Grief Is A Mother
I’ve written about grief a few times before. It’s perhaps one of my favorite things to write and contemplate on. I think simply because, I find it to be everywhere. I’m not only touching on bereavement, the loss of someone’s life. Which is incredibly hard and stays with us throughout the rest of ours. I’m referring to loss of all kinds: bereavement and grief in all the ways.
We so often forget how tricky grief is, how it sneaks up out of nowhere, when we least expect it. And can happen countless times even long after the loss has occurred. We had to put our beloved family pet down almost one year ago; it was a heartbreaking and devastating day. No one was expecting it. Since then, my mom has adopted another beautiful dog in need of a home. She brings a lot of joy and playfulness to the house. Still, a few weeks ago, I found myself sitting across from my mother as she tearfully explained that she still feels guilty in putting her previous dog down, despite knowing there was nothing anyone could do, and that her dog was suffering. She misses her last pet companion immensely, even in the presence of a new one she loves.
My aunt passed unexpectedly when I was 14 years old. It’s been 18 years since that day, and I still think of her very much. Almost every day. I remember her smile, her voice when she would call me her “nieces to pieces.” One day, I cried hard seeing her photo. It was already so long since she left the earth, but the deep knowledge I’ll never see her again, stung. I remember how she always loved dessert, and after dinner, she would serve angel food cake and strawberries. That memory of her doesn’t leave me. I often question, what would our relationship be like now? How would our family be? What would she think of my husband, and would they get along? I imagine how it could’ve been; I can see it in my mind’s eye: them bonding over their love of red wine, full glass in hand, at her kitchen island in New York. It’s the people we grieve, and the things we’ll never have. Because all the possibilities of what could’ve been, are gone too.
When my grandma passed, she was in the hospital. The nurse gave us a bag with all her jewelry in it. He said here’s everything she had on her. I looked for her ring that she told me I could always have when she passes. I needed an immediate tangible item of her life - of a time when she wasn’t sick and in the hospital. It wasn’t there. When it was time, the nurse allowed me to visit her one last time as she lay there unconscious, but still breathing. On her right hand, was her ring. He said, “oh, we must’ve forgotten that one.” He gave it to me and as I whispered in her ear how much I loved her; I kept the ring. I wear it on my right hand now too. The people we love so much, gift us with their memories, smiles, laughter, mannerisms, long after they’re gone. And what a true gift it all is.
The other day, I was explaining to my husband a mix of feelings. The emotions kept me company for a few days to weeks at that point; a well in my chest making me feel empty and vacant. I understood what was going on intellectually, but emotionally, it caused some confusion. Cognitive dissonance would describe it best. Underneath all my frustration, anger, and confusion, he simply gifted me this: “I hear you’re really hurting right now. And I’m sorry.” Sometimes - many times - that’s all we need. I teared up instantly at his softness. His words were perfect for me. I didn’t need advice, or solutions, or to be told it’ll all be okay. Or to even be told that I was right in whatever was haunting me. Many times - we just want our pain to be seen and heard. For someone else to witness it, and say: “hey, I see you.” No one had died. No one was hurting. However, I later recognized it as grief. It was grief reminding me of people lost, chapters which are no longer, experiences I’ll never have again, possible futures which will never come to fruition. Although the present is so sweet and full of appreciation and peace, it doesn’t change the brutal fact that life is moving so fast, and change is constant. And the endless changes bring both endless goodbyes and endless beginnings. Multiple things can be true at once: this awareness has always caused me immense sadness and bountiful hope.
When walking through a store a few weeks back, a woman at the counter had a tattoo reading: “grief is just love with nowhere to go.” I’ve heard the saying before. Where does the love go when people and places are still alive? Where does the love go when they’ve passed? I’d like to believe it’s still a palpable and active love. It surpasses any loss, any space and time. There are people in this world who suffer great loss of all kinds. They lose family members, spouses, lovers, friends, pets, children. I cannot imagine how they survive it all; and yet my family and I have also survived our varying losses and traumas. How any of us do it, is beyond me.
It’s controversial and easy to say that grieving something lost yet still alive, is not as painful as grieving a death. Indisputably correct, in many ways. However, I’d like to challenge that and offer a widening of perspective. An opening of the mind further. What about all the ways? The end of a romance, due to differing values and goals. The loss of a friendship you swore you’d never lose, only for life’s changes to cause a drift. Friends and lovers becoming strangers. The moving of careers, from a comfortable and kind office space to a new and unfamiliar territory. Saying goodbye to a 25-year-old family home, and into a new one. Exploring different terrain and building new memories. A disability or disease, upending our lives or someone we love’s - the aftermath a stark contrast from pre-diagnosis. The way we picture our life turning out versus how it actually turns out. We can grieve that vision never happening. Varying circumstances of trauma, splitting life in two - the before and the after. Simply missing how things used to be. Then vaster: the death of an animal or loved one, causing unbearable pain in the wake of it all. The despicable finality. There were times I wasn’t a great grief ally - as Aly Bird would put it. We will all make mistakes; not knowing what to say, what to do, how to help. I’ve since learned there’s no perfect way. We just need to sit with those grieving and offer space and acknowledgment for their pain to exist. Just exist. It is the same prescription for our pain and grief. Everything belongs.
And so, I’ve found that grief is a mother. Not only as - it’s a motherfucker - but as in, it’s a mother. Teaching us in all the ways the mother archetype does throughout our life. The sadness, melancholy, joy, celebration, the loss of one door closing and another opening. Endless goodbyes. Endless hellos. Ride the wave - I keep telling myself. Just ride the wave. And when grief comes - which it inevitably will, time and again - sit with it. Take any lessons or decide to learn nothing but allowing it to just be. It is insurmountably painful, but maybe not so much an enemy, after all.