Its the little things...

Tomorrow marks one month since my mother died.  People ask me how I'm doing, and I hardly know what to answer.  On the one hand, I'm existing as always.  I get up, go to work, do the tasks I'm supposed to do, get through the day, and life continues on as it always does, even when your world has lost its foundation.  

On the other hand, nothing is the same.  My mother's belongings are scattered to the wind, her treasures accumulated over a lifetime gone to other people, or thrown and in a landfill somewhere.  I have small reminders of her everywhere - I wear her engagement ring, which keeps both my parents with me in a tangible way.  I have my mother's robe to hug when her loss feels unbearable, which is more often than you might think.  I have some of her clothing, not because I needed more clothing, but because wearing it brings her closer to me.

Moving Forward

You often hear people talk about moving on after a death, as if you can just leave it behind, like a discarded baggage claim from a trip you really enjoyed or an old blanket that you once loved but no longer need.  News flash.  Moving on is a lie that people tell you because they are trying to convince themselves that is how it will work for them when their own day comes.

Grief, the real deal grief that you experience when you lose someone fundamental to your life, like a parent, a child, a spouse or a dear friend you cannot live without but suddenly find you must, is a daily presence for quite awhile, even as you move forward.  You do what you must.  You eat.  You sleep.  You work.  You go through the motions of daily living.  You may laugh.  You may participate.  You may even find enjoyment at times.  And that is all good.  But grief will live with you in the quiet moments and the loud moments and the fun moments and the hard moments and probably every moment in between.  Because to love someone deeply means you will grieve them deeply, as well.  And that is okay.  Because that is the price of the love you got to share.  And what a gift that is.

Diary of an End of Life Journey October 6, 2026

We all process our grief differently.  We know this, of course.  We have all heard it, there are lots of cliches about it, and you see little poems and memes about it all the time.  But when you are in the grieving season, you experience that reality differently, as you realize that you are not actually sharing the same grief that each of your family members are experiencing.  Grief is a very individual thing, and it is relationally based.  And since every relationship is distinct, every grief will feel different.

This came home to me last night in a hard new way as I was talking with my brother, who is grieving the loss of the very same mother I am.  He loved her just as much, without question.  But his relationship with her was different than mine, thus his grief is different than mine.  This is normal and expected, but reminds me that while universal, grief is also individual and lonely.  And everyone's way of processing is also going to be different, so you are alone in that, too.  This journal is not about his feelings, and his story is his own, so I won't say anything more about him.  But it brought home to me how isolating grief can be, even when you share a loss for someone you both so dearly loved.

Every loss is unique, because the relationship itself is unique.  People are irreplaceable.  The things you miss will be different and distinct.  The things that are special to you, that you particularly miss, are probably individual, rather than collective.  I look at something, a knick knack or a book, and it means nothing to me, while my brother will grab it and say, oh, I have to keep that.  Meanwhile, he is tossing something that is meaningless to him into the donate pile while I'm crying wait, that's important to me, and he can't imagine why!

Our spouses can support us, but they weren't there for the entirety of our lives with our mom, so they can't know the depths of our relationship or fully understand what we have lost.  Our children have their own grief, based on their own relationships with their grandmother, each separate and unique and individual and complex.  How do I best support my children while navigating this whole new painful emotion in my own head?  And how do I give them the space to support me back when I am used to being the strong one?  Perhaps this is where the tide starts turning and the children start taking a stronger role in the relationship?  Grief is a complex landscape, for sure.

I lost my dad as a child, and that grief was and is entirely different than this.  Nothing could compare to the sudden loss of a beloved parent early in life.  And I have lost other much loved people in my life before now, of course, but never my own mother, the foundational person of my life.  There is only one person who has underpinned my life for my entire life, been there for everything, the good, the bad, the happy times, the sad times, the highs, the lows - and that is my mom.  My life has unalterably changed.

The grieving began awhile ago.  This journey began awhile ago.  But this portion?  When they say your heart physically breaks?  They are not wrong.  My heart is hurting today.

I am reminded again today of the importance of allowing people space to grieve, and to sit beside them in their grief.  One of the things I will miss the most about my mother was her ability to sit with me in whatever space I was in, without having to fix it.  She allowed me to feel whatever I felt without needing to solve anything or work it out for me.  She just listened, or often, just sat in silence with me, and she was comfortable with that.  It is a rare skill, and so valuable to me.

My mom would expect me to eventually pick myself up and move forward, though, so I suppose I shall.  I will carry her inside my head and follow her guidance, because after all these years, I pretty well know that would be what she would want me to do.  But for today, I am going to have to let myself mourn, because my broken heart is fragile, and tears on earth are where I am at.  I will pretend she is sitting with me, though, quietly listening to my heart, and holding my love as she always did.  Even death can't steal that away, because she left a piece of her heart with me when she took a piece of mine with her.

Diary of an End of Life Journey October 3, 2026

The loss of one's mother, at any age, is immense.  The last couple of days have been busy as we worked through arrangements for her funeral, talked to the florist, the funeral director, started going through belongings and discussing other details, and trying to get her affairs in order, some of which have gotten in disarray in the past month as we just got through the days caring for her.  There are so many details to deal with - it is overwhelming, especially when you are still exhausted emotionally from the past month's roller coaster ride.  But it also allows you to put aside some of the heavier emotions while you deal with it all, which is probably good, at least temporarily.

However, this morning I have been thinking about my mother's hands, and how many times I have held her hand in my life.  As a child, she would hold my hand tightly so I couldn't dart into the street or run in front of someone and get in their way.  On walks, she would lightly hold my hand to steady me so I wouldn't fall if I tripped over a tree root or uneven ground.  (I've always been a klutz.)  She was quick to grab my hand over the years, and I am used to the touch of mom's hand on mine.

Over the past few years, she grew more concerned about falling as we walked places outside, especially after a bad fall she took because of an uneven sidewalk.  Each time we went somewhere, I carried her purse and held her hand, and we went there together, the two of us.  I thought about how years ago, she didn't need a cane, just my arm to walk to the car.  Then she decided she better have the cane, too.  Eventually, I took her arm, because we thought it would be safer, in case she stumbled.  And in the end, I would take her arm and we would hold hands as we walked, because it helped her steady herself, and I think she just liked the silent reassurance that I was there.

She remarked a few weeks ago that I was now caring for her just like she cared for me when I was little, and it was true, even to tucking her in at night.  I knew just how she wanted her pillow tucked around her neck, and her shoulders covered.  There is comfort in having been able to do that for her, in having been able to provide the care for her that she needed in her final days, just like she cared for me when I needed it as a child.  I think that is something my brother and I can take forward with us - we each gave back to her what she gave to us, and the circle of love was, in some ways, unbroken.

Death may end a life, but the journey is not over, certainly not for awhile, and I have a feeling this one never will be.  My mother lives on inside my head and my heart, and I still feel my mother's hand in mine.  I hope I never forget it.  It is the feeling of love, the pure, unadulterated, unearned, unconditional love you can only get from your mother.

Diary of an End of Life Journey. October 1, 2026

 Life moves too quickly, even when it lasts for almost 100 years.  And my mom's life moved too quickly, especially at the end.  One minute she was fine, living her life as always, and the next, she was not.  And suddenly, she is gone, and I am just supposed to go on without her, like an earthquake didn't just tear my entire life apart.

I am not sure how I move forward from this point, honestly.  I have already thought a dozen times, I need to call mom... I need to text mom... and then had to realize I no longer have that option.  My heart is shattered.  There is no other word.

But every other person who has lost a mother has managed to pick themselves up and move on, including my own mother, whose example I have followed my entire life.  So I guess I will have to do the same.

She lived her life with joy and optimism, fully sure of her faith and her salvation, which gave her freedom to live her life well and fully.  She loved with fierce devotion, espcially her children.  She served with strong dedication, wherever she was serving.  She worked hard at whatever she was doing.  She carried her life long friendships with her.  She was a role model for everyone of courage and strength and honor and the power of love.  And above all, she showed the power of faith as she surmounted every obstacle life threw in her path with dignity and grace.  She didn't talk about her faith, she lived it, each and every day.

I am a fortunate woman to have such a mother, who prayed over me for all of my days until now.  Rest in peace, sweet mama.  Until we meet again.