Swimming through a sea of grief

Literally a week ago from this time, I rushed over to my mom’s house so I could stay with her while my father went to the Friday night service at our church.  I knew she was gravely ill and that the end would be coming soon.  I knew that I would be moving into her house that weekend.  I sat on the sofa beside her bed after my brother and sister-in-law left and my dad went to bed.  I sat here and wrote last Friday, same as today.  Except now I no longer have a mother, just memories of her.  

There really is a grief that knows no name and can’t be described.  It is a grief that is shared by every daughter who has ever lost mother.  Like motherhood that connects women in a secret circle of sisterhood, so does this grief from the loss of a mother.  I’m not sure what to write or how to move forward.  I appear to be in a state of limbo.

My father and brother have gone to fly my mother’s body home.  I am here with my other half and children, living in her house, surrounded by her things.  Today I gave my son his first big boy towel from one of hers.  I gave my baby her special towel exclusively for his use.  I am slowly incorporating my life into hers.  Last time I was here, I was the daughter, ready to leave the nest finally in search of greener pastures so to speak.  I left home and made a nest of my own.

Not only do I feel the absence of my mother but I feel as if I’ve lost my home and everything that defined me.  I feel as if I’ve been caught up in a tornado and like Dorothy, displaced to a place that is unfamiliar and strange.  I can’t seem to get my bearings.  

I opened her armoire today and to my surprise, I could still smell her.  I told my son who stuck his face into the clothes and inhaled deeply.  For a moment, we just took in the lingering fragrance of her.  Earlier today, I had put a small dish over a cup to cover it.  My son flipped it over and said very matter-of-factly that this is how Dida did it.  Like I should know better.  So many little things.  The baby looks for her.  Last night he went through the entire house looking for her and hid in the corner when he couldn’t find her.  

At her funeral, my oldest wanted to see her old body.  He was curious.  He said she was in heaven and didn’t need the old body with the cancer anymore.  We all placed a rose in the coffin with her.  They will have dried up by the time she is actually buried.  Even the baby placed a rose in there with her.  He looked happy to see her body but a little puzzled why she was lying there with her eyes closed.  When we got home, he kept calling for her.  In the end, he kept asking for his Dadu. 

I thought I knew heartbreak.  I didn’t know anything until now.  

My mornings are full of short burst of energy.  Then I lose steam.  No matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to move past this grief.  My other half says that I need to stop fighting the grief because ultimately I am fighting myself.  I don’t understand that.  I don’t think I’m fighting the grief, I am just tired of it.  I want to find that ever elusive life line and pull myself forward.  My life isn’t over.  My sons still have their mother.  I need to find the strength to move forward.  I just haven’t the foggiest idea how.  

I am grateful for all those who came by for show of support for us.  For those who have brought food, I am most thankful because I haven’t found the energy to cook.  I tried earlier today.  The only reason my sons had food today was because of the leftovers.  I am thankful to my aunt and uncle because through this, without them, I’m not sure I we would have gotten through.  Somehow, their loving support lessened the blow of the loss of my mom.  Just not completely.  

This has put a lot of things in perspective.  I think I have less patience than I did for the things in life which matter next to nothing.  I have let go of things which are seemingly superficial, like my fear of failure.  My mother believed I had changed.  She felt hope for my future.  I am choosing to embrace her belief and hope.  

I’m not sure how to get up and get going again.  So I’m going to keep writing until maybe somehow, the words pull me out of this grief.  I hope.