The shock when my mother died suddenly knocked me into some alternative universe, rudderless and lost; if only I had my mother to help me through the experience. Even in the deepest grief, I remember thinking that everyone should go through this experience to better understand grief and that no person should ever have to endure such loss because the pain is almost unbearable.
It has been more than ten years since Valentine’s Day 2003, and I am a better person for having traveled the road of grief and loss. When my friend’s mother died five years earlier, I was unable to respond in ways that could be supportive or helpful to her. With no true understanding of the pain she felt I was completely useless and I knew it. Now when I meet someone who is grieving, I can empathize and be fully present for them in that loss; I no longer skirt the topic, avoid asking the big questions (like ‘How are you?’) or speak trite words of sympathy and wisdom. There is certainly a process to loss and grief, there is no right way or length of time, and we each manage to navigate it in our own way; but I’m pretty sure we don’t need to do it alone.
We Irish know how to grieve, after all, we’ve had hundreds of years to practice. As family and friends gathered to offer condolences and support, I heard previously untold anecdotes and loved to learn how the memories of her childhood friend differed from those of her recent neighbors. My aunt and I shared memories and laughed, we poked and prodded others and cried; we came to a deeper understanding of each other, of a mother and a sister, and we both discovered peace with Mum’s absence.
It was good to be reminded of her better qualities as she had died right in the middle of a meaningless argument. I struggled to come to terms with the contradiction – I deeply loved her and I disliked certain aspects of her; was it possible for both to be true? The thing is, I learned that others felt the same way and I no longer felt alone or a traitor. Funny how, in death, we can share the truth, even though we are warned to never speak ill of the dead.
In the immediate aftermath, it’s the little things that hurt the most – dressing, eating breakfast, shopping; days when it is impossible to stop crying and yet, I go to work, feed the children, smile at the grocery clerk. Those of us alive must live, and curling up on the sofa with chocolate and soppy films doesn’t count. People pop in, thoughtful enough to drop off a casserole, a bag of essential groceries, a hug. Regular phone calls serve as a reminder that the world still turns on its axis and losing a parent is the correct order of things. The kindness of others soothes and heals.
We humans do whatever it takes to remove pain – aspirin for a headache, ice on a sprained ankle and we expect a quick fix. Grief doesn’t fit into this paradigm. So how do we move through the initial weeks? With death comes a governmental process, the dull but necessary legal matters, and the practical tasks of cleaning a home and clearing out the remnants of a life.
I filled out papers, often in triplicate, I spoke to the solicitors daily (that’s certainly how I remember it) and I ventured into my childhood home to face the cold hard truth of her absence.
My heart ached when I saw what she left behind – the last, painful to write, letter she knew I would find and need; the cash hidden in safe places throughout her home and the hundreds of plastic bags she had collected to avoid the recently implemented charge on the plastic grocery bags she used for bin liners. I cried, I laughed and I missed her; she would have loved to be there.
For several months, I went ‘home’ just so I could sob privately, to have an explanation for my snotty nose and blotchy eyes; something whispered I should be past the worst of it and yet, I wasn’t; it still hurt and I didn’t know what to do.
I finally asked for help and with the presence of friends and cousins the visits became filled with laughter and memories, greatly improved when accompanied by the remaining gin and wine in her cupboards. I learned to delegate – one cousin donated carloads of stuff, another packed boxes with items I chose to keep.
And the months passed, and with them, all the big days – birthdays, anniversaries, Christmas, she even missed a family wedding that year. (That would have pissed her off, for sure.)
As is traditional in Ireland, we celebrated Mum on the first anniversary of her death with a small gathering, an almost party and finally I could breathe again.
There’s a song from Rent – Seasons of Love – that always makes me cry: 525,600 minutes – how do you measure a year? In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee? … 525,600 minutes – how can you measure the life of a man or a woman?
And the truth is, you can’t.
The clichés are true; time heals all wounds; this too shall pass. When I needed support these expressions sounded trite and irrelevant and after 525,600 minutes, give or take, they were unnecessary.
In memory of Kate (Ciss) Rogers, 1928-2003.