Until we meet again…

My mother’s death isn’t something I survived. It’s something I’m still living through.
I haven’t fully processed the pain of losing her two years later, and I doubt I ever fully will. But it is slowly getting easier.

I was her child; she was my mom, and she was gone while I am still here…

For years, I had assumed I would be completely incapable of functioning after my mom died. I had no idea what my life would or even could look like after that. I couldn’t imagine it, just like I couldn’t imagine, when I was a kid, what it would be like to drive a car or go to college or even just be a grown up; it felt like I would just have to cease to exist when she did.

And yet, here I am, two years after my mom’s death, I don’t know if I’m thriving, or even “surthriving, But at least I’m no longer sleeping with the lights on while the “The Great British Baking Show” drone on at the edges of my consciousness … most of the time, anyway..

I did not do anything to survive her death except continue to stay alive. I certainly have not processed the pain, and I doubt I ever fully will; it’s all simmering just beneath my skin, ready to escape at the next WhatsApp status or even an Instagram story. The most important thing I learned about grief is that it isn’t linear, and it isn’t logical.

Still, my grief cruelly took away my ability to concentrate on books, movies or even any TV shows that required more than the bare minimum of intellectual processing. I had nothing left to invest emotionally or intellectually in anything I normally loved — or even anything I was once pleasantly distracted by. I flubbed an interview with a youtuber so disastrously, I still think about it late at night.

If this all sounds awfully familiar to you, it’s because we’re all grieving in some way.
The most important thing I learned about grief is that it isn’t linear, and it isn’t logical. You have to be very careful with yourself and with who you’re around, and you have to make sure they’re extra tender to you, too. Even the most big-hearted people will do or say the wrong thing; I still do it myself. Most of their missteps are forgivable, but you’ll decide which ones aren’t, and that’s important, too.

Special bonds were formed in the last two years between me and the friends who’ve also experienced the loss of their mothers; it’s a very particular, complicated sort of loss that can feel extra messy and ugly. And, let’s face it, not many people can tolerate hearing about the disgusting indignities of aging and death unless they get paid by the hour — nor should they. There is also a kind of relief that you feel after a death like that, and the relief feels shameful, but even the shame feels like a relief, sort of like popping a pimple.

 I’m no longer scared when the phone rings (mostly). When a famous person dies, I no longer calculate how much older or younger they were than my mom, as if that somehow affected her odds of survival.

This sounds horrible but, without the death of my mom — and specifically the experience of grieving her death, I would not have emotionally or mentally survived the pandemic. While I’m still no expert at tolerating discomfort, I’m better at it than I used to be. There’s not much else to do when you’re laying sideways across your bed at 4 a.m. staring at your window and feeling desperately, bitterly lonely. Plus, now I don’t have to worry about her during the pandemic; She had coronary artery disease while being immunity prone making her high risk for Covid-19.

By the end of the day, I was her child; she was my mom, and she was gone while I am still here…Grief and love are conjoined. You don’t get one without the other. All I can do is love her and love the world, emulate her by living with spirit and joy…

Until we meet again dear Amma…