The Grieving Girl's Guide to Life

About 5 years ago, the guy I was replacing at work had a hell of a year. He had fallen in love the year before with a co-worker in his language classes and had just proposed to her. Shortly after the ring was on her finger, she became pregnant. They sold their condos, bought a big house in the country, bought a car, had a wedding, had a kid, then found out they were going to have to move to India in a few months.

"You know," I remarked, "you can space out this adulting thing. You don't have to do it all at once."

"I know," he chuckled, “But sometimes all the adulting just happens at the same time."

Truth.

To catch up:

When my mom died last December it was one of those things where when people ask “was it unexpected? Was it sudden?” my only answer was “kind of? But also not?” Basically, what I could say was “Five days in the hospital and she was gone”.

And that's that. It was, and continues to be, the hardest thing I’ve ever gone through, but life kept going, almost immediately. Two weeks after she died, I found out I got a job in the U.S. and would have to move in 2016. Two weeks after that, my maternal grandfather died. Two months after that, I found out that getting a visa for TB to work in the U.S. would be superfun! (note: it would actually be the opposite of superfun) and it would be  much easier if we just got married. But he insisted that he wanted to ask me, so I agreed. And on June 30th, under a sky full of stars, TB proposed to me with a story worthy of any Simpsons fan (more on that in a later entry)

Since that moment I've been running. In order to keep my upcoming job I have to become fluent in Spanish before next summer, which, when you're starting with a half-level above "dos cervezas, por favor" is a challenge, to say the least. The second half of 2015 has been full of getting my grandfather’s house ready to sell, planning a wedding, and conjugating verbs like it's my job (it is).

In 2016, language gods willing, I'll pack up my house, rent it to someone who won't destroy it,  find and rent a house in the U.S, and start a new job, all while grieving the two best people I ever knew.
I have no idea how I’m going to do it all, or if it’s even possible.

But adulting doesn’t wait until you’re ready – it just happens and expects you to catch up.

Thanks for running with me.


*Adapted from an earlier post on Offbeat Bride's forum before they closed in November 2015

It's not the big things

"But it is not these big holidays that make his loss hard for me, it’s really not. He was good at big things but he was best at the small things, at making me feel seen and heard and understood, remembering all of the things that made me Nora and loving me in spite of and because of them."

- Find the rest of Nora's awesome words about her husband, Aaron, here 

Nora gets it.

I crashed a little before Easter. I was given some assignment or another, went back to my office to make some edits and then just stared at my back office wall and felt the grief come in a wave. I closed my door, silently cursing the tiny window that looks into the hallway, and turned away from it, letting the quiet sobs rack my body. In between sobs I called my friend C who was in an airport in Moscow, trying to cram an overpriced sandwich in her mouth before boarding the plane to Armenia. 

"You got this girl. Fuck, I should have called you sooner. Easter, Passover, shit, I should've known this weekend was going to be hard on you."

"*I* didn't know they'd be hard! I was fine. It just happened!"

Of course, you're always fine until you're not. And thanks to C, just as quickly as it descended on me, it was over. I pulled myself together, collected the paper someone had slipped under the door (seriously? You can't wait 15 fucking minutes? Okay, then.), made the edits and went on with my day. 

I had been silently dreading Easter for a while, until that point. I was convinced it was going to be a shitty reminder of a holiday I don't care for (don't like ham or scalloped potatoes, not religious, can take or leave milk chocolate or jelly beans) that was only kept going because of the people I'd lost. The human brain is so weird. For years I groaned as my mom made us dress up, go to Church, eat a dinner I didn't like, all while taking up chunks of an otherwise perfectly nice long weekend. It occurred to me then that there was no one to make me do that any longer. I am what I always longed to be - an adult. And while I wouldn't go so far as to say I wish someone was ordering me into a poofy dress and shoving a plate of milky taters my way, I missed it, sort of. I was really struck at how the loss her and my grandparents has led to my own forced autonomy. 

The day itself turned out to be okay, uneventful, calm, and with TB's parents out of town, very lowkey and family-free. Passover fell on Good Friday, so I did that instead, singing the songs, eating the food and reading the words that connected me to my father's history instead. Easter Sunday was spent with Netflix and discount peanut butter cups, and while I couldn't get the nagging feeling out of my head that I should have been doing something, in retrospect, my only wish is that I'd spent less time worrying about it in the first place.

This was my thought process going into Mother's Day. Of all the tough days I had planned for after my mom died this one was, punnily, the mothership. A day meant for worshiping moms and all they've done for you. For many of my fellow 30-somethings, this meant a day to thank their moms as grandmothers, posting charming multi-generational photos of their happy, intact families. Torture for the unmothered, in other words. But I decided to take my therapist's advice and just face the day as it came, no concrete plans, no expectations, just as-is. 

And it was okay. Really. My sister, dad and I went to a plant sale together, where we bought seeds and flowers and raspberry bushes from a bunch of nice, if slightly odd, plant folk. We went to brunch, where we miraculously found a spot at once of my favourite breakfast places. Even surrounded by mothers and their kids, it was okay. We toasted her with excellent cups of coffee and mimosas, ate so much other patrons stared and talked about nothing of consequence. My father bought me a bouquet of flowers just because, and we went to my place and barbecued a chicken with a beer can up its ass, then polished off a bottle of wine. I stayed off of social media for the most part, which was a good move. And I didn't cry, not once. Mostly because, as Nora says, the big days, the holidays, the missed events, aren't always the monuments to sadness you think they'll be. Instead, it's in the small, silent moments - the fastening of a necklace, the curled up leaf of a lily, the death of a beloved celebrity - that you realize she's gone, and you wish she wasn't. 

Happy Mother's Day, mom.

Nothing Special

Watching someone die isn't like the movies - add that to the long list of things that cinema romanticizes. Death can be ugly, thrashing, coughing, noisy. Death can be sudden, uneventful, unaccompanied by the flatlining of a machine and fists upon a chest begging the person to "live, Damnit!" My grandfather's was quiet. So quiet we weren't sure exactly when it happened. I count his death as 2:37 in the morning, because that's when I saw the small blip on the monitor make the shape of a top hat, then rest. Unassuming, just as he was. "I'll just show myself out" he might have been saying.

There was a pause right after my grandfather died, just this side of awkward, where we weren't sure what to do. There's a little bit of a mental shift in that moment, when you go from surrounding your loved one to being in the room with a dead body. They wheeled out one of his roommates in order to give us privacy, and we spent a moment or two saying something to a person who was no longer there to listen. I don't remember what I said, but I must have said thank you, I must have said goodbye, I recall saying that I knew he wasn't here to hear me. I remember kissing a cheek growing colder and calling TB to let him know I'd be home soon. But the most stark thing I remember is walking out to the parking lot and seeing two people, one male, one female, illuminated by the overhead glare of the emergency doors. The man was speaking in low, hushed whispers, and then suddenly this high-pitched mechanical whine issued forth from the woman's chest as she balled up her fists against the man's shoulders and sank into a crouch. I remember saying "Wow. Someone's having a worse night than us." I said that, knowing that in a few short days we'd be burying my grandfather next to a grave that was still fresh. But my pain was dulled, an outcome I'd predicted as soon as I hung up from that late-night phone call. Hers was still brand-new and raw.

I don't know why I needed to tell that story today, but I think it has to do with my last post about perspective. Some days I feel like I'm lucky, but mostly, selfishly, I'm just relieved to know I'm not alone.

Here comes the sun

I'm nursing a micro hangover today and, armed with my made-up science that vitamin D would help it, I chose to sit outside for lunch today. The sun hit the side of my face in a steady swath of light as a coworker and I gossiped, eyes rolling and tongues clucking like the 1940s hens we are. With temperatures in the high teens all this week, I think it's safe to say that winter's finally behind us - thank god. This truly has been the winter of our discontent - a meandering, lollygagging mess of a season that sleeted over everyone's good cheer and reduced life down to a cycle of being cold and warming up.

Every step forward feels unsure and awkward these days. It's not fear exactly (though CS Lewis' remark that grief feels so much like fear is really spot on most of the time), but more of a tugging at the heart, the stomach, the ribs, telling you that moving forward is dangerous, that staying still is best. Even if things aren't ideal, the idea of making plans and following through on them seems foolhardy and unwise. The gut instinct is to just keep taking calming breaths and convince myself that everything's fine right where it is. And mostly, that's what I do.

Literally me.

I mentioned that with my therapist recently, and we talked about the resiliency of humans, and how, for some, even when our lives are demonstrably "worse" than they were before, as soon as we've begun to adjust to our new normal we want things to now stay exactly as they are. After my mom died, I was desperate to hold on to everyone around me. Then my grandfather died and I became panicked, looking for some kind of superstitious pattern or charm to keep me and my loved ones safe. Now, as I adjust to this life without them, there are moments where I'm okay, not quite happy, but okay, but I tell myself that will only be true as long as everyone stays exactly where they are, forever.
Which is impossible, I know.

I suppose this is coming to the surface now because this week, one of my mom's best friends died. She was a wonderful woman, warm and kind, attending my mother's funeral even as she herself fought brain cancer. My mom cried at the dinner table when she heard about her friend's diagnosis, fresh on the heels of another friend's illness. "All my friends are dying!" she burst out. We joked that she was the healthiest of the bunch. At my mother's funeral her friend and I shared a small, tight hug after the plates of sandwiches and cookies had been cleared away.

"Thank you for loving her," I said.
"Oh, but it was easy!" she exclaimed.

It's my strongest memory of the day.

And now another home is missing its fourth wall, another grandchild won't grow to know his grandmother's hands, another husband adjusts to a queen bed made up for one, a set of daughters is left to grapple with life without their biggest ally. And so it goes. Not just for them, or us, but for thousands every day, all over.

I'm somewhat grateful, in a fucked up way, to be able to see the world this way. To know that so many people are carrying on in spite of what's happened to them, not because of it. It's like learning a new word and then suddenly seeing it everywhere. So many people have lost so much, have suffered so much, and yet we still keep going, still breathe, still blink, still beat. Winter becomes Spring becomes Summer, whether we open the windows or not.

One Foot Back to Counter It

There are things I say to my therapist, not because I necessarily believe them, but because I want to believe them. That if I say them out loud, allow them to resonate, to bounce off the walls of the small, warm converted 2-storey walk-up where she works, then they will magically turn themselves to truth.

One of those things is "grief is not linear."

In my logical brain, I know that. I know that it is as true as anything that's ever been said. That you don't just "get better", with all the days lined up in neat rows, waiting for the "5 stages of grief" to tick by. But I can't help but feel that some days are setbacks, that I am not moving forward, that I am stuck.

I hadn't cried in weeks. I was showing up for work, if not on time, then at least close, did my job, and did it reasonably well. I was taking the bus again, and I went to trivia night, and made dinner, and paid bills on time, and did everything that, just a few weeks earlier, had seemed nearly impossible. And then, easily, delicately, like someone tugging at a loose string on a beloved sweater, it all neatly fell apart. On Monday morning, I stood staring through the front window, mud room door closed behind me, and I could. Not. Move.

I mean that quite literally. The simplest act- putting one foot in front of the other, walking down the porch and trodding the 6 blocks to the bus stop - seemed absolutely insurmountable. I could feel myself growing hotter and hotter, the weight of my winter boots around my ankles, the knitted hat my grandmother had made, lying itchy on my head, and yet I stood there, dull, doughy face peering back at me in the hall mirror. I envisioned myself picking up my purse and unlocking the door, but in reality I just stood, staring. After 5 minutes or so of this, I said aloud to no one, in a voice that sounded too small to be mine, "I don't think I can."

The Little Engine that Panicked.

I slowly took off my mitts, my boots, let the hat fall from my head, and went back into the house. I sent an email to work that blamed my absence on a physical illness instead, too cowardly to admit I'd been made catatonic by something deep inside my head, and too weary to put up with the sympathetic looks I'd get once I slunk back into the office.

I wasted the entire day in a forgettably boring fashion, watching YouTube videos of the Oscars, eating whatever was about to go bad in the fridge, and annoying the dog. I told TB, who was sweet and sympathetic as we made dinner. I got a good night's sleep and had a hot shower and went through my morning routine as normal the next day, hoping that I'd at least be able to make it into a cab tomorrow, if not the bus stop. But as I slipped an orange into my totebag, I heard a noise. A high-pitched wailing tone that was half mechanical, half animal. It was coming from me. 

I'd heard the idea before that some moments take us out of ourselves, that we feel as though we're watching ourselves from above, like we're in a movie. Like bolting upright when you've had a nightmare, I always thought that was just a cliche. But I get it now. I could see myself brace both hands on the dining room table, I saw my face crumple in on itself as the first droplets of my turns-out-it's-not-waterproof mascara hit my cheeks. I watched as my legs buckled, and my palms slapped the dirty wooden floor and my tears and drool made splashes on the cracks in between the hardwood. And I heard everything. The worst noise I've ever made, and one of the worst I've ever heard. I never fully understood what it was to 'keen' before, but this had to have been it. A rhythmic, rocking, shrill explosion that seemed to come simultaneously from my chest, my throat, and the top of my head. It sounded like some kind of alert, or alarm, though with no logical course of action. Less of a "Fire! Everybody get out!" and more of a "Let us all remark on the utter unfairness that fire destruction can cause!". Like ADT if it was run by Sartre.

The dog was totally perplexed. Here I was, about to give her breakfast, with maybe a biscuit if she did her business outside, and now I'd decided to eschew all that in favour of lying on the floor like a simpleton. She was not impressed, racing back and forth between her bowl and my pathetic display of surrender, trying to encourage me to pick up where I'd left off.

And with a shuddering breath, just like that, it was over. The skies cleared and I was back. And I slowly picked myself up, dusted myself off (seriously, we have to figure out some kind of chore wheel, we're slobs), and went back in the kitchen to feed the dog. I glanced at the clock on the stove as I walked by it - the whole thing had taken me less than 5 minutes. I may not be good at managing my emotions, but my God, I'm efficient.

Today has been better. I've had a few close moments, but no tears today, and I'm trying to go out and meet some people for drinks in order to do something that doesn't involve hibernating in front of a space heater or staring blankly at the myriad of glowing screens I possess. And hopefully the weeks and months ahead will be filled with more moments of normalcy and pleasantness than not.

It's not a step back, I know it isn't. But maybe it's a bit of a kick. A gentle tap of the toe saying "Hey, hotshot, this thing is bigger than you. And don't you forget it."

Neurologist and author Oliver Sacks is dying. His piece in the New York Times is beautiful and sad and true and haunting. I love it. This part resonated with me in particular:

"There will be no one like us when we are gone, but then there is no one like anyone else, ever. When people die, they cannot be replaced. They leave holes that cannot be filled, for it is the fate — the genetic and neural fate — of every human being to be a unique individual, to find his own path, to live his own life, to die his own death."

The world will be a poorer place without you, Mr. Sacks. Though I suppose you'd say the same of any of us.

A Nice Start

Somewhere in the sleepy moments between when TB got up to shower and I rolled over to watch the dog puke, she was there.

We were with my grandfather in his backyard, her standing and looking at me, and my grandfather in his favourite outdoor chair, playing with cats that wouldn't do as they were told. I told her about the arguments my sister and father had been going through, about my therapy, about the realizations I was having, about the conclusions I was tumbling toward. They listened, as they always did, as I ran through everything that was swirling through my head.

What made this one so different from the others was that all along, I knew she was dead, and I knew it was a dream. 

"I've been waiting for you to come to me," I said, "Not just as a side player in some larger story, but as the star, for a real visit. They say I'm supposed to feel you everywhere, all the time, or at least when I need you most, but I don't. You're there, and I'm here and that's how it is. But this, this is what I meant."

She nodded, and we hugged and I thanked them both for listening and for visiting and for just... being there. Letting me catch them up. Allowing me a moment to unload.

And then I was awake, everything fading rapidly except for the feeling of fullness, contentment, rising out my chest. Of course, writing this, it now feels like a tugging, grasping ache, a tidal wave of desire to be right back on that sunny lawn with those I love and two bizarre little kittens. But in that moment - it felt like being home again.

I'm not a big believer in religion or spirits or anything like that, but I hope you'll forgive me my little indulgence today and allow me a moment to think that maybe, a little message made its way from the great perhaps this morning. 

Thanks, mom. Now, if you'll excuse me, the dog's puking yellow again.

Tongue Tied

I'm bad at telling people.

I haven't figured out how to phrase things in a way that minimizes shock, that leaves the listener intact and allows us to move forward to other, easier topics. So far I've been settling on some version of the following:

"Oh, yeah, well, so, my mom died, actually. Like, a month ago or so, and, so, yeah. Things are.. well, I'm surviving. But there's that. Just, you know, so you know."

Slick as all get out.

I decided early on that I had no desire to make some grand social media confession. I'd done that when my grandmother died and, while it made it easier in some ways, it also resulted in some of my more tenuous acquaintances reading into everything I posted during the weeks following as some sort of "inner view" to my psyche. I got tired really quickly of heartfelt responses to Death Cab for Cutie lyrics, in other words.

Plus, this isn't really the same. The death of a grandparent is expected, in some ways. I was 28 when my maternal grandmother died, and she was 90. Though I loved her fiercely, and her death forever changed our family, there was some semblance of order. My mother was only 64. Her father buried her. There is no order there. There is no comfort in a life long-lived. I received a condolence card the other day that urged me to cherish "the lifetime of memories" we had together. I snorted. We hardly had a lifetime together. 2/3rds of a life time. Maybe 3/4. We got shortchanged, Hallmark, get the message.

I also wanted to avoid the social media rubbernecking. I think we're drawn to tragedy in some way, with an insatiable need for details that's only kept at bay by propriety. Maybe because by hearing more about someone's loss, we feel like we can outrun it, or avoid making the same mistakes. Or maybe by acknowledging its awfulness we feel like we're sending up an incantation to protect ourselves. Publicly we're all "How awful, I can't imagine. My thoughts and prayers with all of you." but quietly, to ourselves and to our deity we think "Thank you, God for making sure it wasn't me."

I know people stalk people's social media following a tragedy because I've done it myself. Looking for details on how they're doing, drawing conclusions from their reposted memes. And if you don't believe me, hours after her colleagues were told the news, my sister received a friend request from the sour girl who sits near her that hasn't spoken to her in the nearly-a-year they've been working together. Nice try, deets-seeker.

So, by not making it public, I've been faced with the slow reveal. When things looked grim, I told three friends, two of whom had lost mothers when they were in their 20s and 30s. When things ended, I told those same three. And when my best friend, Jax, asked if she could do anything, I asked her to tell people we knew, because that was an absolutely impossible task at the time. But still, even after the obit was published and the friends were told, and work was informed, there was still a lot of people that didn't know. Which is okay, but I'm still young enough that its shocking so every time I see someone I know (which, during this season is quite frequently), I usually have to steel myself up for another awkward explanation. All I want to say is: sorry to ruin your day with my dead mother.

Once my grandfather died, I doubled down and buttoned those lips even harder. Because one is enough, two is just... well, all aboard the pity blimp, y'know?

So why, after all this talk of privacy, am I here? Because, even if it's the internet, it still feels like something of a safe space. Because reading the blogs of my friends who have suffered loss has been really helpful, so maybe this is something of an offering in return. Because when you really only think about one thing, from the moment you wake up, to the moment you wake up again, you start to get self-conscious about talking about it constantly with "real people".

Because maybe the reason it's so hard to formulate the words to explain it to people is because it's not the kind of thing you can sum up in a sentence or two.

Although, basically it all comes down to this:

I miss my mom. I miss my grandfather.

Nothing profound, but there it is.

Taking Care of Business

I remember, after 9/11, there was an awkwardness as all the comedy shows I adored started coming back. It's difficult to pick up where you left off when things are so obviously different. I particularly remember The Daily Show's return and Jon Stewart's self-effacing and excellent open monologue . Part of his opening kept rolling around in my head last Wednesday morning when, after 6 weeks off, I decided to return to the office.

"They said to get back to work, and there were no jobs available for a man in the fetal position under his desk crying - which I would have gladly taken - so I came back here."

Word, Stewart.

I can't honestly say that it was the hardest thing I've ever done - I don't know if I will ever be able to say that again, frankly, because that kind of statement is sort of laughable these days - but it was up there. TB went back to work, too, after 3 weeks of coddling my sorry ass as it made its daily trek from bed to couch, and back to bed again (with only the briefest of visits to the washroom or the fridge, to do my little human answer to "supply and demand"). And so this left me, on a bright and cold weekday morning, staring at my ceiling, as every demon I'd fought off so valiantly in the last few days came back to haunt me.

Every memory I'd pushed back, every piece of crushing sadness, every regret, every worry, descended upon me as I tried my very best to sit up, to get up, to do *anything* but lie there. The sadness stormed my brain, a full battalion, freshly rested from days of being ignored and ready to fight. Between gasps and squinted eyes and bad war metaphors I called out the name of the only person I wanted in that moment:

"MOM!"

I joke to my friend Sarah that I say her name aloud a lot, but I can't decide if it's an oath or a curse (prayer/swear we call it). In this case it was an even-Steven split of both, no doubt about it. I don't know what I expected her to do, or how she was supposed to fix it. Even if she'd been here, I don't know that she'd have an answer to how I was supposed to get out of bed and go to work. I just needed her, and the reason I needed her was the reason she couldn't help. I couldn't even call anyone, because I'm a decent person and it was 8:00 in the morning and most of my friends were either in the middle of their morning routine, or a few hours behind me. As I sniveled and sniffed and wondered how in the fuck I was supposed to put on pants, my phone lit up. It was my friend C WhatsApp'ing me from Russia asking me how I felt about going back and cheering me up with silly banter. It was enough to at least get me mobile and dressed which, realistically, is about all the effort I usually put forth into my mornings.

It was strange, walking back into the building I hadn't seen in more than 6 weeks, turning the key in my office door, realizing I never did eat that lemon cake from Starbucks that was sitting on my desk. There were awkward moments, when someone, in the midst of offering comforting words, began going on about how much she loved her parents and how *hard* it must be to not only lose a parent but a sounding board, right? But mostly, it was okay. I only had to tell the story once, and it was to a friend, not just a coworker. I didn't eat much that week, but I did remember to drink lots of water and tea and by week's end, I even had drafted a note all by myself. Since then I've started getting back into the swing a bit. I still can't seem to get onto a bus for work, preferring the solitude of a cab, and I haven't been able to get to work before 9:45, since difficult nights mean not a lot of good REM sleep, but I'm there. Well, I only worked 3 days this week and last week but I'm there. I'm typing and I'm picking up the phone and I'm making edits and I'm grabbing coffee. I'm working.

Inside, I feel very much the same most of the time- sad, lost, pained, envious, angry - but at least now the outside is getting a fresh coat of lipstick every morning. My chapped lips are pleased with the progress.

Thank you for your generous donation

After 6 weeks of basically living in my own filth, my sister and I decided to start attacking the pile of boxes, bags and laundry that I had dubbed "Fort Grief". Cans were recycled, clothing thrown into the washing machine and half-picked-at food scooped out of the pathway of an insistent pug.

Among the papers littering the living room was a piece of junk mail, stuffed fat with promises of "three free gifts inside!" I had to laugh as I opened it, revealing a small stick pin, a page of address labels and a pad of patterned paper. I remembered receiving a similar package last year, and that pad of paper sure had come in handy. I split it with my sister about 5 months ago and all 8 pages are covered in our writing and currently enjoying their new home, tucked within the hidden shelf in my mother's casket, .

The irony of the whole shebang is of course, that the this was all part of a fundraiser for the Heart and Stroke foundation.

"Less free gifts, more making sure my mom didn't die" I muttered to the envelope before shoving it in the trash.

I took it back out and put it in a drawer, incidentally. My mom wouldn't want me to throw out perfectly good address labels, after all.

That's enough

I had a dream about her this morning. In the scant hour between when the dog woke me up with her morning freak out,  and when i acquiesced and actually opened my eyes, she was there.

There was a lot of noise at first. I was at TB's parents' house. His family had just seen guardians of the galaxy and were discussing whether or not it was racist*. The doorbell kept ringing but we ignored out, eating cookies instead. I looked out the window at my family pulling up in a van they've never owned and i was waving furiously, worried that after i ignored their 9 doorbell rings they would leave without coming in. Not to worry, they all came in, bringing Tupperware I'd forgotten at their place.

I was stressing out to my sister about what the last present i bought my mom was. I had my dates all mixed up and my sister said "just ask her". And then, there she was. My heart was instantly full of her. A cruel trick of the brain means she's nearly always wearing what she did in her casket, and this time was no exception. But still, she looked beautiful. Hair done, jacket crisp, even her teeth looked whiter than usual - proof that Crest whitestrips are truly a gift from god.

The relief of being able to ask her something was overwhelming. "Mom, " do you remember whether you received the last present i got you for mother's day?" I asked. She thought for a minute "no, i don't think so, " she replied,  "i was pretty sick then. "**

I apologized and said I'd give it to her later but she turned to me and said "what i do remember are your big, radiant smiles beaming at me. You and your sister looked beatific."

Then i asked her if she wanted to get waffles with us tomorrow morning and she said "sure". And it felt so good knowing we'd get a table for five, not four.

I don't know if this means today's going be a good day, or a maudlin one, but we're damn sure going to eat waffles.

*i cannot speak to the racistness of that particular film. My brain has questions, apparently.

**this is untrue - she was fine on mother's day and i got her flowers and gifts after that as well. But i hate to correct dream people so i let it slide.

Compounded

6 days after I wrote that last entry, my grandfather, my mother's father, also passed away.

It was almost funny, walking back into the same funeral home almost exactly three weeks later, meeting with the bubbly and efficient Adrienne again, hearing her admonish us for not following her last instructions - "I don't want to see you back here for a long, long, time" - same room full of caskets, same catering menu, same pit in the centre of your chest that threatens to consume all of you. But a little different, of course. And, in some ways, just a little bit worse.

I did both their eulogies. I did one for my grandmother, too, four years ago. This has made me the de facto eulogizer in my family now, a task I would happily leave to literally anyone else - if I weren't so damn good at it. Unfortunately, it's half because it's easy to write about people you love so intensely, and half because, let's be frank, I've gotten some decent practice recently. The theatre degree continues to have unforeseen uses.

I'd be lying if I said I'm okay, though for some moments I'm "okay". I eat, I dress myself, I bathe, I laugh, I play with the dog, I watch my newly-acquired Netflix. I survive. In those moments I can see a bare glimmer about 50 miles in the distance, of how, one day, I might be able to rebuild a life for myself. But the nights are harder. Around 10 I can feel it coming in, like a tide, or a cloud cover announcing an impending storm. And before I even know to run for cover, the thoughts are there, smothering me, unable to let me alone for even a moment.

Sometimes I think about regret. I force myself to conjure up every shitty thing I ever did to them, or think about how things would have been different if only I'd paid more attention, forced them to get second opinions, helped out in some way. I think about how scared they might have been, or lonely. I think about how I can never give them presents, or affection, or tell them I love them ever again. I know it's useless, and probably damaging to think this way. So then I think about anger. I think about the way some family members treated them. I think about the things we'll never get to experience, the things that other people take for granted. I think about intact families in malls, multi-generational groups of women, arm-in-arm, getting pictures with Santa, eating in food courts, blowing on the bellies of oblivious infants. I get so angry that all I want to do is push those families down the stairs. I've taken to muttering "You'll get yours" under my breath instead, and it helps, even if I acknowledge this is pretty much the Most Shitty Thing to Think.

Sometimes the regret and the anger are too exhausted to come, so then I invite fear. Fear that this is my life now; that, one by one, month by month, everyone who means something to me will disappear, leaving me behind. Fear that the support I have right now will fade away as people expect me to "get over it" and I will have to go through life as I do now - a shell that smiles and says the right thing and nods at what you're saying when inside I am roiling, boiling lava, a heatwave of panic and despair that moves up and down my body like some Hellish tide. Fear that this shroud I put on every morning will always complete every outfit, every day. Fear that I am not strong enough to rebuild any of this life, never mind myself.

And when the regret and the anger and the fear and the despair and the panic have all tucked themselves in for the night, I settle back into agony. Because there's always, Always, a little more agony left at the end of the day.

Grief is a generous guest. He never lets you deal with anything alone.

Thief of Joy

My grief fills rooms. It takes up space and it sucks out the air. It leaves no room for anyone else. 

Grief and I are left alone a lot. We smoke cigarettes and we cry. We stare out the window at the Chrysler Building twinkling in the distance, and we trudge through the cavernous rooms of the apartment like miners aimlessly searching for a way out. 

Grief holds my hand as I walk down the sidewalk, and grief doesn’t mind when I cry because it’s raining and I cannot find a taxi. Grief wraps itself around me in the morning when I wake from a dream of my mother, and grief holds me back when I lean too far over the edge of the roof at night, a drink in my hand. 

Grief acts like a jealous friend, reminding me that no one else will ever love me as much as it does. 

Grief whispers in my ear that no one understands me. 

Grief is possessive and doesn’t let me go anywhere without it. 

I drag my grief out to restaurants and bars, where we sit together sullenly in the corner, watching everyone carry on around us. I take grief shopping with me, and we troll up and down the aisles of the supermarket, both of us too empty to buy much. Grief takes showers with me, our tears mingling with the soapy water, and grief sleeps next to me, its warm embrace like a sedative keeping me under for long, unnecessary hours. 

Grief is a force and I am swept up in it. 

- The Rules of Inheritance, Claire Bidwell Smith

As of today, my mother has been dead for three weeks. I don't know what else to say about that right now, especially since the above pretty much encompasses it all. 

Exceptions: I don't smoke cigarettes, but I make up for that in the amount of sparkling wine I consume. And I don't have the Chrysler building to stare at, just the four walls of a downtown single home that have become something of a cocoon, a clapboard sleeping bag where the only physical reminders of her are slight. Not to worry, of course, because grief provides enough of them on its own.

More to come, I expect.