And it's Ash Wednesday and it doesn't seem right posting about beef on Ash Wednesday.
I've had a heavy heart today. I feel like I've been pushing back a heavy dark blanket all day, wrestling with it and getting tangled up and pretty soon, I'm going to give up.
My Mom died on Ash Wednesday. It was March 9, so technically it isn't the true anniversary of her passing, but it was Ash Wednesday nonetheless.
I suppose people who lose a loved one on Easter or Mother's Day or other movable holiday can appreciate this. You have two completely different days to endure the emotions and battle the fatigue of grief.
I've lost loved ones before, but losing a parent (or a spouse or child) is like a piano being dropped on your head. Other grief, losing a distant relative or friend is a paper cut in comparison. When we learned my Mom's cancer was stage 4 metastatic breast cancer and her chance of 5 year survival was under 5%, I began to picture the coming weeks and months like waiting at a train station; the train could be seen in the distance and barrelling down the tracks. It comes up fast on the station, pauses briefly and then roars past blowing up leaves and dust and messing up your hair and getting grit in your eyes before blowing off into the horizon. I don't know why that imagery came to me, but I think I had this crazy notion that losing a beloved was linear...you prepare as you can for their passing, you endure the numbing, searing empty grief in the immediacy of their death and that the rest of your life is spent listening to the distant train whistle as grief fades into fond memories.
I was wrong. Or maybe I was right, and that is how some people experience grief. We all experience grief, that's life. But how we experience it and cope and endure are different. Grief is not a train barrelling down the tracks passing in a blast of dust and steam. No, I think a better metaphor for grief are the tides of the ocean. Coming in waves, going out with high tide, raging in during a storm and being gone during glorious weather. The worst are rogue waves, or as I call it, stealth grief. That inexplicable moment when something triggers a memory, or a desire to tell your loved one something you think they'd love to hear, or just the longing for their company, that damn rogue wave comes out of nowhere and knocks you on your ass.
My Mom's birthday was March 8. She died the next day, which was Ash Wednesday. She slept most of the day, nodding when I'd ask her if she needed anything, smiling weakly when I told her I loved her and giving my hand a frighteningly hard grip when I lay beside her in her final hours. My Dad sat on one side of her and I on the other. We knew her time was coming to an end, but we didn't know how soon or what it would look like. We prayed the Hail Mary. My Dad asked if we could pray the Our Father. My Mom seemed to be asleep, peaceful. Her breathing had quieted from the loud raspy struggling breath from earlier to almost a sigh. Sigh in, sigh out. She'd gotten many lovely prayer cards from friends and I picked one up and told my Dad I wanted to read it. I can't share the entire prayer, partly because I don't remember it in detail and partly because I don't want to remember that much of the detail. One line that repeated at the end of each stanza was "Let God and Let Go..." and the prayer ended with that...and..my Mom was gone. Her hand was still holding mine. My Dad was holding her other hand. There was no more sigh in, sigh out.
We looked at each other. My Dad said, "Is that it?" We both looked at her closely and her face, which had been furrowed in pain for weeks, was line-free and peaceful. I said, "Dad, she's gone home to Jesus. She's with her family now, with Julie and Nita and Virginia and her Daddy and Auntie Barb and Uncle Stan and Bernice..."
There's more. It's private. I can't. Maybe someday I'll allow myself to go there. I was in my parent's home, HB was 5 hours away at our home church getting ashes. I texted him and as he was accepting God's grace and humility in ashes, my Mom was going home. He called me when he could and shared our news with our Pastor who prayed with him. I called Hospice and they came out, and then the Funeral Home came. Three hours later my Dad and I were alone. I made us dinner. We cried. Exhaustion was overwhelming both of us.
Two years my Mom has been gone. My Dad followed her home on Pentecost Sunday and I love that my parents, lifelong Catholics, bookended the Easter season.
I miss you Mom. I miss your humor, your snark, your endless chatter about coupons and recipes and random people you knew. I miss being able to call you and vent about my day or my life. I miss your counsel. I miss you buying me gifts on super clearance where the store owes you money to take the merchandise out their inventory, then you telling me how you got my gift so cheap. I miss you busting HB's chops. I miss you. I love you.
(((((Hugs))))) That was very eloquent and beautifully written. It's a topic that many can relate to.
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