The Healing Chronicle – Volume 4

At a young age, I learned to shelter my feelings (yeah, family dynamics), so feelings are especially difficult for me. That said, I’m still working through my feelings of “it” all – “it” being my mother’s death. When I saw my mother’s lifeless body, I crumbled to the floor and felt sorrow most viscerally. Broken into a trillion pieces. Spilled all over her bedroom floor. I wept from deep, deep, deep within my soul. Unsure of my ability to stand, I eventually willed myself up. I took solace knowing those little pieces of me were built because of her. After my protracted hysteria, I was able to refocus on the fact that she was in her forever home. Now able to live to her fullest. Free as a bird with her new body. Being spoiled as she deserved. Her hoped-for promises now reality.

My ongoing goodbyes come in waves, sometimes hitting me like a truck. I cry a lot. I’m actually an avid crier, so it’s no surprise. It’s one of the easiest and healthiest ways for me to express my emotions. But truthfully, I don’t always understand what’s underneath my tears. For the most part, they are tiny releases. However, I also schedule the periodic full-blown shower cry. One where the relief valves can totally release. No holding back. My tears hold many feelings—sorrow, straight up classic anger, guilt, yearning, utter heartbrokenness, confusion, defeat, vulnerability, and exhaustion.

Interestingly, my cheeks welcome the wet as I continue to process what it feels like for this daughter to lose her beloved mother. It’s the way she went that makes this grief so painful. To have witnessed her being tortured by (insert expletive here) cancer was traumatic. To be woken up in the middle of the night by her screaming and fighting spiritual battles was terrifying. She seemed like she was being tortured, when all she was trying to do was heal. I hated it. It was also very heroic of her because she knew she had the power over darkness. So, after the initial startle settled, I felt pride. I am so proud of my mother because she knew who she was and whose she was.

Now that months have passed, my mind and heart are still adjusting to the reality of her absence. My therapist says that’s normal as the neuropathways in my brain will fire differently now that she is not here and it doesn’t yet understand that she is gone, gone. When you’ve been a part of someone’s life for nearly 40 years, and been their primary caregiver through the battle, it’ll take a minute to adjust. I don’t know a lot about neuroscience, but it makes sense. So, I’m trying to trust the process.

Through the ups and downs and sideways of grief I must be honest. I’m still working through the unfairness of it all. I teeter between being devastated for me and overjoyed for her. It does not seem like those two can coexist, but they can. When the “what ifs” creep in I surrender it all to God. Like, “what IF she tried one final treatment?” Enter surrender. I am not meant to know all the whys (I’ve come to learn!) because I am not God. It’s challenging to accept that, but God is the only All Knowing One.

So, I continue to ride the roller-coaster. One minute I’m deflated by despair then the next I’m filled up by faith. Sometimes it feels like I cannot breathe. Like the grief is choking me and about to swallow me whole. Other times, I breathe easier. A whiplash of emotions. Messy, yet me. Frankly, many times I don’t know how to feel. And that is OK too.