While Grieving

I was pulling into my garage after a day spent grabbing last-minute things I needed for an action-packed weekend with my Sorority sisters. The weekend would end with a trip to France for a Parisian vaca with my husband and friends. So, I was busy as a bee in preparation for it all. It was 7 pm. As I pulled into my garage, my phone rang. It was my mom. She was calling about Mother. You see, my grandmother, ‘Mother,’ she was my world. From the moment I was born, just a few days before her birthday, we had an indescribable connection. My mom said they were taking Mother to the hospital. Mother struggled with pain from sciatica over the years, but otherwise was totally healthy. That evening, she had a medical emergency. Shortness of breath or some such. On the surface, it didn’t seem like much, but something wasn’t right. My spirit was unsettled. A part of me knew what was happening. I don’t know how, but I knew. So, I immediately dropped everything, grabbed a few items and made the four hour drive home to Kentucky.

The four-hour drive took three hours that night. I went straight to the hospital and rushed to her room. My family was exhausted—emotionally, physically. By the time I arrived, shortness of breath had turned into intubation. It was just past 1a. At 7pm, I was pulling into my garage. Life was good. And now, I was here. It was the point of the night where doctors and nurses urge you to go home. Get some rest. But I couldn’t leave Mother. Beeps from monitors. Air from tubes. Those were the only sounds. I stared at her. Her eyes closed, her body still. I took my fingers and ran them through her hair. I whispered in her ear that I was there. Once I laid eyes on her, I knew her last moment was closer than I could imagine. How quickly life turns. I picked up my phone, placed it on her pillow and played gospel songs. Her room was cold, so I pulled the bed linens above her arms. I made sure she was as comfortable as possible. I closed my eyes, held her hand and placed my forehead onto hers. I felt every wave of silent emotion she had. Fear. Peace. Love. Triumph.

Have you ever thought about the words you’d speak to someone you love if you knew those words would be your last? I hadn’t either. But here I was, searching for those words. The last ones I’d speak to the person I loved the most. To the person who never asked me for anything and gave me everything. To the person who was the nucleus of my life’s experience. To the person whose advice was my guiding light. She was my life hack—always knowing what was just around the corner. She’d warn me. She’d encourage me. She’d weather it with me. My September sapphire. My heart’s joy. What do you say to that person? I knew I was speaking her to eternity. I knew the words I spoke would be among the last she’d ever hear. How beautiful. How unfair. What a privilege. What a nightmare. By mid-morning, in a room bursting at the seam with those closest to her, she took her last breath. Mother died. And so did a piece of me.

I cried every single day for seven months. I was wrapped in the arms of grief. It was horrific. Though I’d lost loved ones before, I’d never experienced the feeling of such torturous anguish. Anguish that could only be fixed by one thing, Mother’s presence. And that one thing was forever removed. Grief doesn’t come in waves. It is always there. I live with grief. It is with me at every moment of everyday. What I’ve come to realize is grief is nothing more than the knowing that something or someone that penetrated the depths of your soul is gone. You will never experience that thing or that person the way in which you’re used to. There’s a never-ending assortment of emotions that come with that. But grief itself isn’t an emotion. It’s a knowing. An acknowledgement. That job, that relationship, that thing, that person is removed and never again will your life be the same.

And so, I’ve had to be intentional about adjusting my life, my actions and my emotions. I’ve had to be intentional about establishing boundaries with grief. For months, our dynamic was one sided. Grief ruled. Because in the way it shows up just after loss, grief is selfish. It takes up a lot of space. And if you do nothing in response to it, it will certainly take over. And so after a while, I did something. I reimagined my life. A life without the love of my life. My routine is different. My response to life’s situations is different. Life’s different. I’m different.

It took some time, but I figured out the first step forward. And then I gave myself time to take that step. Grief dealt me a blow that knocked me out. And when I awakened from the fog of its blow, it was still there. And so while grieving I regained some strength. And while grieving I sat up. While grieving I stood up. And now while grieving I’m slowly learning how to walk again. One day I’ll run. And then I’ll soar. While grieving.