Grieving

So I have now begun to move through this thing they call a cycle of grief. And because each loss is unique, each person experiences it differently, so they say. At first, just a numb fog. Then lots of emotions, all the time. Each day is unpredictable. But what has impacted me the most is how terribly ill equipped most people are for being with someone who is grieving. Oh sure, the first couple of weeks people expect you to cry, and they put their arms around you and listen to you. But then, suddenly, people think you should be all better now. And they begin to try to cheer you up. They say things that are completely insensitive, like, “Are you all better now?” or “Look at the bright side.” What? OK, my dog didn’t just die, it was my Mother. Or they say nothing. Do nothing. Avoid the topic. That’s harder to take. It was my Mother. It’s me. It’s my Dad. We deserve acknowledgement, validation that it’s OK to feel this loss. It’s easier for me to avoid people than feel the pressure to be OK when I am not, or worse, to be alone in the crowd. The real truth is: people are ready to stop listening long before you are ready to stop talking…

TERRIBLE NEWS

Two weeks ago I lost my Mother. Not lost really; she died. Passed away, lost, no longer with us; all nice ways to say a terrible thing: she is gone, suddenly, without any warning. Gone.

Usually writing has a cathartic effect on me. But I can’t even write about this. Not this. It’s too soon, too awful, too raw.

Two days ago, I cut my hand. One of those deep, jagged kind of cuts that just won’t stop bleeding. Then I thought this is how it is with my Mother. People want to give me advice or encouragement to help me cope, or heal. But I can’t do that. Like my cut, I cannot begin to tend to the wound, until it stops bleeding. Something I have no control over. It’s not ready. I can only apply pressure, but it continues to bleed. Each morning when I wake, I think “could it be…?” No, then I remember: it’s not a dream; it is real.

The bleeding finally stops in my cut and I began to tend to it, change the dressing twice daily. Wash it gently, apply peroxide, a thin layer of antibiotic ointment, a clean bandage, and then wrap securely. It starts to look better. The healing begins. Over time it will mend, leaving a jagged mark in its wake. A cut like that never repairs itself invisibly. The scar is forever. Just like my Mom. I’ll never be the same.