Losing Mom: A Journey Through Grief (Part 12)

August 14, 2021 - One Year

When I was 9 years old, my grandpa died, so I thought I knew a lot about grief.

When I was 12 years old, my mom was diagnosed with cancer, so I thought I knew a lot about grief.

My entire life my parents have been divorced, so I thought I knew a lot about grief.

When I was 16, my mom had heart surgery.  The next day, she had a stroke.  She spent almost a month rehabilitating in the hospital, so I thought I knew a lot about grief.

When I was 18, my beloved Aunt Diane was diagnosed with cancer, which she later passed from in 2019.  I thought I knew a lot about grief.

Throughout 2011 and 2012, my mom spent a lot of time in hospitals.  I saw her bald, frail body in many different rooms that looked exactly the same, so I thought I knew a lot about grief.

Only, when I was 9 years old, I didn't cry at my grandpa's funeral.  I had no idea at the time what all of this meant.  Death, and everything that follows.  His funeral was open-casket, so I saw him one final time on that day, many days after his death, still looking exactly the same.  He could've been sleeping, for all my 9-year-old self knew.  I knew nothing about grief.

When I was 12 years old, I didn't know the weight that the word "cancer" carried, I could just tell that it was an incredibly sad thing by the look on all of the adults faces.  It sure was very sad, watching my mom transform into someone different, though her spirit remained the same.  I knew nothing about grief.

Having divorced parents since I was 2, there was really nothing to grieve here.  I don't remember a single moment of my family's time all together, all I had to grieve was the stability I wished I had.  I knew nothing about grief.

When I was 16, I spent the morning in art class staring at the clock, and waiting for my phone to vibrate with news of mom's successful surgery.  I don't recall ever getting such a message.  The next day, Aunt Marcia, Aunt Gina and Uncle Tom were at our house telling us mom had a stroke that morning.  Not only did the surgery not go as planned, but she wouldn't be home in a couple of days either.  Still, I knew nothing of grief.

When I was 18, I saw my Aunt go through what my mom had once gone through.  I understood it all much better at this age, and knew why she was going bald and didn't feel well.  I understood the word "terminal" when it finally came to that.  I understood her decision to go in hospice.  I had time to process her death before she even died.  But still, I knew nothing of grief.

I recall the hospitals of 2011 and 2012 very well.  At one point, I could have told you how to get to mom's room without even being there.  There was a time in the summer of 2012 where she spent a month in a Detroit hospital for a stem cell transplant.  I saw her 1 time that whole month.  It was the hardest time of my life up to that point, seeing my mom so sad that she's finally seeing us, but so sad that we have to see her that way at all.  I know it broke her heart, as it did mine.  But still, I knew nothing of grief...

Until a year ago, August 14, 2020, when my mom died unexpectedly.  I woke up to loud footsteps in my house, and thought Jeremy was just getting ready for work.  But the clock said 4:15 or something, so he would be late if he was still home.  And he usually wasn't so loud; I've never woken up to him walking through the house before, anyway.

But it wasn't Jeremy, it was Aunt Marcia, rushing into mine and Heather's room to wake us up.  I propped myself onto my elbow so fast, shocked by her presence.  "Girls, are you awake?  We have to go, your mom's going to the hospital."  "Why?"  I asked, whipping my sheets off of me and standing up.  "What's wrong?"

Aunt Marcia explained that mom didn't feel good, so she called her to come over to grandma's with her.  Marcia did, and after a while of not feeling well, mom finally fell asleep.  But she woke up suddenly and said "it's happening again."  Aunt Marcia asked if she wanted 9-1-1, mom said yes.  CPR was involved.  paramedics.  Resuscitation after resuscitation, until, finally, after the 3rd or 4th time, the doctors said that if they lost her again and got her back, she was likely to have brain damage.

Marcia was not the only person mom called that morning.  She tried to call all 3 of us, and none of us answered.  I was fast asleep at 1 in the morning, and never had my sound on.  But I do have the voicemail from that day, and since that August morning I haven't listened to it.  I felt sick, standing in my kitchen and hearing her ask for company.  I felt sick that I didn't pick up, that I didn't go over there, that I left her alone.  I feel sick just thinking about it.  At the time, though, I knew nothing about the events at grandma's house - the CPR and the AED and the time she'd already lost.  I just knew where she was going.  

Uncle John was at our house too, and he drove the 4 of us to the hospital.  All of this happening during COVID, so the security guard could only let one of us in.  It felt wrong to pick between the 2 of her daughters, so we all decided to let Marcia go.  She had been with her anyway, she knew what was going on.

We sat in the parking garage for a long time it felt like.  Even longer because of my anxiety.  Uncle John got out to walk around, but I felt frozen in my place in the back seat.  I messaged some friends to say prayers for mom, because she was in the ER this morning, and no, I'm not sure what's wrong.

Eventually, Uncle John came back to the car and said they were letting us all go inside.  I should have known at this very moment that she was gone.  4 visitors during COVID is completely unheard of, but I have to admit, I wasn't thinking she was dying.  I didn't even know she was dying, so why would I think such a thing?

My mom's been in the hospital several times before, and she has never come out of it dead, so why would this time be any different?

How naive of me.  Mom wasn't sick anymore, she hadn't been in years.  So to be rushed to the hospital must have meant something was wrong with you.  How blind I was not to see it...  And nobody told me either.  Nobody said what occurred that morning until we were back home.  Nobody said "I really think you ought to be the one that goes inside so you can say goodbye."  The social worker that brought us to see her didn't even say "I'm sorry for your loss."  She said "she has a breathing tube in, to help her breathe."  And that was that.  A breathing tube.  So?  What's the big deal.  I've seen her with one before.  I'm not new to this environment.  I know the work that goes into saving people's lives.

So I walk into her room, my Uncle and Heather beside me, and I think she's alive.  I think she's unconscious, because her eyes are closed and the breathing tubes still in, but I do indeed think she's alive.  It takes me a couple of minutes to register the deafening silence in the room.  My Aunt's silent emotions.  The silent machines.  The blank-screened monitors.

"What are you looking for, Sarah?"  My Aunt asked me.  "Why aren't any of the machines on?"  I asked her.  She shook her head at me, "it's not good, Sarah."  Is all she had to say, and I knew my beautiful mother was gone...

Which is an experience, because how is she "gone" if I can still see her?  She's laying right here in front of me, just like my grandpa had all those years before.  And suddenly I'm a kid again, completely unsure of what death means.  Only I'm also an adult, with all of the knowledge and understanding of what dying means.  So you may be able to understand my dilemma still, now, a whole 365 days post-mom's death, with not fully understanding that she's gone.

Because she was just here.  She was so alive.  I can vividly recall in my memories the last time I saw her.  I see pictures of her and think "see, she was here, I'm not crazy."  Which just makes me feel crazier, because those pictures make it harder for me to accept her death.  And the cycle continues, and the circle never ends.  There is no start or end to such a shape.  We just go around and around forever, me and mom's death.  Me and acceptance.  Me and understanding.  Me and time.

And now, I think, maybe I know a little something about grief.  But I could never truly understand it all.  It comes in like waves of a hurricane, sudden and unexpected, and very powerful.  These aren't little whitecaps in Grand Haven that wash over my feet and get the bottoms of my pants wet.  These are powerful ocean waves that could sweep me under at any moment if I let them, I'm sure.

My mom, the beautiful, kind, loving, caring, and selfless woman that was Julie Ann Otterbein-Morris, died a year ago today.  My mother, my Miss.  My confidant.  My friend in adulthood.  My solitude in childhood.  My favorite hugger.  My biggest supporter.  My greatest love.  It was so easy to choose to love her.  As her daughter, I had the upper hand on getting to love her.  We had a connection that I could not explain, but I'm sure every child understands.  But to get to love her, and choose to love her, and to be loved by her - that was a gift.  A gift I could never ever return, even if she lived 50 years longer.

Sometimes I don't think I was worthy of her love, but I damn sure am beyond grateful for it.  I would not trade this entire life for the world, momma, even if it were to end exactly the same.  Because in some other dimension, some other time, maybe you wouldn't have been my mother.  And that, well, that would have been even harder to comprehend than all of this.

I was blessed to have you.  I was blessed to love you.  It's even a blessing to miss you.  I will never forget you.  I carry you with me every day.  I love you far more than I could ever truly say, maybe that's why I never said it much.  I hope you knew it though, in life.  I hope you feel it still in heaven.  I miss you, Momma.  You're my star all through the year.

<3 Sarah