Losing Mom: A Journey Through Grief

August 20, 2020:  One week after our last conversation.

Do you think we can be angry when we get to heaven?  Can we enter the gates and ask "why am I here?"  Can we tell God that our earthly work wasn't done?  That our children still needed us?  That our mothers depended on us?  Do we feel anger in heaven?  Frustration?  Sadness?

I doubt it.  I don't know why, but I do.  I imagine earth-side mom saying all of these things - through cancer, surgery, hardship, general obstacles - but for some reason I can only imagine heaven-side mom feeling peace.

To be honest, I envy her that.  I want to feel peace.  I don't want to carry around this burdening weight of sadness for another day, but I know it will linger for a long time.  Similarly though, I'm glad it's here.  If I felt absolute peace right now, I wouldn't have loved her enough in life to miss her in death.

But the thing is, I miss her immensely.  Too much, almost, if that's possible (it is).  I've cried every day since her passing.  And not just silent tears rolling cinematic-ally down clear-skinned faces, but blubbering, snotty, hiccupy cries of longing and loneliness and anger and depression.

She gave me a piece of herself when she brought me into this world, and she took a piece of me with her when she left.  I feel empty.  I feel hollow, like a vast canyon that echoes forever.  I may never be full again.  And I'm frustrated.  I keep finding myself searching for the answer to the question my mother never asked God: "why?"  Why did you take her?  The best soul earth-side this century has seen.  Perfect?  Absolutely not.  But good.  Morally good.  Bone-deep good.  She couldn't be bad if she tried.

I'm softer things too.  Gentler things.  Less overbearing things, like confused.  I consider this one soft and gentle because the confusion is a shield.  Much like with education; with learning comes understanding.  The confusing thing about this confusion, however, is that I do understand it.  My mother's gone.  She passed away.  We spoke the word of God over her, and buried her beside her sister.  I'll never see her human face again.  I will never see her age.  She will never meet the man I marry, my future children, my siblings children.  She's not here.  She won't be there for any of the nexts.  She's gone.  But I don't understand that.  It hasn't sunk in for me or something.  She was just here.  She was fine.  Healthy.  Cancer-free.  Alive.

I think what makes it harder to believe is that she practically lived at grandma's since March, so I'm used to her absence in our home.  I'm used to her bed being empty, waking up without her here, going to bed without saying goodnight.  Part of me is glad for that, because if it is this unbearable now in all this uncertainty, then it would certainly just crush me otherwise.  However, part of me wishes she had been home.  The too-late realization that these last 4 1/2 months were our last together upsets me.  I would have changed so many things if I knew...  I wish I could go back and get every second of every day back with her now.

I'm fiery things too.  I'm angry.  Boiling-over angry.  Volcano-erupting angry.  I'm surprised my skin isn't hot to the touch.  I think I will always be angry, even if it burns down to just glowing embers, but it will never fully burn out.  The aforementioned milestones will only make that anger surge.

Maybe.  This is present-day me speaking, after all.  Maybe future Sarah will grow softer and gentler like her mother.  But I don't know, I've never known another woman like her.  And now, with only 22 years of time with her, I'm not sure I have enough information on how to.  Oh but momma, I sure will try.  If there's one thing I always wanted to be, it's a mother.  But not just a mother - you.  I see how selflessly and effortlessly and fully you loved, and I strive to do the same.

I love you so much mom.  I miss you immensely already.  I wish you could have stayed with me, but I know that you're not far...

I would like to take a moment here to thank my family: my dad, both my grandmothers, and many countless aunt's, uncle's and cousins.

Specifically though - Dad: thank you for your unwavering love and support, always, but especially during this time.  We love you so much.

Mom's siblings - Aunt Marcia, Uncle Doug, Uncle Tom, and Uncle John: thank you for loving us like your own.  This loss reminds me of the countless times you all rallied around our family as mom battled cancer; bringing us kids with you on your family vacations; and now enveloping us in your parental love.  I know that you know that even the 4 of you together cannot replace our mom, and we know that you're not trying to.  I think I speak for the 3 of us when I say thank you.  We love you all.