Dear Mama: My Lessons from Grief
Dear MaMa,
Today marks 1 year since I buried you. I have officially completed a year of many firsts without you, a woman who despite our ups and downs, meant more to me than any other woman on this planet. This past year has been the hardest year of my entire life. I’m definitely not the same, and that’s okay. I’m working through it all. Day by day, month by month, and now, year by year.
One of the things I learned early on in this journey is that there is certainly no amount of tall glasses of Chardonnay, emotional eating or comedic relief that can distract me enough from grieving your loss. When you first died, a good friend told me that grief comes in like waves. How true that is. Some days the tide comes in calmly, almost sneaks up on you gently. Then there are those other days the waves of emotion are so strong and big that the height of it is nothing bearable. Ma, grief is indeed like the ocean. Vast. Deep. Bigger than self. Sometimes scary due to the unknown of how my being will respond. Seemingly no end in sight.
In this year of grief, I’ve learned all I can do is learn how to swim. Face the pain head on. Sit with it. Explore. Embrace it all as it comes. However it may show up.
I went from saying “I just want to feel like myself again”, to saying “it feels like I don’t know who I am anymore”, to now realizing I will never be that version of myself that I was before you died. I deliberately write those words “you died” because even though I’m not in denial I still admittedly have great discomfort in saying or hearing those words.
The day you died. I, for the first time, felt exactly what people mean when they say when a loved one dies, a part of them died too. It’s not cliché in the least. I think I knew it too, as I sat there in the stillness of that room as I watched you fade away from me. I definitely didn’t know what it meant for me but I felt a piece of me fading away as well.
When I sat and watched you take your final breaths I can’t describe the weight on my chest that though I was breathing, felt like I was holding my breath. My entire chest cavity felt constricted so much that all I could do was be still. I will never forget the burning in my throat that felt like acid. It felt like a loud scream would relieve that pain in my throat and expand my airways but for some reason, in my mind, something told me not to cry because I wanted to be strong for you. That was my mantra throughout my many months of being with you through your illness: just be strong for Ma. Stand firm, even when its scary for us, don’t show it. Do that for her.
I don’t even think I could have cried in that moment even if I wanted to. Time froze. When I saw your chest lift up for that final time, I secretly wished with all of my might for it to rise again. I stared at you as it sunk in that it wouldn’t. And though there were cords and machines all around, some attached and others disconnected by the doctor, through that chaos I did see you finally resting. At peace. I couldn’t stop staring at you. And though I didn’t get my wish, I saw a single tear fall down you cheek. After researching, some people say its a way of a loved one saying goodbye. Though that image kept me up many nights, that warmth I felt on my finger from wiping that tear somehow still brings warmth to me when I close my eyes and reflect on it.
I’m not the same. I mother differently, I daughter differently. I friend differently. I show up differently or sometimes the lack thereof. I’ve been through some rough turbulent times in life as you know, but there has never been a single personal event in my adult life that has literally completely reshaped every single part of my identity. I’m definitely not the same, and that’s okay. I’m working through it all. Day by day, month by month, and now, year by year.
And I can only hope my friends and loved ones understand. More importantly I can only hope you understand.
Ma, I hope the manner in which I am handling or maybe mishandling this process since you’ve transitioned isn’t a disappointment to you. You were always one person who was so proud of me. You bragged on me until I blushed. And when I would ask you not to speak so highly of me or boast about any of my accomplishments to absolutely anyone who would listen, you’d laugh and say “you’re way too humble.” “Cher is so humble like her Daddy” you’d say mockingly as you rolled your eyes. I still want to make you proud.
Ma, I can only hope you understand I’m trying my best to keep my head above water and navigate this shift, in all my very imperfect ways of doing so. I watched you take your very last breath, and though right now I still feel somewhat stuck in a moment that completely took my breath away, I know there would be nothing you’d want more for me than to breathe fully again.
And though this is the first year down in terms of the absence of your physical presence. I know you are forever with me.
Forever your Cher.
——
To anyone who is grieving my heart aligns with yours. I would like offer 4 things:
(1) Take all the time you need. Be gentle with yourself. Some days I guilt myself into thinking why is this still sometime so hard when its been a year. I am not the only person that experiences loss. This is definitely not the only loss I will experience. But then I lean into extending even more grace to myself. This may not be the only loss I’ll experience but its my first major one. Don’t let anyone tell you how you should be handling things, not even you. Though there may be people alongside you, this is a journey you walk (or swim) through alone.
(2) Don’t be afraid to get extra professional help if needed. Therapy is helping me process things I could have never done on my own. One of my most recent aha moment in therapy was realizing I never processed what it was like serving as a caretaker to my mom before her passing. The things I witnessed as her health became increasingly unpredictable were emotionally taxing and there were no breaks. I wouldn’t have realized the importance of processing caretaking in itself if it wasn’t for my wonderful therapist who is more patient with me than I am with myself at times.
(3) Know that life does go on, as they say; but it may look and feel different. I spent a significant amount of time trying to feel like myself again to the point of frustration. I hated that no matter what I did, I wasn’t felling like myself, until I had an epiphany that I will never be that self again. Be open to what the new you will be after loss. It may not be a drastic change but embrace that there is indeed a shift.
(4) Figure out how to honor your loved one. Will it be making their favorite meal on their birthday? Wearing their favorite color on the day of their transition? You decide. Be intentional about it. Death is a natural part of life and it is not the end of relationship with your loved one. Honor them in ways that reminds you of this. Honestly, here is where I often feel like I am mishandling things. Its still hard for me to go to her grave site, Its hard for me to go to her house and I am working through this. This letter/this blog post is my start of figuring this out in honor of my mom.
If you read this in its entirety. Thank you. This has been uncomfortably transparent, but a valuable part of my process.
Until next time, In Greatness,
Shara