Grief's Sacred Passage
“Remember, love never dies and spirit knows no loss.”
Without Warning
As I struggled to lift myself out of the tub, I thought of my mother. My mother loved a good bath. I immediately flashed back to June 27, 2011 — my mother’s last birthday.
She’d driven up to my house and then we went to a charming, little bed-and-breakfast nearby for lunch. I remember sensing a distance, a lack of her usual engagement. Several times I felt the urge to reach over and touch her hand to ask her if she was okay — but I didn’t.
Afterward, we headed to the barn to see Peanut Butter, my horse, to feed her a carrot and pet her nose. As Mother moved around Peanut’s stall, I detected a frailty about the woman who’d always been my strength and support. It was uncharacteristic, foreign actually, despite her 83 years.
She was missing her usual spunk and I thought about how my father’s fall in December, his subsequent shoulder surgery, and his slow recovery over the past six months, had really drained her.
When she headed home in her little red Mercedes, I said a prayer for her safe arrival just 30 minutes away. I was feeling bad that I’d asked her to drive up to my place to celebrate her birthday. It seemed like I’d asked a lot of her, even though she would never have said so.
Several weeks later, my father made the difficult decision to undergo a second surgery on his shoulder. It had not healed properly and needed to be rebuilt. The surgery was risky for someone of his age and condition; and we all prayed that he’d survive it.
Mom insisted we get the family together for photos before Dad’s surgery. She’d gotten her hair done for the pictures and was disappointed with how light the rinse had turned out. We all teased her about “going blonde,” and agreed that it certainly looked different.
After the photos were taken, my two sisters and I gathered with Mom and Dad on their back patio to discuss their estate. My mother talked about how someday they’d both be gone and how they hoped we girls would remain friends and continue to love each other. I felt uncomfortable hearing her talk about death, especially with my father’s impending surgery.
My father survived with steady vitals. We girls waited and played mahjong as we’d done all the other times when Dad was in the hospital. After the doctors emerged to announce their success, we walked to a nearby restaurant for a much needed, late lunch.
We were all very relieved. And tired. But there was something off about my mother, something very strange. It felt like she wasn’t really there. She seemed almost transparent. There was no weight to her energy, her hair was very pale and her skin looked fragile, like parchment.
I felt my heart move into my throat. I sensed for just a moment that my mother was fading away. Immediately, I stuffed down my fear and shook off my observations.
We brought my father home a couple of days later. We made him comfortable in his favorite chair and then he dozed to the sound of us girls once again playing mahjong. I experienced such a sense of relief and peace, as the love and laughter of our family prevailed.
Eventually, I told the others to continue the game without me. I had a meeting that I felt obligated to keep even though I had to force myself to leave.
As I reluctantly drove away, I was aware of my intuitive voice pleading with me to relinquish “my responsibility” and return to my family’s house — but I ignored it.
Early the next morning on the way home from my workout class, I felt a sudden and desperate urge to talk to my mother. When I called the house, my older sister answered. I asked to speak to Mom, my urgency now in my throat. For some reason, my heart was beating rapidly and I was having difficulty breathing.
The tone of her voice made me panic when she told me Mom couldn’t come to the phone. She said Mother had awakened earlier that morning with an ache in her back. She refused to go to the hospital but agreed to have our younger sister take her to the family doctor.
I immediately turned my car around and headed to my folk’s house. I had to keep reminding myself to breathe and focus on my driving. When I pulled into their driveway, I was filled with dread and struggled to compose myself before I went in.
My older sister met me at the door and held me as she told me the news. Less than two months after we’d celebrated her birthday, our precious mother was gone. With our younger sister holding her hand, our mother slipped away at the doctor’s office, without fight or fanfare. Her heart had simply given out.
My mother’s light, her beautiful, radiant light … just switched off.
Questioning My Sanity
“Sometimes others turn from my pain. I hear them offering to help, but I see them slipping away in another direction, afraid to stand by me in such a terrifying place. It is then that I must preciously guard my own process, and find my way, not based on another’s estimation, but chosen for my own comfort’s sake.”
~ Molly Fumia
The shock of my mother leaving so unexpectedly left me feeling lost and unsafe.
Where was my confidant? Who would I turn to when I felt afraid or upset? Who would listen to me now without judgement? How could it be, that she was no longer here to hug me and remind me of how very much I am loved?
I felt incapable of comprehending this new reality. I didn’t understand how the world could keep on ticking, keep on pushing around me, as if no one or nothing had changed. It was as if the grief that consumed me was somehow not obvious, that the implosion of my heart could not be seen, and my loss of all that was familiar was insignificant to everyone, but me.
Just yesterday someone I hadn’t seen for a while greeted me warmly and asked, “So are you better now?”
I admit I was taken aback and not quite sure how to respond. It had only been a couple of months since my life had turned inside out without Mother. Had I made progress on my journey with grief? Was I accepting of what I felt now? Was it necessary for me to assess my grief? Was there something here to be measured?
This evening, I shoveled snow. The air was clean, clear, and crisp. I quietly acknowledged the cleared rows of my accomplishment and recognized how quickly new flakes diminished my success.
Tears, thoughts of Mother, and a memory: I pictured her shoveling the front walk of our childhood home. The navy and gold, wool scarf she’d had since she was a kid was swaddled around her head covering her mouth. I recognized the familiar flowing rhythm of her shoveling; and it made me smile.
And then the veil dropped. My heart and head were flooded with sadness; and the aching reminder of her passing, returned.
The snow continues.
Time continues.
I continue, forward … without her.
My New Companion
My grief came (and still comes) in waves — sometimes I wanted to shout at the top of my lungs, or run, or hide. Then, for little glimmers of time, I experienced acceptance and even surrendered to its embrace. Grief, my new companion, created a space for my forgiveness and conquered my regrets.
Prayer, permission to weep, and journaling my thoughts and feelings, seemed to give me some solace. Being in nature helped, too. Whether walking, or being still with Mother Earth and her living creatures; I felt a spiritual connection to my mother.
My father had his own angry grief. My sisters, too, struggled to find their way. We clung to each other in our desperation to preserve some semblance of Mother’s presence and loving heart.
My sisters and I took turns caring for our ailing father until his death less than two years later. Though his shoulder healed, he struggled with his ongoing melanoma, and his broken heart. There was such a focus on managing his care and balancing my life that grieving Mother seemed, at times, to be something I’d have to get to later.
I began to feel my connection with her slipping away, much like her life did, although so abruptly at the end. I felt a growing gnawing at the back of my throat. It was like a yearning for a fresh memory to help me remember her. Then one night, my unspoken prayer was answered:
Ten months after your death, Mother, you came to me. My precious daughter Hannah and I were at a transformational seminar and we had experienced an emotionally challenging day. We spent the evening in our hotel room talking and attempting to soothe each other.
Exhausted, I settled into bed; though my adrenaline was still pumping. My breath came intermittently. I had to continuously remind myself to just keep breathing. Finally I let go and fell into a fitful sleep. My last conscious thought was that of my deep, familiar ache for you, Mother.
In the very early morning, I awakened. I was lying on my back and could hear Hannah’s soft breathing from the next bed. And then I felt you, Mother!
Your soft downy essence was of no measurable weight, yet you had an identifiable warmth and sweet scent. You caressed my face, easing my stress and struggle. My forehead and jaw relaxed; my skin felt soft, youthful.
Your energetic warmth continued down my body until you had cloaked me like a cocoon. I felt safe in your unwavering strength Mom, and deliciously happy and content.
I know I was smiling, Mother. You suspended me tenderly within your presence. I felt your comforting peace and immense love. As I marveled and allowed myself to soak in “all that is you,” I drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep.
Thank you, Mother, for coming to me. Thank you for your love and comfort. Thank you for showing me that you are still here …
A New Norm
“I’ve learned that grief can be a slow ache that never seems to stop rising, yet as we grieve, those we love mysteriously become more and more a part of who we are. In this way, grief is yet another song the heart must sing to open the gate for all there is.”
~ Mark Nepo, The Book of Awakening
Coming up on the 5th anniversary of my mother’s death, I recognize how my relationship with both my grief, and my mother, has changed. Although I still ache for her physical touch, and dream about her warm, contagious smile; I hear her voice and laughter everywhere.
She speaks to me though music and the rustle of the wind. I see her love and beauty in each colorful flower and billowy cloud. She catches my attention by laying feathers in my path, or pennies at my feet.
My mother lives on in me, within my heart and memories. Through grief’s sacred passage, I celebrate with my mother — a spiritual bond and an everlasting love.
I love you, Smiley.
“Grief keeps the heart fluid and soft, which helps make compassion possible.” - Francis Ward Weller
I’ve learned our relationship with grief opens us up to knowing a deeper sense of self, of our true heart. Allowing ourselves to honor this relationship is a meaningful journey in itself.
If you’d like a partner to help you be kind and loving with yourself along the way, Click here to schedule a 30 min consultation to see how I might support you with that.
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