In theory, I should have been prepared for the grief. We’d known the end was coming, and I’d been the one to get the call that there was nothing left to do. I’d been the one to sign the papers for it, and I’d been the one who had to look her in her beautiful face and tell her it was time for hospice, when she’d been in physical therapy the day before. Besides. It was cancer. What kind of happy ending was I expecting?
It wasn’t about a happy ending, however. I never expected a miracle. What I did expect, though, was the five years I was promised only two years ago. And when that was no longer possible, I clung to the six months we were given only two weeks before we lost her.
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What I didn’t expect, what I couldn’t wrap my brain around, was that one day I would wake up to an entirely new reality. One where nothing made sense anymore, and nothing was right.
In all honesty, I thought I was prepared. When we were told we were down to days with her, I don’t think there was an hour a day I wasn’t sobbing, my heart breaking for what I was losing. For her, and what she had to be going through. Because I knew how much she wanted to stay and be here with us.
Yeah. I’d thought I was prepared. It turns out, though, that you can’t be ready for what it feels like when it finally happens, and you lose your mom.
You Don’t Just Lose Your Mom. You Lose The Person Who Loves You Most In The World.
I know my dad loves me. I know my husband loves me, and I know my girls love me. But as a mom myself, I know with absolute certainty that no matter how much someone loves my daughters’, it will never compare to what I feel for them. It may be just as big, just as strong, but it will never be the same. I carried them in my body, I gave birth to them, I raised them and protected them and punished them. The explosive diapers, the crying that sometimes seemed to go on for days, the temper tantrums, the snotty noses, the hugs and kisses, the cuddles when they were sick…all the ups and downs. It builds to a bond that transcends love, to become it’s own, tangible thing that you can’t explain until someone experiences it for themselves.
So I know no one will ever, ever love me as much as my mom did. It isn’t a complaint, or a judgment of how my family loves me. Your mom loves you first, and she loves you the most. It’s the way it’s supposed to be. And even without realizing it, you count on that love always being there. It comforts you with it’s weight, knowing Mom is always there to make you feel better when you need her. But when that feeling is gone, it feels like it destroys the very fabric of your life.
We Are Almost At Five Months, And I’m Still Waiting For The “Waves” Of Grief.
So far, there aren’t waves. It doesn’t ebb and flow, hitting me at random moments. That would mean it wasn’t always right there, threatening to cave my chest in. The moments between the stabs of pain may be getting longer, but I am never–ever–more than two seconds away from crying.
I’m making plans and putting one foot in front of the other and smiling and talking and breathing and eating, but it’s all pretend. It’s automatic. It doesn’t mean anything.
Because I’m not okay.
Nothing Feels The Same Anymore, Because There Are Memories Everywhere.
I’m not going to lie, in the last month alone, I’ve broken down sobbing in the middle of the toddler section of Meijer because they had their Easter dresses out, and my mom loved Easter. And buying clothes for her grandkids and great-granddaughter.
Earlier this week, I walked into the Disney Store for the first time in a couple of years, and immediately started bawling. Mom was the only person I knew who loved Disney as much as I did. (She wasn’t a movie theather person, but I dragged her to see The Lion King with me at least three times.)
Then there was Hobby Lobby. Until this week, I maybe set foot in that store without her once. And I’m pretty sure I was still on the phone with her almost the whole time.
Hell, even my trip to Menard’s with the hero yesterday hurt. I’m redecorating my bedroom and looking for a new ceiling light, and shopping for the house without her is not something I thought to prepare for.
On top of all that, there’s the car rides. I hate talking on the phone 99% of the time, except when I’m driving. So if she wasn’t with me when I was in the car, I called her while I was driving just to talk.
I Didn’t Just Lose Her From My Life One Time, I Lose Her Again With Every New Memory I Make Without Her
I thought the grief would be hyper-focused on just the fact that she’s not here anymore. I never realized how many times a day my heart would break all over again, over the littlest things. And to have all these new memories without her, and without her here to share them with, it’s like constantly losing her all over again. I keep putting one foot in front of the other, creating new moments, new memories, new stories, and living this life she gave me, but every step and every moment hurts. Because I can’t share them with her.
People Keep Telling Me It Will Get Easier, But I Don’t Understand How
In theory, I get it. Time heals all wounds, right? So yeah, in theory, I understand. But in my head, and my heart, it doesn’t make sense. If it hurts this much when it’s ‘only’ been five months, how is more time without her going to feel better? How will six months be easier than five?
I don’t know. Maybe it will. Maybe I will hit some magical number where suddenly, the crushing weight on my chest will have eased and just thinking of her won’t have me breaking down into gasping sobs. I mean, I can go entire days occasionally now without crying, so I guess it makes sense that eventually it won’t be so damn overwhelming. But I can’t see that being any easier, honestly. I don’t want to ever not miss her.
So, basically…it’s been almost five months, and I still have no idea what I’m doing. I just know while everything feels wrong now, I’m still the daughter of a warrior, and she wouldn’t want me to give up.
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