Yesterday, I received a thoughtful email from Tia, a former contributor to my Pet Tales column that runs weekly in the San Francisco Chronicle. She reads my Blog and noticed I haven’t been writing much lately. She also shared that she lost her own mother 12 years ago and her father 16 years ago, and to this day she's still not quite over it."I've given up thinking that it will ever change," Tia said. "So I just live with it." But she understands how losing a parent feels, and was just checking in to say hi, see how I'm doing. I appreciate that, I really do.
Here’s the thing: writing is cathartic. I usually address what’s on my mind and in my heart. And these days, both are so heavy with grief that I can hardly motivate myself to do anything other than the bare essentials to keep me going.
How am I doing?
Well, my sister (second from left in the above photo) and I tried grief counseling, but dropped it after a couple sessions when we noticed that the counselor was fishing for family skeletons. Really lady, there aren’t any, we wanted to say. We’re just two daughters mourning the loss of our mom. We didn’t tell her that, but afterwards, we agreed to save the $165 per hour she was charging and spend it on something more therapeutic, like massages. Come January, we’re going to need to unwind after we start cleaning and emptying mom’s beloved home of 40 years. It's a task we're truly dreading.
In lieu of grief therapy, I’m turning to recommended books. One is “When Parents Die: A Guide for Adults" by Edward Myers. It's comforting to read that my emotions and reactions are typical and that I'm not alone. Or crazy, like it sometimes feels. Sudden death is especially difficult to deal with, the author notes. He also cautions that the grieving process typically lasts up to two years. It's been just two months. I can't imagine two years of living with this ache in my heart. And yet I can't imagine ever feeling normal again. Ever NOT missing mom.
Yesterday morning at Starbucks, I saw an older woman with short curly gray hair and wearing the same type of sweatshirt and jeans that mom was so fond of. And I remembered one of her simple pleasures: every single morning, she piled the dogs, Lucy and Holden, into the back seat of her Corolla, and with their happy heads wagging out the window, she took them for a drive, much to the amused delight of all her neighbors who witnessed this daily trek. Then she wrapped up their field trip with a stop at Starbucks for a Chai Tea latte.
For just the briefest of seconds, I wanted to call mom and tell her I'd seen her twin. And then I remembered. The pain washed anew, like it just happened yesterday, and in the Starbucks parking lot I fought back the tears.
It will take time, I know. And I'm trying, really I am. Thank you for asking.
And that's how I'm doing.
4 comments:
Tony still has those moments of wanting to call his mom and tell her something. It's been a year and a half.
Love you, sweetie.
Eileen,
Thank you so much for sharing your story and memory of your Mom and her dogs.... So now I see where you get your love of animals!!
Keep sharing!!! You have a rare gift.... your ability to bare your soul and your journey of grief with humor and pathos...A journey that touches all of us at some time.
And, it is in our stories that we keep our loved ones close to our hearts.
Your BFF,
Tia
Please accept my heartfelt condolences on the loss of your beloved mother. Mine passed away last 11/12 and, even though she was 79, she wasn't ready to go. When she was alive, I never had a chance to miss her because she was such a force in my life. Now I miss her every day. I'm sorry that you had such a bad experience with the grief counselor and swapping her for massages sounds like a really good idea. I had a very positive experience with a small grief group offered by Hospice by the Bay (no affiliation required). One of the things that I learned is that your relationship doesn't end when someone dies, it changes. Sending you a BIG hug for the hurt and loneliness you're feeling. You'll always miss her but with time there will be less pain and more comfort. Be gentle with yourself.
Dad use to say that about my sister, Eileen, and her rare gift and ability to bare her soul through her writing. He was so proud of Eileen and always said you she was going to go places with her writing. My big sister remember when we picked Mom's ashes from the mortuary, placed her urn in the car and drove to get grieve counseling. While sitting in the waiting room I wanted laughter not sadness, so I walked up to you and said "I can really freak the counseler out and say we're going to have to cut this short, mom is waiting in the car for us" I loved your laughter!
Post a Comment