I've been doing really well with my grief... really, really well - just experiencing passing moments of poignant memories now and then.
My mom died over nine months ago (on 4/6/07, which was Good Friday this year - another day of religious significance). I haven't stopped missing her like crazy, but the pain of grief has lessened considerably.
Of course, I have been dreading the holidays, because I know we feel the absence of loved ones so acutely at this time. However, I made it through Thanksgiving and did OK, so I had hopes that Christmas might be similarly uneventful, grief-wise.
I decided to remember my mom this Christmas by making a little tree in her honor - all done up in the bronze colors she liked to wear, and with homemade "frame" ornaments that have pictures of her in them. It turned out beautifully.
Up until today, things were going pretty much as expected - I had just a few moments here and there when I had time to think about her and miss her. However, I got hit, and I got hit hard. Come with me over the fold, if you want to know what happened.
To understand what happened to me today, you'll need some background: last Christmas, my mom was about nine months into her fight against pancreatic cancer. She had already had one major crisis in which she had been perilously near death, but survived. She was much stronger, and it was decided that my family would host a reunion here in Texas, with my mom and step-dad flying from California, and my brother and family flying from the DC area. Included also was my "long lost" nephew, who would be reunited with all of us for the first time in 24 years (he had been adopted out of our family at age one). As you might expect, it was quite the dramatic Christmas, with thirteen of us under one roof.
My mom and step-dad arrived first, on 12/23, and that was the first time I'd laid eyes on my mom since the previous August, when we were sure she was not going to survive. I was doing OK, but when she was wheeled around the corner and came into my view at the airport, a gush of emotion just poured out of nowhere - I was overcome by tears (and I'm not generally a teary person), as was she. We fell into an embrace of weeping - right there in public - the likes of which I cannot remember ever experiencing with her before.
The next day, Christmas Eve of 2006, we went to the late afternoon service at my church - my two sons were performing in the Christmas Pageant at that service. My mother had been "churchy" in her youth, but was a longtime agnostic. Still, she had wonderful memories of church celebrations, and Christmas was her absolute favorite time of year. She delighted in the program, and I delighted to be next to her, holding her hand, as we watched our darling boys and sang the familiar carols. We knew, deep down, that this wouldn't likely happen again. She even decided to take communion with us - probably not out of belief but out of hope and comfort, which are good enough reasons, I think.
The rest of the visit was full of similar joys that carried a sense of great importance - Mom's bald head and frail body reminded all of us that this was certainly our last Christmas together.
Flash forward to this afternoon. I sat alone in the front pew at the very same service, getting ready to watch the pageant and sing the carols. My husband was "shepherd wrangling" and the boys were costumed and ready for their parts.
The organ started "Hark, the Herald Angels sing" and I launched into it full voice. By the middle of the first verse, however, I was hit - no, blindsided - by the flashback of last year. I could picture myself holding mom's hand, and I could hear her weakened voice reaching for the tune. I, the woman who almost never cries in public, broke down as I haven't done since her memorial. I loved the pageant, and I managed to squeak through all the beloved carols. All in all, I wept for about an hour, and I took Communion with tear-stained cheeks. When my family joined me before the Eucharist, my older son saw me, hugged me, and joined me in tears for his Grammy. He knew, without being told, and he remembered with me.
My priest and several others in the congregation saw my face and quickly realized that I was remembering last year's service - they, too, remembered that my mother was there and so very, very frail, and they surmised that I was being hit by that memory full force.
Even now, after a meal and a few hours, I feel weakened as one does after a particularly emotional cry.
Feeling my mother's presence in Church tonight was a gift. It was emotional but not as painful as before. It was just a visit from her and it came seemingly out of the blue. I am comfortable enough there that I didn't mind being teary and bleary and probably somewhat unattractive.
By the end, I actually felt a sense of euphoria - just knowing that I still have that emotional connection to my mom. May it ever be thus - even if it means that Christmas will bring me tears along with the joy.
May you all find comfort this day.
I close with the beautiful words from TrueBlueMajority's last Grieving Room diary:
A special welcome to anyone who is new to The Grieving Room. We meet every Monday evening. Whether your loss is recent or many years ago, whether you have lost a person or a pet, or even if the person you are "mourning" is still alive ("pre-grief" can be a very lonely and confusing time) you can come to this diary and process your grieving in whatever way works for you. Share whatever you need to share. We can't solve each other's problems, but we can be a sounding board and a place of connection.
To those of you who are suffering, I can only say, "Take the love that is offered, it is not a cure, but it is a balm to ease you through." To those who are further down the road, "Thank you for hanging out to help the suffering." And to all of you, "Thank you for being online, wherever and whoever you are. You are precious." h/t nancelot
As always, here is a link to all the previous Grieving Room diaries.