(The post below was written on May 21, 2020. My mom passed on April 4, 2020.)
This Saturday will mark seven weeks since my mom passed.
It is still so hard to believe.
Life is weird, but death is weirder.
I get it. I know what it means. I understand. But it is still so hard to wrap my head around the fact that she’s gone.
Since my mom never lived with me, I can almost trick myself into believing that she’s just at her house and I’m at mine.
But I know that’s not the case.
I often think to myself, “Where did she go? Where can I go to feel close to her?”
I miss her so much and I don’t know what to do about it. I can’t go see her. I can’t call her. I can’t talk to her.
Then again for several years of my mom’s life, I couldn’t call her or really talk to her. I could still go see her, but our visits were often silent.
I missed her then, but missing her now is different in so many ways. It’s final.
Life is much quieter and slower now that she’s gone.
I’m no longer filled with worry and dread, wondering how she’s doing or if/when I’m going to get THE call. I’m no longer rushing around to drive to her house to visit her several times a week. I’m no longer sore from sitting or kneeling uncomfortably at her bedside for hours until my feet and legs went numb.
I’m still tired, but just in a different way.
For the first time since she passed, I haven’t cried for several days in a row. That feels a bit strange, but it also feels like healing.
My house is mostly unpacked now and I’m starting to feel more settled, but I’ll always remember that on my first morning in this house I got THE call. That will always be my first memory here.
But also for the first time since she passed, I’m feeling just the tiniest little bit of hope.
I’m not moving on, but I am moving forward. Some days with a cinder block chained to both ankles and others with just a feather tied to one.
Because that’s the thing about grief. It never goes away. It’s always there and it will always be there for the rest of my life.
Some days it’s just lighter than others.
