August 20, 2024

By: Erin Sullivan

Two years ago this week my mom passed away, and I think grief has muscle memory.  Over the last few days, I have been bombarded with memory snapshots of those last few weeks of her life.  I see the date and remember something specific about that day from two years ago.  July 29 – Mom and I had a dinner date night, eating Mexican chicken and watching “Three Amigos” complete with black and white sombreros.  We had watched that movie and eaten that dinner countless times over the years.  I didn’t know this would be the last time. August 13 – Mom and Dad sent the kids a surprise – a Whirley Pop Popcorn Maker with Gourmet Popcorn and plastic popcorn bowls.  The kids were so excited and jumped right in to make this special popcorn.  Little did we know this would be the last gift mom would send.  August 19 – my nephew celebrated his 1st birthday.  Pictures from that day captured a smiling mom holding her “blue-eyed” baby.  We couldn’t have guessed she would die a few days later, making those pictures the last we would get of her and her youngest grandchild.  

These memories are bittersweet, thankfully mostly sweet.  Already my mind is reliving those last few days of her life.  It’s a film I’d rather not watch again, but I suppose it is part of the grieving process.  Two years in, the grief is still fresh and sometimes raw.  I can still see the ambulance, red and blue lights flashing, coming up the driving.  I remember watching the paramedics carry her from the house, not realizing she would never be coming back.  I can still hear my dad’s choked up voice coming through the phone the next morning. “It’s going to be a hard day.”  I still feel the anxiety and the rush of getting to the hospital so my dad wouldn’t have to face the day alone.  I vividly recall the trepidation and sorrow of seeing my mom unconscious, hooked up to multiple machines, a ventilator breathing for her.  I can feel the warmth and softness of her hand as I grabbed it, knelt down next to her, and shed my tears of sadness.  

I could go on recalling all those memories and emotions of the day of her death and all the days following as we made funeral arrangements.  They’re right at the surface as the anniversary of her death approaches.  

I guess the point of today’s blog is to say I am learning that grief is a journey.  It comes in waves – sometimes gentle, lapping waves.  Other times, it feels like a tsunami, threatening to take me under.  Some days it is a physical pain.  Other times, it is a dull ache that is barely noticeable.  Some days grief shows up in joy – remembering the funny, endearing memories of a life well lived.  Other days, grief is nothing but sorrow, realizing how life has moved forward without my mom being present to experience it with me.

A friend of mine recommended “The Wilderness of Grief Finding Your Way,” by Alan D. Wolfelt, Ph.D.  As I was reading through, this passage stuck out to me because everyone has heard of and immortalized the stages of grief.  Dr. Wolfelt writes, “The concept of ‘stages’ was popularized in 1969 in Elizabeth Kubler-Ross’s landmark text, On Death and Dying.  In this important book, Dr. Kubler-Ross lists the five stages of grief she saw terminally ill patients experience in the face of their own impending deaths…[She] never intended for her stages to be interpreted as a rigid, linear sequence to be followed by all mourners.”

What I found so interesting is that these stages were experienced specifically by those who were dying, not the survivors.  For those that are terminal, there is an acceptance and an end to their grief, which comes with their death.  For the survivors, there can be acceptance, but that acceptance doesn’t bring with it an end to grief because the survivor must live on.  And living on with grief is life changing.  

I am not in the mental space right now to recount all the ways my life has changed following the death of my mom, and I know that my life and even myself will continue to change in the days and years ahead.  For today, it is enough to know that grief is a journey – one I am still walking, and as I continue this sojourn, I will hold my mom in my heart, celebrating the time we had together and the love we share.

May you find comfort, healing, and peace as you travel your own journey through grief.