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| Photo by Timothy Dykes on Unsplash |
My Facebook memories remind me every day what I've posted for the past 11 years. For the past week, they've been reminding me that last year at this time I was in Iowa, spending my days in my mom's hospice room waiting for her body to shut down, after we'd taken her off life support, and my nights alone at her house. It sounds awful, but I don't know any other way to say it: I was waiting for her to die. In a different way this year, I've been waiting again. Waiting as the grief built again in anticipation of the anniversary of her death. Waiting for today.
The first time I felt anniversary grief was two years after my dad died suddenly at age 46 of a heart attack on the day the last episode of M.A.S.H. aired. I didn't even know he'd been sick. I was 24 and the oldest of five. I got the call at 1:00 pm and flew through the night from Georgia to Iowa. It was a life-changing education in growing the fuck up. It was several years before I could watch that last episode of M.A.S.H.
You might be wondering why the anniversary grief hit two years after and not one. That's because my grandma was dying at that time the next year. She died just two days short of a year after my dad died, and a day before her husband, my grandfather, had died in 1957. We held her funeral exactly a year from the day my dad died on February 28. (For those who struggle with math and care, my dad died on February 28, my grandpa on the 27th, and my grandma on the 26th. My uncle, son of this grandma and grandpa, was born on February 27. All of these deaths made his birthday difficult for him, no suprise.) I digress ....
It was simply more grief after a year of horrible, intense grieving. I was pregnant, as my mother had been with me when her father, my grandfather, died, so I borrowed the navy maternity dress with the white collar and red bow that we passed around base housing for just such occasions and flew home to Iowa again.
The next year the anniversary grief hit and I thought I was losing my mind. Nobody warned me. None of my friends in Georgia even knew how to support me. Nobody had been through the death of a parent.
I was so sad. I burst into tears for no reason. I couldn't focus. I felt anxious, like something horrible was going to happen. As the long days of February passed, the feeling built. But at some point I talked with my sister and my little brother and my mom and we realized we were all feeling crazy sad and anxious. And it struck me -- as if I had invented it -- that we were feeling anniversary grief.
It helped to know what was happening. And it helped the next year and the year after that when February rolled around like it does and we held our breath waiting for someone else to leave us.
This year I knew what to expect. When I found myself tearing up over small things the past couple of weeks, I knew why. And then the Facebook memories started, because I posted updates on my mom's Facebook page last year starting with her final stroke. I didn't post details, and I haven't been able to write about that yet. But I kept her friends and family informed most days.
I actually felt somewhat comforted to read those posts again. Grief causes us to pause and remember and feel. That's not a bad thing. Too often we try to push grief away or distract ourselves so we don't have to feel bad. But I'm OK with feeling my grief. It reminds me that I've lost someone I love. It reminds me that I'm human and I'm still here and this is one way I honor my loved ones who have passed on.
Today was hard though. Is hard, which is why I'm writing. I was at the dairy at the farmer's market where I work part-time, and I guess I wasn't my usual talkative self. I was busy and not really engaging except with customers, although I wasn't aware I was acting different. Not until Marshall, the chocolatier next to me, commented that I was awfully quiet today.
It struck me then that today was the day. I looked up from wiping down one of the coolers, but I couldn't say anything.
"Everything OK?" he asked.
I gave a little shake of my head. I could feel the tears coming. Not the place. Not the place. Not the place....
He came out from behind his counter and walked over to me. I don't think he even said anything. He just waited. My eyes filled with tears, but I didn't let one drop. Not the place.
After a couple of minutes I got control. "It's the anniversary of my mom's death last year," I said. I couldn't say anything else.
I didn't need to. He just nodded and waited to see if I wanted to talk. And then a customer walked up so I had to take a breath and put on my professional face. He went back to his counter.
When we were both free, he came over and held out a 2-pack of chocolate-covered cherries, one of my favorites. "Just take them and don't say anything," he said.
I did. I couldn't say anything anyway. Kindness hits me like grief sometimes, but I still couldn't cry there. Marshall doesn't do grief the same way I do. He doesn't have time for it. He thinks people should get over it. Which doesn't mean he doesn't feel things as deeply; he does. He just thinks death is a normal part of life and he doesn't like to dwell on it. The chocolate-covered cherries were his way of honoring my grief without putting me in the position of embarrassing myself.
At some point my youngest brother sent out an email to my mom's other four kids and her two step-sons reminding us that it's a difficult day, but he's grateful for his family and he loves us. My other brother and I answered that we were feeling it too. Again I didn't let the tears fall, but I felt them building.
Later yet Kelly, whom I sell kettle corn for other days, walked down from her store. She knew this day was coming up. Her mom died just a couple of months after mine, so we've shared our sadness through the year. She's got this day to look forward to as well. We shared a hug and some tears that neither of us let fall.
It helps to know others are on this journey too, that I'm not crazy like I thought I was after my dad died, that I have people in my life who honor my grief by just being with me and listening or texting or giving me chocolate-covered cherries.
It helps but it doesn't take away the grief.
I haven't written yet about my mom's last days and her death yet. I will. I need to. I will just write this much tonight.
One this day one year ago I was sitting with my mom in her hospice room. She hadn't been responsive all day. The lights were dim and I was playing quiet piano music on my phone. I had read to her from her Kindle for a while. Then I told her about some things that were going on in my life that I hadn't had a chance to tell her about before her final stroke. Finally I told her I was just going to read to myself. I sat beside her with my hand on her arm reading.
Her breathing had been rough all day, but it became more erratic. I put my book down and sat with her as she took her last breaths. It was difficult to watch her body finally give up, but it was also OK. It was her time and I was honored I could be there with her.
When it became apparent she wasn't going to take another breath, I said, "Goodbye, Mom. We're all going to be OK. I love you." And even though she hadn't taken a breath for at least a minute, her chin tilted up just a little, and I knew somehow she had heard me and she was letting me know she loved me too. A final gift of connection before she was gone.
Thanks for reading, if you got this far. Feel free to tell me about your anniversary grief or anything else in the comments.
Now I think I'm ready to go have that cry I've been holding back all day.
