Years and years ago, when someone experienced a great loss, they wore black for a year to indicate they were in mourning. Clearly this is no longer a fashion choice, but I wish there was a way to show that the grief of losing someone that takes up a huge portion of your soul has not ended because a certain amount of time has passed.
I lost my mom in 2013 to cancer. It took her life in three years. She fought it and she fought it hard. I've never known anyone sp strong. She was frightened of death, but she refused to admit it. I was terrified of losing her and, even though I tried to work through some of the grief I would be feeling after she was gone, I still was devastated when the loss finally happened.
For the first few months, I was numb. I didn't understand where the pain was and the hurt and the crying. Why wasn't I falling apart? And then I read her journal on the first anniversary after her death and found out. My grief and pain were hiding behind a protective layer of "this didn't really happen; she's coming back." Grief is not logical.
My mother was an incredibly important part of my life. I talked to her almost every day, no matter how far apart we lived. She had a special relationship with my kids, especially my youngest, who has autism. She died when he was fourteen and his memories are fading. But I have emails they wrote back and forth. I have her words on paper. I find old emails she sent me. Those words are my connection to the only mother I will ever have.
When I go to the cemetery (which is not as often as I want to but going is SO hard), I don't pray to God. I don't know God. We weren't a religious family. We followed Christian values, but we weren't church people. So I don't know what I believe. Something started the universe and that has to be a force beyond reckoning. But I don't feel that presence is following what each and every one of the 6 billion people on earth can possibly be interested in what is going on in our little lives.
When I go to the cemetery, I "pray" to my mom. I talk to her like she's still here. I tell her how angry I am at the cancer that killed her. I tell her what's bothering me. I tell her how much I miss her. I tell her how proud she would be of her youngest grandchild. And I ask her to let me know somehow that she is proud of me.
I found a birthday card that she sent me a couple of years before she died. Her handwriting in it says that she and my dad are so proud of me. I want that handwriting tattooed on the inside of my arm. I want to see everyday that she believed in me, even though I have such severe mental illness and most days can't even cope with going outside. The illness gets worse with age, not better, because I have bad reactions to the medications that would make it bearable. So some days, I am mostly white knuckling it.
She would have been 77 on March 2. She had so many more quilts she wanted to make. She wanted more time with my dad. She wanted to see her grandchildren grow up and see how much my youngest was able to accomplished.
I know if she is still here in some way, she is very proud of what my autistic son has achieved. And I hope she would be proud of the work I have done to get every single benefit available to him to help him become a contributing, independent member of society. He has been my full time job for the last 16 years. That job will end this summer when he leaves for college. And I'm not sure who I will be then. I hope my mom can somehow guide me.
Mom, I wish you were here. Five years is just too long. And the more time that passes, the more bitter and angry I am that cancer took you away from me.
I still need my mother.
No comments:
Post a Comment