Wednesday, September 7, 2011


I've been recently keeping up with a blog.
A young mother and father chronicle their feelings and their journey in wake of the death of their seven-month-old son.
It's a devastating story that I can't begin to fathom.

Recently, the father spoke about grief. 
He described it as a very lonely process. A journey that is taken alone. 
Behind closed doors in the privacy of your own home.
At night when everyone is asleep.
In the shower where the water can wash away the evidence. 

Grief is lonely.

My mother passed away almost six months ago. 
She died after a long battle with breast cancer. 
When she was first diagnosed, almost fifteen years ago, it was only a little lump in her breast.
The little lump spread into her bones. Her hips, her back.
The cancer in her bones spread into her liver. 

She discussed the possibility of her survival with her doctor. 
She wanted to see Samantha and Easton, and her doctor assured her that this would be their main goal.
A new goal. 

She died three months before her grandchildren were born. 
The weekend before her death, she was able to rub the belly that housed the two sweet beings. 
She missed it when they kicked though. 
I didn't want to wake her up after she had gone to bed. 

I miss her everyday.
I want to talk to her everyday.

I know that people lose their parents all the time.

It's not fair, though.
My mom did her part. She worked her ass off to beat the thing trying to kill her.
Her world was infected with appointments, medications, and treatments.
She deserved those three months to reach her goal. 

I'm grieving. 
I'm grieving the loss of the person I could talk to about everything.
I'm grieving the loss of being able to call my mom when I have a question about motherhood.
I'm grieving the loss of my children knowing someone who was so important to me.
I'm grieving the sadness that surrounds my brother and my sister during moments that should be happy.
I'm grieving all of the regrets that I have and the time that I lost.

Grieving is more than just lonely.
It is quiet and intimate. 
It is raw and overshadowing.

Grief is consuming.
I know things will be easier, but it's still not. 

1 comment:

  1. You are in my prayers. And you are right, it will get easier. No one can tell you how long it will take, but you will get there. My mother died when I was 22 (8 years ago). I have moved on, but there are still random moments that bring back that hard lump in my throat.