Letting Go of Letting Go

I'm at that stage of grief where I feel... better. There are days where I feel...happy.

I am not crying all the time. I am not sad all the time. I am not slugging through my grief all the time.

As I write those sentences, I have this overwhelming sense of shame.
How could I possibly be happy?
What kind of sister am I?


There is this weird comfort in grief that is slightly addictive.  I have given myself lots of passes since July.  I have avoided major decisions, long-term planning, and unpleasantness in general all in the name of healing and grieving.  I need to rejoin the human race.  It is time.

...But I feel guilty...
Guilty that he died and I am still here.
Guilty that I am stress-testing and checking out my heart because he died.
Guilty that anything good can come of his dying so young.


I feel good, and I feel bad about feeling good, and not just from guilt.

There is an additional sense of loss as the worst of my grief fades.  Unconsciously, I feel myself holding on to the pain, scared I will lose that sense of closeness to John.  I find myself worried about what will be left of him in my heart when the sadness goes.


And, of course, the rational (and occasionally wise) part of me knows...  I know John would want me to live.  I know John would want me to take care of myself.  I know John would want me to be happy.

I know that deliberately prolonging my pain is no testimonial of my love for him.

I know on the other side of the River Grief is a place where I can remember him with a smile.
I know that I will never completely lose him.

Right now, I am scared and ashamed.  But I know that I am not alone.  So many people have traveled this path. I find deep comfort in knowing that.

What the Mother?

"Maybe we're all like that with our mothers.  They seem ordinary until one day they're extraordinary."  ~Shanghai Girls


I have been thinking about my mother often lately.  She died in 1994; I was 22.

I am lonely for a momma.  These past years I have learned how to mother myself pretty well.  It sometimes hurts, though, not having the comfort of someone a little further down the path, someone who can warn me about common mistakes and tell me she knows everything is going to be fine because she made it through.

My mother was extraordinary, and it was her best secret.  She taught me to stand on my own and never lose my sense of humor.

 She also was a cautionary tale illustrating everything you can lose when you refuse to feel the brunt of self-reflection.  I have never known anyone so brilliant and so brittle.  So understanding and wise, and so critical and defeated.

Like everyone's mother, she looms large over my Life. Like everyone's mother, she represents so much more than her human form.  I miss her so much; I am so grateful I knew her as well as I did.

Ironically, it is in mothering my own children that I have healed the most.  Being a mother, I know how much she loved us; how hard she tried; how scared she must have been raising us all alone.  Those doubts and regrets from the days right after her death melt in the laughter of my children.

I am not sure what I believe about an afterlife, but this is what I hope.  I hope she has found a bridge table, with lots of Coke, and a partner who finally knows what a bid of 1 no trump means.

I love you, Mom.