Vulnerability, Part 2

I lost my mom on January 25th, 2024. It was the day my heart shattered into thousands of tiny pieces. Witnessing the irregular, jagged process of dying helped me understand and appreciate my inner strength, but when the final breath came, I felt like every ounce of strength I had stored up like a squirrel planning for winter vanished in the blink of an eye.

In its place, Grief came to stay, settling into my body like an unwelcome house guest. I was anticipating loss, and yet when the first stroke of midnight chimed, there was little I could do to stave off this faceless henchman of grief. It scuffed its shoes across the floor of my brain, piercing my heart, numbing my body, and rattling my bones. It’s footprints left a weighty feeling that seeped into every pore of my body, bringing with it an iciness that crawled down my limbs, a burning that singed the lobes of my ears, and a tightness that compressed my lungs like a boa constrictor.

It begged me to cry, and I acquiesced as the tightness overtook me. I had no choice but to allow the tears to stream down my face, puddling into my clasped hands that sat shaking in my lap. I can still taste the salty liquid on my lips, an elixir that temporarily dulled the pain and quieted the roar of loss; Loss of the love that sustained me, the encouraging words I would never again hear, the hugs I would no longer receive, and the understanding that only my mom could provide. I was grieving my first heartbeat.

For a long time, I had no words to express this emotional whirlwind that swirled inside of me. I couldn’t put words – verbal or written – to the sounds and feelings I associated with the grief I was experiencing. What was extra frustrating was that just as I felt like I was coming to terms with the purity of grief,  feelings of shame, embarrassment and concern started infusing themselves into the mixture and I began to worry that other people might be dealing with “bigger” grief. Is mine big enough, worthy enough to talk about? Am I just a tender-hearted girl who is wrapping the world around her own grief? It was so hard to know and just pushed all of the grief back down into my body.

When I was asked the inevitable but punishing question, “How are you doing?”, I’d thoughtlessly say, “I’m doing okay.” Okay is such a dulling word. It diffused the connection I could have had with the inquirer. It erected a wall of legos between me and the world. It became a defense mechanism, all because I didn’t know what grief sounded like outside of my head. I only knew it by sound, touch, and feeling. It was indescribable. It was personal. It was lonely.

Ands yet, I didn’t want to be alone. I desperately wished someone could hold me and feel the grief with me, absorb some of it and weaken it through our collective effort. Now, when I see someone grieving, that is all I wish I could do – act like a sponge and take it all away. But that isn’t how grief works.

It’s like that book, “Going on a Bear Hunt.” There are so many obstacles during their storybook journey that they want to skirt around. Instead, the moral is always that you can’t go over it. You can’t go under it. You have to go through it. But, let’s be honest. It is always nicer to do that holding someone’s hand, especially your mom’s.