, a continuation of hers.

Abigail Thomas

Sometimes I don’t shower. Sometimes I don’t detangle my hair. Sometimes I don’t wear makeup. Because to grieve, sometimes, means to have no energy. To have no desire. There is no outfit, no product, no healthy habit or wellness routine that could successfully mask the torture that is grief. 

Grief is every bit physical as it is internal. For many many months, I was irritable. My legs would shake uncontrollably. Sitting still was an impossible task. Time did not exist. One minute lasted what felt like hours. I felt like a chameleon as I watched my skin turn so pale it blended in with the dragging winter. My immune system shut down. I felt anxious and irrational and scared, and became afraid of myself. I did not understand what I was turning into. My heart and my body moved at a pace my mind could never catch up to. My patience and groundedness I had always valued in myself were suddenly buried deep beneath angst and rage. I could not tell if grief created it, or revealed it. I remember throwing items across the room. I remember punching my pillow. I remember taking a drive because my car was the only place I could scream at the top of my lungs without terrifying the people around me. 

Suddenly, the smallest of sounds would startle me and make me jump. Suddenly, I felt like a child again. A child without her mom. Lost.

To grieve is to be exhausted. To be unprepared. It is to watch time fast-forward at rapid speed and yet simultaneously come to a complete halt.

Abigail Thomas

I remember so clearly the last time she smiled at me. She couldn’t speak. But that smile was her way of telling me she loved me. She was a passenger in her own body; not in control of her destination nor the journey. Her breath was heavy. It was slower, louder, scarier. Her mouth was open. Her eyes hazy. But she was still in there. She knew. She knew she was going home to her Lord and Savior, the place she had been longing to go.  

The funeral was quite formal. Black dresses. Open casket. Calling hours. Memorial service followed by the procession of cars to the burial site, accented with purple flags. The family dinner afterward. 

That’s when I learned, to grieve is to be exhausted. To be unprepared. It is to watch time fast-forward at rapid speed and yet simultaneously come to a complete halt. It’s to crave self-care while handling affairs and saying out loud “My mom died” to ten different billing departments with a pen and death certificate in my hand. It is to say “thank you” over and over and over to people you don’t talk to and don’t know. Grief is digging through old items in search of bills and documentation and memorabilia in attempts to summarize a lifetime of love and companionship into what will fit into a drawer, or look nice on a mantle, or potentially be useful when I call her health insurance provider. It is to wallow in old photos and voicemails and text messages and letters and anything with a trace of her presence.

To grieve is to grow up faster than you’re ready. To show up for yourself because not everyone will. Because their lives keep moving. And their understanding of your grief is limited. They will tell you that you’re strong. But strength means little if happiness doesn’t accompany it.

Abigail Thomas

To grieve is to adapt. Some changes are small, but gut wrenching nonetheless. Like when “is” becomes “was.” My mom was a woman of God. She was always falling asleep with the TV on. Some changes are big. Like not being able to pick up the phone and gossip about my day. Or not being engulfed by her classic mom hugs where she squeezed you oh so tight and left lipstick imprinted on your cheek. Or not receiving one of her homemade cards. Or not being able to see her reaction when I tell her good news. Or not being able to–

To grieve is to question. To question death. To question life. To question your newfound identity. To question if the previous “you” was good enough for the deceased. To question if you gave enough. It is to have questions you’ll never get the answers to, or at least not the ones you want. Questions that lead to bad dreams and dark thoughts and unforgiving guilt. 

To grieve is to grow up faster than you’re ready. To show up for yourself because not everyone will. Because their lives keep moving. And their understanding of your grief is limited. They will tell you that you’re strong. But strength means little if happiness doesn’t accompany it. 

To grieve is to seek distractions. To seek signs. To seek clarity. To seek companionship. To seek connection. To seek love—pure, rich, deep love. 

I lost my mom five months ago, and I am still grieving. I am still wafting through the loneliness and emptiness. I don’t imagine that ever stops. I’m still waiting for signs and answers. I don’t know how healing works. And that’s the thing about grief. You don’t get to know. You don’t get to choose. You just endure. You ebb and flow. You wait until the present world slows down so you can try to join it—to somehow simultaneously live in the past you so desperately miss. You accept that life is beautiful and ugly. To take it day by day by day. 

Today, I know our love was the truest love I’ve ever known. I’m happy I still find pieces of her everywhere. 

photo provided by Abigail, of her mom.