43,829 minutes, or a month.
That’s how long I’ve been a member of the Dead Mom Club.
Sorry, probably should’ve prefaced that with a trigger warning, but the gut-punch is kind of the point.
“Something bad is happening,” the oh-so articulate hospitalist said through the phone before asking about “end of life decisions.” Wait, what?
I stood in the middle of my bedroom, having just put on my PJs and screamed. I didn’t realize I’d screamed until my daughters were swarming around me, my husband saying something about coming with me. I didn’t let him, though. I don’t know why. And even when, standing in the hospital hallway, I heard the nurse say, “She passed,” I didn’t call him. Again, I don’t know why.
When I got home, I sat in the dark living room. Just sat there. I want to pretend I don’t know why I did that either, but I do know: if I’d gone upstairs to my family, I would’ve had to say it out loud.
Fully clothed, shoes still on, I curled up on the couch. Eventually, my husband found me hiding in plain sight. I was all at once ashamed at how I’d dismissed and then forgotten him, angry that I would now have to say the thing, and desperate for him to ignore that I’d been an asshole and just hug me.
“She died,” I said flatly. He hugged me. I didn’t feel worthy of the hug.
Watching my kids grieve is the single-most difficult thing I’ve done so far on this earth.
My 16-year-old son, the outwardly stoic and secret empath, sobbed so loudly in the shower his cries echoed through the vents. Later, when I found him in the same spot I’d been on the couch, he wordlessly extended his arms, reaching for me like he’d done a million times as a toddler who wanted picked up. But I couldn’t lift him, and a snuggle couldn’t make him feel better this time.
My 14-year-old daughter, usually my emotional clone, didn’t react at all. “Grandma died? Oh.” At the time, I thought it strange. Almost unfeeling. Then I remembered how I hadn’t even remembered to call my husband and realized that’s what shock does. Unfeeling.
My baby had just celebrated her 11th birthday the day before. She was the first to hear the sad news because, as my husband later explained, when I left for the hospital, she commandeered my spot in bed keeping vigilant watch over the situation. Having deemed the couch an unacceptable place for me sleep, my husband brought me to our bedroom where I found her on my pillow. I had to the say the words to her, too: “Grandma died.” She has since attached herself to my hip.
In many ways, grieving at one month is worse than the immediate aftermath. So many holidays and milestone packed into 30 days. Birthdays, Easter, church Confirmation, Mother’s Day.
I stayed far away from social media on Mother’s Day, convinced all the posts and pictures would be too much. Many anticipated how difficult the day would be and reached out with love and beautiful cards. I felt seen and that was nice.
I notice my girls now watch me with a careful eye, ready to pounce at the first sign of distress. I considered trying to shield them from it, putting on a happy face or excusing myself when a wave comes, but ultimately decided against it. A few days ago, we were standing in my mom’s closet surrounded by clothes that still smelled like her, and my youngest could feel it. She put my face in her hands and pleaded, “Let’s make today a happy day, okay?” I didn’t shield her. “Some days aren’t happy, and that’s okay.”
My son, though I know he feels it too, doesn’t hover with worry. Instead, he invites me to watch more Pirates games with him and cracks jokes and farts. Closeness is his love language, levity his gift.
There are beautiful moments alongside the grief. My mom’s obituary went viral which is on-brand for our family dynamic: here’s this bad thing, let’s try to have a laugh.
There are dark moments, too. Moments intent on trying to make this bad thing worse. I try like hell to hold the good instead of the bad because the bad takes up way too much space inside me. Sometimes, though, the bad is all I feel. And that’s when I’m grateful for a friend’s gift card to the local pizza place because my kids still need to eat even when I literally cannot manage something as simple as throwing chicken in a crockpot.
There are also many in-between moments, I’m learning. Those that start with a happy memory then morph into an ugly cry in public. That (almost) happened at my daughter’s 8th grade chorus concert. I just kept thinking how my mom usually sat beside me at the concerts, dabbing proud tears as she asked a trillion off-topic questions just a little too loudly: “Is that the girl whose mom sat beside us at that basketball game and was wearing those pants that were entirely too tight?” When the chorus started singing “Seasons of Love” from Rent I felt the welling. The wave. I was thisclose. I only made it through by gnawing the insides of my cheek raw then hightailing it out of the auditorium immediately after the show.
One month down, a lifetime of moments to go.
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