On my birthday and grief

Two years ago today I flew to Tampa to be with my Mom in her final days. Tomorrow is my birthday. On my 39th birthday we moved her to hospice. It was, without a doubt, the hardest day of my life. Harder than the day she died. 

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It was a day where I wore the crown and we went through the motions and we checked things off the list. Move Mom, check. Arrange flowers and photos the room, check. Feed Dad, check. Figure out who the hell is in charge around here and where they are, check. 

I haven't shared the pain of that day, the trauma of that day. Probably because to this day I still haven't processed it all. I haven't really talked about it actually, processing it must be further down the road.

Women do these things, we are able to separate the mental and the emotional in times of great need or stress or pain. I was all business on my 39th birthday. It seems pretty cut and dry, Mom goes via ambulance to hospice from point A to point B. But the gravity of that, the pain that accompanied it, it's enough to bring me to my knees today, two years later.

When we left the hospital she was relatively coherent. A constant refuser of the good drugs, she told them she didn't want any of whatever they were selling. We told them different. She needed something to take the edge off, to dull her senses, to give us peace that she wasn't in pain and maybe wasn't even aware of what was happening at that point. They obliged. Ross and I each drove a car and my Dad rode with her in the ambulance, taking his wife, the greatest love of his life, to the place where she would leave this earth. 

Somewhere between the hospital and hospice my Mom left. It happened. My Dad felt it happen. It affected him so much that he required oxygen in the ambulance from the paramedics. Her spirit left her body on the way to hospice. Not to get too far out there but I believe firmly in my bones she wanted nothing to do with hospice and she was out. If she could have taken her body with her, I think she would have. 

The person who arrived at hospice looked like my Mom but she was gone. She was disoriented and angry. I remember being on my knees, at her feet, trying to help her understand what was happening, where she was. Despite other people in the room, including my Dad and brother, her eyes were locked on mine. She was literally staring through me demanding her keys, demanding to leave, demanding to go home (in more colorful language than I was used to from her). My Mom was scared and furious with me, demanding I fix it. And I would have given anything in that moment to fix it. To fix things for the woman who for my 39 years was my 'fixer'. If I could have taken away the pain, the fear, taken her somewhere peaceful and beautiful with her favorite music playing and the sweet scent of gardenias in the air, I would have. I would have given anything in those moments to be her 'fixer', just one time. I trembled, I begged, I pleaded with her. I don't recall how the situation de-escalated but I remember falling to my knees in the hallway outside of her room, overcome by the gravity of what was happening and filled with fear and sadness because I couldn't fix it. 

I couldn't fix reality. The reality that the woman who brought me into the world 39 years ago to the day, was leaving it and I couldn't bring peace or comfort to her in those moments when that was all she needed. 

The numbness we all felt on that day is never far off. That sensation returns with very little effort and the anticipation of the 2 year mark (I worked for a kind man for many years who was very clear, the word 'anniversary' marks a happy occasion, this is anything but) sometimes feels like too much to bear. 

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In the last two years I haven't written as much as I had anticipated but, each time I do someone from a different chapter of my life reaches out and thanks me for talking about grief. For attempting to normalize it. Grief and emotions and tears are uncomfortable for others so we are expected to mourn and move on, for other people's sake, after a loss. To be clear, no one moves on after someone they love dies. We move forward. We move in a new direction, towards a life without the person we loved but we don't move on. We start anew with a life guided by that person, but without them.

February 1st rolls around every year and suddenly things are heavier for me. It's subconscious. I don't wake up and think 'well, this is two years since the last month Mom was alive, I am going to feel sad today.' I just feel sad. I cry more easily and things feel harder. This is the second time this has happened and I think it's safe to say it will happen every year, perhaps it will dull but it will never go away. There isn't anything anyone can say to fix it. I know how lucky I am to have had 39 years with her and that not everyone is as lucky. That doesn't help. Platitudes offer zero comfort. Grieving people just need to be seen. They need those around them to recognize that grief is hard, that it's not linear, that it looks different on everyone and that it doesn't go away. Sometimes they just need someone to sit with them in the dark. 

Tomorrow is my birthday. She would not want me in the dark. So, celebrate we will. With the good crystal (someone else's because mine is still in strorage) and old friends and some new ones. Part of moving forward is making new memories, creating new joy on a day that brought me so much pain. So I'm going to do my best. But damn is that easier said than done when all I really want for my birthday is just one more hug or hand squeeze or one more phone call.