This week on the podcast, I share my personal journey of grief around losing my mother. I hope it will be helpful to you in your own grief journeys of loss. There is something about other’s stories that can be more reassuring than science or models—other’s experiences can offer validation, understanding, empathy and connection. I’m getting a bit more raw and personal in this podcast because that is exactly the nature of grief. I talk about how I navigated the first 2 tasks of grief. 1) Accepting the reality of the loss. 2) Experiencing the pain of the loss.
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This week on the podcast, I share my personal journey of grief around losing my mother. I hope it will be helpful to you in your own grief journeys of loss. There is something about other’s stories that can be more reassuring than science or models—other’s experiences can offer validation, understanding, empathy and connection. I’m getting a bit more raw and personal in this podcast because that is exactly the nature of grief. I talk about how I navigated the first 2 tasks of grief. 1) Accepting the reality of the loss. 2) Experiencing the pain of the loss.
Free Mini-Coaching Session
Sign-up for a free 30-min. mini-coaching session.
Schedule
One-Minute Wisdom
Each week I carefully craft a short perspective shift or tool that you can read in about a minute or two. You can sign up here.
Follow me on Instagram: @theexpatmomcoach
Ep. 64Grief Part 2: My Grief Journey Losing My Mother
Hope is the thing
Welcome back to the podcast! I hope you’ve had a wonderful week and I hope you ate way too much candy. Our family made a gumball machine out of our trunk this year for halloween with a cardboard stand up you could drop a coin in and turn the crank and then reach inside and grab a candy. It’s hard not to think about October without thinking about Halloween. October is also significant for me because my mother died in October.
This year is the 10 year anniversary of my mother’s passing. Some people call it a “deathiversary.” But for me, I prefer the idea of anniversary of her passing.
Last time on the podcast I talked about some of the science of grief and about the way we think about the grief process. I shared some models that may be helpful in approaching the journey of grief—and perhaps more helpful than the typical “Stages of Grief” model we often hear about.
Today though, I am going to share my personal journey of grief around losing my mother. I hope it will be helpful to you in your own grief journeys of loss. There is something about other’s stories that can be more reassuring than science or models—other’s experiences can offer validation, understanding, empathy and connection. They can however also be used as a weapon against ourselves if we compare. I hope that you will use this story as what it is intended—simply a sharing of my own journey. Each of us and our grief journeys are unique and different. You’ll hear next week when I have the interview with each of my siblings—how different each of our grief journeys have been even around losing the same person in the same way. I’m getting very raw and personal in this podcast because that is exactly the nature of grief.
Last week in the podcast I discussed the idea of shifting from thinking about the stages of grief to thinking instead about the tasks of grief. If you haven’t listened to episode 63, I highly encourage you to do so, as the things I share in this episode build on those principles. In this episode I will be sharing my experience with the first two tasks of grief. 1. Accepting the reality of the loss. And 2. Feeling the pain of the loss. In a later episode I will cover my personal journey with task #3 and task #4
Losing My Mother
My mother was the emotional center of our home. I can remember her turning on David Benoir music and dancing around the family room holding a paper plate that had our Saturday cleaning jobs on it, and announcing our work in way that we couldn’t possibly complain because she made us laugh. I remember her driving us up to the mountains in the fall and saying, “Isn’t this glorious!?!” And I remember how she would dress up in a blue and white striped dress with a straw hat and invite her grandchildren to a tea party outside on a cardboard box with Mrs. “Picklebottom” —a name she had made up to sound silly. She was the emotional center of our home; she was a mother of 6 children and married to my dad for over 30 years. She was an important emotional anchor for me; she encouraged me, and she was my model who who to be as a woman and a mother.
She suffered with ovarian cancer for 4 years. She had surgery and went through chemo twice and tried many different things. And, thankfully, she did have a few periods of remission.
I remember her last summer we had a family reunion with all of my siblings and our families. One thing I regret is never taking a family picture with all of us. At the time it seemed so hectic and crazy with little ones and bedtimes. But at the time we didn’t know it would be her last summer. One of my favorite last memories was going to a park one day with her and my two little ones. She and I sat on the grass on a hill in the shade watching my girls play on the slide. She seemed so calm and so focused on the experience of just being together. Our family flew back to China soon after where we were living at the time. Just a few weeks later, my mother went to the oncologist and found that the Ovarian cancer had spread through her whole body.
I remember the day she called me and I could tell something was different. I asked her if she thought it might be her time to go—she was silent for a while, it seemed like forever. She said she knew she couldn’t fight the cancer any more. She felt nervous and sad—but also at peace about dying. At that time we thought she would still have 2-3 months left to live. My baby was due in early January and we both hoped that she would live to see her newest grandchild. It seemed like a small hope amid the looming gloom.
Being across the world felt torturous: I thought about my mother constantly. I received a call just a few days later that my mother had gone down-hill very quickly and might only have 24 hours left. I was shocked and panicked. What?!?! I had expected it would be months, not days. I bought a flight that morning and sobbed and worried all 18 hours of the flight home to Colorado in the US. Bless my sweet seat companions. Every time I had a layover, I called. She’s still here, they said. I agonized over the possibility that I might not see her alive one more time.
I remember trying to write her a final letter, or say a final good-bye. There is something in us that wants to have finality. But as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t quite get my mind around it. How could I sum up on a piece of paper what my mother meant to me? Eventually, I gave up.
I didn’t relax until I had her cheek to mine and I was squeezing her hand. The first thing I said was, “Thank you for waiting.”
It was a bit of a shock to see her so gaunt and wasted and in a hospice bed in the middle of the living room. The last time I had seen her, she and I had gone for a walk around the trails in our neighborhood. Now just breathing was laborious for her. Each night for the next 6 days I wondered if it would be her last. But each morning she was still there. It’s funny when you know that this might be the last moment of something—how precious otherwise insignificant acts can become.
One of my favorite moments was helping to wash and style her hair. It was such a simple thing, but she did that very simple act for me as a child for years. It seemed tender that I could do a small act of service for her.
My mother never lost her sense of humor. One night we were all sitting around and she said, “Does anyone have some chocolate?” We were all a bit surprised because since her cancer diagnosis she had been a model of nutritious eating, gulping down fresh pressed carrot juice and abstaining from sugar and refined products, limiting meat and more. She said, “I’m going to the dogs anyway—I might as well go up in flames!” It was a needed burst of humor amid an otherwise sober time.
One afternoon I went upstairs to her bedroom and my mother needed to use the bathroom. It’s hard to watch someone you love feel a sense of lost dignity. Basic things they’ve always done for themselves become difficult. She was in so much pain she could hardly move. The idea of making it the bathroom seemed epic. She sat on the edge of the bed for a lot time rocking. It reminded me a bit of labor. In some ways dying is it’s own type of labor—birthing ourselves into a new life. Finally I got my Dad to help at my mother’s request. My Dad held her and rocked her back and forth. He said, ”Mom and I will dance to the bathroom together." It made her smile. And gave her just enough energy to stand up with help.
As difficult as the circumstance was—losing my mother—we felt an outpouring of love from my mother, our family members, neighbors and friends. During the next couple of days, there was a love and support that was palpable. As we watched her suffer, we began to hope for her that she could be relieved of the pain and discomfort. One hospice said, “people often die as they live.” Just as my mom had approached each challenge with energy, strength and determination—the same proved true around her dying.
We were all surrounding her bedside as she took her last breath. She had been in pain, and now she was free of her earthly bonds and strains. We imagined her reunion with her parents and her brother and sister-in-law, and grandson and others who had passed on before her, and her mother-in-particular who she had lost when she was only 14.
Those tender images of her reunions softened, but didn’t eliminate, the difficulty of watching her lie lifeless on the bed, and be wheeled out of our home. The finality of the gurney wheels and the car door closing made my heart ache.
The day of the funeral was busy. People were so wonderful and so supportive, but it all seemed like a bit of a blur. It seemed surreal that I was at my own mother’s funeral, shaking hands of people we loved, laying a flower on her casket.
I knew she was gone. I watched her take her last breath. I hugged her still body. I saw her body in the casket. But what I knew intellectually, took a while for my heart to catch up with. I was still working on task number one of grieving.
And then it was time to leave. Her earthly remains disappeared. With them my sense of normalcy about the world disappeared too.
Numb to Reality
It all felt surreal; It seemed so strange to return to “normal” life when I suddenly felt disoriented and not normal at all. I’d do the same tasks of dishwashing or changing a diaper or brushing my teeth. But they felt strange. At other times I felt completely normal and then wonder if I “should” feel normal.
In the days that followed I felt adrift. I’d think, “I need to call mom and ask her….oh.” I’d stop myself and remember there was no mom to call.
I noticed I particularly missed her when I felt down, discouraged or doubted myself. My mother was so good at being a cheerleader for me and remind ing me of my best self. She would give me a hit of courage when I was discouraged. She’d quote lines from Anne of Green Gables, “Girl you do be all.” You are amazing.
I watched her as my model of how to mother, how to do hard things, how to think about the world, how to be a woman. With that gone I felt unsure. When I couldn’t get my baby to sleep I longed for her advice and reassurance. When the family recipe I made flopped I wished she were there to walk me through it. I read old emails, letters, looked a pictures and tried to imagine what she might say or think or do.
I had my mother’s picture in my hallway. I wanted her presence however I could have it. Sometimes though, I felt like she was watching me. I became hyper aware of all my imperfections and became self-conscious.
After a few weeks of these natural urges to connect with my mom resulting in sobering remembrance she was gone, my heart began to catch up with my brain. I knew she was really gone.
Experiencing the Grief
As the emotional reality of my loss began to settle, my emotions began to get heavier and heavier. Little situations, daily tasks and exchanges with others–totally un-related to my mom felt heavier and harder. For example it felt almost overwhelming to even open the shades of the windows in my home. Taking my kids outside with their bikes felt like a Hurculean task. I was irritated more easily with others.
Sadness, and longing would well up at strange times. I remember driving in the car one day. A song on the radio came on (that had nothing to do with my mom, but it triggered my grief totally unexpectedly. I sobbed all the way home and nearly ran a red light because my eyes were so blurry.
It was a dark time. Grief is a heavy emotion. It shrouds everything with a bit of a darker hue. Even happy things don’t feel the same intensity of joy. I cried myself to sleep many nights. I felt sad and low and hollow at times. Even spiritually I felt it was more difficult to connect with God.
It’s strange though—our bodies and minds can’t always carry such a heavy load. The brain has to take breaks to survive and replenish.
I felt that who I was had changed. I felt like without knowing about this sentinel event in my life it would be hard for someone to fully understand me. My identity was different. I found that I was a woman who had lost her mother as my primary identity for a while. I talked about my mother and her passing with friends.
The fog of grief has many sweet parts too–it is an indication of how significantly the person or thing you are grieving has influenced your life. I believe that is part of grief’s role–to help us focus in on the imprint left behind. As strange as it sounds, there are tender and sweet parts of grief that I would never give up. Losing my mother allowed me to see more comprehensively who she was to me. I saw the significant impact she had on my life. I saw the roles she played. I saw how who I was was entangled in who she was. And I recognized some of her weaknesses and insecurities. I had to reconcile those. I had to deal with some of my disappointments about her too.
These kinds of explorations were painful for me.
Fully letting ourselves mourn the loss of something allows us to eventually let go of the pain.
Will Grief End?
One of the most difficult parts of grief is the illusion that it may last forever. Our brains can’t fathom having to experience this intensity of emotion without an end in sight. Yet in the middle of grief fog, it can be difficult to see how it would ever end.
I remember for a long time the feelings of grief were so raw it was difficult to own them sometimes. I felt an affinity to anyone who had lost a parent—knowing they “knew.” My cousins had lost their mother to Ovarian Cancer about 5 years before. One day, in a tender exchange my cousin said:
“You’ll never stop missing your mother, but the pain becomes less acute over time. One day you will be able to sit on your moms grave and eat popsicles and tell stories.”
I remember thinking about that over and over. It seemed impossible to me at that moment. But it planted in me a small hope that I could endure this pain now—knowing it wouldn’t last at this intensity forever. My mind began to think on a poem my Aunt read at my mother’s grave-side service.
Hope is the Thing
My Aunt Natalie lost both her parents, three siblings and a sister-in-law and many other loved ones. She knew loss. The poem she sharedwas elegant in it’s appropriateness.
“Hope” is the thing with feathers
By Emily Dickinson
“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –
And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –
I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.
What is Hope?
It is a feeling of expectation and desire for a particular thing to happen. I love that analogy of hope as a bird. It’s perched in it’s nest, but has wings—which promise flight. Those wings promise greater vistas and new experiences, even if they aren’t available now.
This analogy particularly resonated for because my mother’s name was Robyn. When she was born, her mother thought she looked like a vulnerable little robin bird with it’s legs all curled up and named her, Robyn. Throughout her life my mother loved birds and nature and even chose the name “flight” as her camp name as a young adult. The analogy of flight became significant for me in my grief experience.
Finding Hope and Taking Flight
Over time I began to feel some hope. Not all the time. But little moments of it—like little pockets of light in the darkness. My emotions that had felt so heavy and overwhelming seemed to become a bit less intense over time. They were still there—but not as overpowering.
I would notice how beautiful life was in glimpses. I had a moment of joy watching my baby smile, my husband would make me laugh, or I would be enraptured by the all-consuming glory of a new blossom. These moments helped me realize the contrast between happiness and how I was seeing life most of the time.
I realized that I saw life through a filtered lens of grief most of the time. These moments of hope, reminded me that life would not always look this way. Hope “sang the tune without the words and never stopped at all.” It just kept gently reminding me of happiness and peace.
Little by little I began to feel hope more often. At times I’d sink back to a deep and painful place. That was important. I needed to be there. Feeling pain acknowledged and gave voice to my loss.
However, I still needed the hope that I wouldn’t always be feeling this terrible. Grief and healing are messy. There isn’t a neat step-wise process you complete and “heal” from. You don’t “get over” a loss. But, in my experience over time the pain becomes less acute and the shroud of darkness over everything begins to lift with time. The emotional and mental brain space the loss occupies becomes smaller and smaller over time and other things are allowed to take it’s place.
In addition even when you are in the most intense periods of grief, it can be difficult to feel it all day. I found sometimes distraction was such a welcome relief. Allowing myself to enjoy my children, music, exercise, friends and other things was a tremendous recharge that allowed me to have the energy to continue to grieve.
I found I had longer stretches of time where I felt more hopeful. First more hours, then more days and weeks. Small things like seeing her handwriting on a recipe or seeing a gift she had given my daughter sometimes triggered grief.
People who have never experienced the same type of loss can sometimes have a difficult time relating to the person who is grieving. Sometimes they might say the wrong thing or not help in the way you wish they would. It can be easy to want to turn in. And, you have every right to do what feel right for you. But grief can be sticky and it can suck you down. Having others to hold you as you navigate it can help so much.
My aunt gave me some beautiful advice after my mom passed away. She said, “Carve out space and help people help you grieve.” I found that sometimes I had to ask a friend to listen when I needed it, or I needed to cry to my husband or my sister. Sometimes I had to ask a friend to fill in for my mother in admiring something I was excited about.
Often I would long for her when I was lonely or struggling. I needed her encouragement. No one quite replaces your mother. She is the one person that doesn’t expect reciprocity. There is something so comforting about that. We moved to Mexico City just a few months later and I found that the stress, overwhelm and even grief of moving bridged back to the loss of my mother. What would have been a normally stressful time became incredibly difficult because I had a grief tower (as Lauren Wells calls) it of grief on top of grief.
Getting Stuck
Grief is a clean emotion—it’s cathartic and healing. We absolutely need to let ourselves feel it fully in order to let it go. However if we stay in it beyond what we really need, it can turn from grief to self-pity.
No one on the outside could ever determine when someone is in grief and someone is in self-pity. It is something only the person can know on the inside. It is a tricky tightrope to walk between the two. I know for me I knew I had crossed over into self-pity when I sometimes felt like a victim. Instead of feeling just sad about the loss, I began to resent others who didn’t understand or assumed they wouldn’t. Sometimes I expected others to feel sorry for me. It wasn’t a place I hung out in often, but I certainly learned the difference between grief and self-pity.
Self-pity is not a clean emotion, it is an indulgent emotion. I often felt worse after indulging in self-pity. I love the way CS Lewis describes this space. In “A Grief Observed,” a book he wrote after his wife died he says, “I almost prefer the moments of agony. These are at least clean and honest. But the bath of self-pity, the wallow, the loathsome sticky-sweet pleasure of indulging it–that disgusts me.”
Allowing our selves to feel the full weight of grief is cathartic, it helps us process it and eventually let it go. Conversely continuing to indulge in the “sticky-sweet pleasure” of our self-pity keeps us stuck. It is when we cross this line between the two that we keep our feathers held down. Hope can begin to wither and resentment and anger can take root.
Flying Free
After my aunt read Emily Dickenson’s poem at the graveside on the day of my mother’s funeral, my Dad had each of his children stand in a semi-circle. He told us as a symbol of letting our mother go, he had bird for each of us to release. One by one we each held a trembling white bird and let it fly into the air. Meanwhile the song “Amazing Grace” was playing.
As I let my bird fly free, it’s wings took it higher and higher until I could hardly make it out in the great expanse of the sky. I feel grief is a little like that. When it is close, it looms large and causes us to tremble. As hope lifts us little by little, our grief feels smaller until it is only a piece of us–not because the grief itself has grown smaller, but because we have grown larger.
Hope Continues
It has been 10 years since my mother’s passing. A few summers ago, we flew our children to Colorado and my husband and I took our four daughters to my mother’s grave. We sat around and told stories about my mom and ate treats as we talked. A lot of healing has occurred in the intervening years. I still miss my mother terribly, but my grief has lessened.
As my cousin had promised, the rawness of the pain and longing is not as acute. The more life moves forward, I feel more hope that there is so much beauty to be had in my future.
It’s joyful to talk about my mother. I want my children to know her. With time, some of the holes she left have been filled by compensatory blessings—stronger dependence on God, a deeper connection with my husband, a new and richer interdependence with my sisters, finding wonderful mentors in friends and women in my community, and more courage to listen to my own heart. The little bird of hope continues to sing the song and never stops at all.