I read about anniversary grief. I knew what it was. I even heeded the advice to “plan different settings and events.” This was how I muddled through Halloween and Thanksgiving without my mother. I was sure of what to expect because the feelings were described as “hard” and “challenging.” To me that meant the intense sadness and unbridled tears that drove me into the bathroom as others laughed and celebrated during Christmas and Easter. Turns out those holidays were just a grace period, a quiet before the storm. Or maybe I was just numb, exhausted from the shock of my mother’s sudden death that summer, and swept along by the riptide of my busy teens’ schedules.
I was naive.
I should have paid more attention to these words that were slipped in every now and again: aftershock; grief resurgence; unexpected. These words described the tsunami of grief that overtook me on the perfect storm of convergent dates: Mother’s Day, the anniversary of the last time I saw my mother alive, and her birthday.
As my head hit the pillow on Mother’s Day night, thinking I had made it through the day, my belly suddenly clenched and burned in a way I had not felt since I viewed my mother’s body in Shock Trauma. As my stomach forcibly and rigidly collapsed in on itself like crumpled foil, the wail started to build. I had lived through it before, but I was still shocked that a noise so raw could escape from my throat when I was sure there was no air in my lungs. That wail scoffed at my clenched jaw and clamped lips and propelled me outside during the wee hour of the night, just for the hope of catching my breath. The grief was physical and as awful as what I experienced last June. All I could do the next morning was stare at the ceiling for hours as my tears soaked my pillow.
Maybe anniversary grief would better be described as awakening grief: the moment when the numbness wears off and the pain floods in again. I in no way have the hubris to think I’m describing a universal mourning reaction; but as the saying goes, ‘There is nothing new under the sun.” If my words help just one person describe his or her experience better than just saying, “It’s hard,” then I am gratified.
Unlike June, this wasn’t a storm for the ages; it was a passing squall. It came in, hit hard, then dissipated. Grief is not something you complete—there is no finish line and there certainly are no medals. There is only putting one foot in front of the other and living life as joyfully as you can. And there is riding out the storms.
-Ellen
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I love you Ellen. Tsunami waves is a perfect way to describe grief. I’m glad we have each other to ride the waves of grief. xo
Kathy at kissing the frog recently posted..Intake
I am sorry this, and more, is a part of your life. xoxo right back. Ellen
This is so beautifully written. I’m so sorry that you have to survive the tsunami. I feel gut punched reading this.
Allison Hart recently posted..Figuring it out
I just wanted to describe that it is more than “hard.” Ellen
I don’t know if it’s universal, but you certainly are not alone. My 22-year-old sister-in-law was killed in a car accident 7 years ago and I still feel the sting every year on the anniversary of the accident, and on her birthday. Sometimes it hits me randomly when I see something on TV, or looking at pictures of her son, or when I see how much my daughter resembles her… you have described the emotional upheaval so beautifully.
I am so sorry for your loss. Just Horrible.
I think I was lulled by the way I survived the holidays. I was fairly blindsided when I thought I had made it through another one. Ellen
Ellen, sounds like you and I have a bit in common: my mom passed away about a year ago — a week after her 75th birthday and two weeks prior to Mother’s Day. Last year’s mother’s day, I was probably still immersed in the numbness of losing her. We happened to have been out of town at my son’s basketball tournament for then so it helped to be away and out of our usual routine at home, which would have involved my mother. Two months after my mom’s death, my 9-year-old son was diagnosed with pediatric cancer. My world turned upside down – again. And now, I had no time or space to grieve for my mom. In some ways, maybe that was a good thing. But, now that my son’s treatments are finished (they lasted almost a year) and our life is slowly returning to normal, I am missing my mom A LOT more and I fear the grief is going to get worse. This mother’s day was REALLY hard. My tsunami usually overtakes me in the car, when I’m alone, and driving around mindlessly running errands or carpooling my kids. The grief hits me unexpectedly and the tears start, no matter how hard I try to hold them in. It’s so true that the grief is not something you complete — thank you for sharing these honest thoughts and letting those of us grieving know that we are all riding out these storms in our own ways.
Emily recently posted..Post-Treatment Follow-Up…The List Keeps Growing!
I am so sorry for your loss and all that you had to juggle and survive. “Hard” doesn’t begin to describe motherhood either, does it?
I am so glad your son has come to the end of his treatments, but I picture you being swept along by a huge wave that suddenly disappears from underneath you. It’s difficult when what was propping you up is resolved. It’s weird to put your son’s illness that way, but you understand. A prop isn’t always good. It just keeps you in motion.
I wrote this because grief is so isolating, yet it is a part of living. I felt so much better after I put these words out there. Thank you so much for your thoughtful comment, Emily.
And this post, Dear Mom, is lovely, I encourage everyone to read it: http://www.ohboymom.com/2014/05/dear-mom/
Ellen
The Sisterhood recently posted..Describing the Tsunami of Anniversary Grief
“Grief is not something you complete—there is no finish line…” those who don’t grieve daily do not understand this. So sorry for your pain, and I ‘get this post’. Thanks for writing it, dear friend. xxoo
Courtney recently posted..Time – the concept of – has changed
You unfortunately know this all too well, Courtney. It can’t be shined up and tied up with a pretty bow either, no matter how much others want you to do that. xoxo Ellen
So beautiful and heart wrenching, Ellen. Thinking of you and sending you love.
Leslie recently posted..OPERATION BATHING SUIT
Thank you. xoxo Ellen
I’m so sorry. I wish I had the cure for grief. Time, I guess. Sort of.
Jenn @ Something Clever 2.0 recently posted..I Took My Five-Year-Old to a Rock Concert
You hit the nail on the head with “Sort of.” Ellen
You are such an amazing woman and your Mom was so very proud of you-the girls and Frank. She spoke of you every day.
She is in Heaven now with the Lord, and WE will all be together when our time comes. You were her shining star, and the very breath that she breathed. She loved you more than life itself as do we. I am proud to be your Aunt and LOVE YOU SO !!!!
Love you too Aunt Karo. Thank you for this. I know you miss her too, so very much. xoxo Ellen
you’ve described it perfectly.
The pain of loss is deap and lonely and confusing and frustrating all in one. It’s everything you’ve written and one hundred things more.
You’ve done a great job.
Thank you for this.
Leighann recently posted..In Like a Whisper
Thank you. There were a thousand more words I could have written, but these were enough to sweep away some of the loneliness. Ellen
Ellen what a beautiful post. Please know you are in my thoughts and prayers. xo
Kathy Radigan recently posted..The Moments That Matter
Thank you, Kathy. I feel so grateful that I have an outlet for my emotions when so many others do not. It does help. Ellen
A tsunami is a good way to describe it. My mother died almost 27 years ago and I still had a hard time on Mother’s Day this year. She was in the hospital for seven weeks, the last 4 1/2 I slept there and was there most of the day. (I was very lucky I didn’t have a full-time job at the time.) Her last Mother’s Day, the family had a picnic on the rooftop terrace of the hospital and it was the last real meal that she ate.
Because I was with her so much, I couldn’t allow myself to cry in front of her or to think about what it was going to be like after she was gone, only what I could do to give her comfort that day. I couldn’t stop crying the day of her memorial service, mostly just quiet tears, but a couple of times great gulping sobs – when I saw long-time family friends.
Three and a half years later, I was lying in bed listening to music when I started to cry and couldn’t stop for two and a half hours. Everything I’d locked up for those years came flooding out. It also took me many years before I stopped automatically thinking, “I must call Mum to tell her about…” or expecting to hear her voice on the other end of the phone if it rang on a Sunday evening.
I’m sorry you had to go through this, Ellen, and I wish I could tell you it that it won’t happen again, but chances are it will, although from my experience, it does get better until it becomes an ache rather than a pain.
samatwitch recently posted..HURT
I am so sorry for your loss and I thank you for sharing your story with me. I feel less lonely and I can only hope my words do the same for others. “Time heals all wounds” doesn’t exactly happen in the linear fashion one would expect. Ellen
Grief can be like you describe as a Tsunami for a parent, a child, a spouse.
Haralee recently posted..Welcome
It knows no categories. Ellen
Feels like I’m just being trendy, but loved this and you two!
xo
Meredith recently posted..Redheads Don’t Wear Red
Hugs
The first time I ever dealt with death was my best friend from high school/childhood from a car accident in 1992, when I was 22. I was too immature and quite frankly, drunk, to under stand it all.
When my grandparents, whom I was very close to, died 7 months apart in 05/06, I went through this range of grief you write about. It affects me to this day.
Powerful post and something I needed to read, today. Thank you.
Lance recently posted..Changes
I lost my Mom 13 years ago and she had been very ill for many years before that. There are still moments when I say or do or see something and pick up the phone to tell her. At those times, the grief is very strong. Very THERE. But it passes quickly into a soft ache. Thinking of you . . .