My Mom Just Died: How to Grieve like a Boss

[Read when you have time to spare…]

I am a grieving, sobbing, screaming, wailing, drooling, snotty-nosed, badass mother fucker. What I mean is, when it comes to my grief, I am all in. Mic drop. I am not pulling any punches. I do not, cannot, hold back. In my whirling brain, I am alternating thoughts such as: “it’s not real, my Mom is not dead, she’s just at the hospital, this is not a funny joke, you jerks, she can’t possibly be dead, etc.” There’s that.

Then, I also have evidence that she’s dead, a friend’s condolence card: extra prayers and strength for you right now with Jesus holding you close. Sweet. I don’t buy it, though. I appreciate N’s sentiment, and I feel her kindness, even though the idea of a merciful God is ludicrous to me right now. Ludicrous. I take it for how she means it, though: kindness, love and support. That we don’t share the same belief system is okay with me, because we’ve been friends for 34 years (!), long enough for both of us to know that she will never convert me to Catholicism, and I will never convert her to my heathen-ry, paganism, or Buddhism. Neither of us tries to convert the other, which is how we can still be friends.

I don’t know what I believe happens after death. You die, and then your spirit goes…somewhere. Maybe. Years ago, one of the many times my Mom went into the hospital, when we all thought she was going to die, she talked about “ascending.” She didn’t mean it, though, ascending was just a euphemism for death, and she was making one her many hospital jokes. “Ascending.” It sounds almost fun…She didn’t ascend, though, at least not that time. She ascended this time, her May 20, 2022-last-time-in-the-hospital-ever-day. It wasn’t fun. She spent almost three gruesome days in the hospital following a severe stroke, and on the third day she died. Died, as in dead. Ascended.

If I had a heart, it would be broken. Just moments ago, I was wailing, primal-screaming, and ugly-crying. Now, a short time later, I feel almost nothing again, again convinced that it can’t possibly be real, my beautiful 80 year old Mom, can’t actually be dead. Can she? My lizard-logic brain knows she can–she is–but my inner little girl thinks that’s just silly. A mean thing to say, surely, but not actually a fact. Ridiculous.

And so it goes. She’s been dead 18 days, and I still can’t fathom. Then suddenly I know, viscerally. Denial. Despair. Deranged. Other words that start with a D.

I “know,” intellectually, that all of this grief stuff is okay. Anger (haven’t had much of that, yet, to be honest). Didn’t do any bargaining: there was nothing to bargain with. She was dying and then she was dead. No bargains to be made. Acceptance? Sure, brief moments of it. The Elisabeth Kubler-Ross and David Kessler model (stages of grief) which, while it is well-known now, was originally not intended to be for the bereaved, living folks. It was a “5 stages of grief” model for the dying, people with a terminal illness coming to peace with it. It was only later that somebody said, “Hey, this seems useful for the ones left above the grass, too.”

As a side note, it seems to me like David Kessler got a little bit ripped off, just because most people have, at least, heard of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, but not as many have heard of our pal, David. That’s okay, David, shout out to you, okay?) Kessler the footnote. (Sort of like Einstein’s wife.)

As I was saying, and as supported by Kessler and Kubler-Ross, (not to be confused with the Keebler elves) the stages of grief are neither sequential nor predictable. We can go in and out of them. We can skip some, circle around, and try a different one. We can believe and accept, and then we can head right back into denial. It’s all possible, and, dare I say? “Normal.” No matter what it looks like, grief is messy business.

I don’t like the grief process, and I’m sure you don’t either, if you have ever been left alive to grieve a loved one. (Which you have, unless you are really very young–and shouldn’t be reading here), or if you are just super un-lucky to have never known another human being. Grieving is horrible. It’s hard work, and it’s exhausting. I can say that, because know a thing or two about grief.

In fact, I’m arguably somewhat of a death expert.

Allow me to explain: In what my husband and I call “the Summer of Death,” we lost three people in quick succession. From July 21 (my Dad), to August 27 (my mother in law), with a friend’s suicide thrown in-between for good measure. My father first. Then, my husband’s closest friend. My mother-in-law. It was a rough five weeks, I tell you. If you ever wonder why I call the summer of 2014 the “Summer of Death,” now you know. (Can’t say I recommend it).

First, my Dad suffered a heart attack at 81 years old. At least he died quickly, which is something to be grateful for, for his sake. From our side of things, though, it was very unexpected. Very. Over the years, my Mom had been sick and so often close to death that I had, and I say this in all honestly, hardly even contemplated my Dad’s death. It took me by complete surprise (and not the good kind). I was completely gutted and broken. Somehow, I survived (it’s been eight years). At work, I functioned on auto-pilot. Nobody else seemed to notice, but I knew. I wasn’t really there. Good thing I was excellent at my job. I think it was about a year before I felt mildly functional again.

Death number two: my husband’s dearest friend and best man at our wedding. Owens was kind and bright, and one of the best listeners I’ve ever known. He took you for what you were, how you were, who you were. He had no judgment or agenda; he just listened. Funny as hell, too. Owens died by suicide after a lifelong struggle with depression. His death, coming so soon after my Dad’s, was incomprehensible to me. Did we miss the signs? Could we have done something? Could we have helped? It didn’t matter anymore, because, by that point, no, we couldn’t. He was dead. I was still grieving my Dad, too, so it was as if, in some ways, Owens death hadn’t really happened. Maybe it’s easier when you have so much to contend with at once. I don’t know. It was a blur.

My Dad’s heart attack and our friend’s suicide were followed soon after by my mother-in-law’s losing battle with dementia. She had lived a jolly good life, well into her 90s. She had a marriage of some 40 years until her husband died of a heart attack. He was only in his early 70s. Then, after his death, she had a boyfriend, Sol, who, with his wife, used to be a bridge partner. When Sol’s wife had died and then Dee’s husband died, Sol and Dee became a sweet little couple. For over 2o years, they were each other’s special somebody. Every Saturday night, they would go dancing. Then he would sleep over. He’d watch football on Sunday, and then he’d go back home to his house.They took cruises, traveled the world. They were dance partners, friends, and, dare I say it, lovers. (I’m not sure, and I don’t really want to know. Neither do you, probably). He died first, and she died a few years later in the Summer of Death. Her death, while not unexpected, was still extremely painful for us, emotionally. At least for her it was not painful, but peaceful. Dementia took her away from us, but there could be no regrets. At 97, she had lived a long, rich life. She had a long career as a teacher, raised two sons, and had two loves (at least). However, just because she was old, didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. It hurt, a lot, and I still miss her. I miss Sol, too.

My deep immersion into so much death and grief, condensed into such a short period taught me a lot. Surrender. Compassion. Fortunately, just after my Dad’s death, (Summer of Death person number 1), my older sister wisely said, “We are grieving differently, and we have to be kind and gentle with one another,” or something similar. It was a good reminder, and it set the tone for what I think was much easier than it might have been without her soft-hearted nudge. It helped. It helped in coping with the next two deaths, too.

We all grieve differently. While it seems obvious, it is easy to forget. Even when grieving a parent, like I am now, you are not necessarily grieving the “same” person as the others. It’s a different relationship. My Dad was not the same person to my sister as he was to me, of course, or to either of my brothers. Neither is my Mom. We are all different to everyone who knows us, and we must recognize that.

Grieving differently is still true in this case, now that our grief is for our Mom. My brother is sharing pictures on Facebook while I am going inward, feeling quiet and reflective. So is he, but his version of reflective is different than mine. Even though my siblings and I are all now grieving our Mom, each of us is grieving a different person, in a way, in spite of so much shared history. It is even more true when you consider our roles: youngest daughter, oldest son, etc.

Also, I’ve just lost my MOM, but my step-dad has just lost his WIFE of 42 years. They were together since he was practically a kid, because he was just 19 when they met. (She was a cougar before cougars were a thing.) She already had four children, but, whether it was naivete, stupidity, or just plain old lust, they got together almost immediately after they met. They got married a few years later. It worked.

Fast forward 46 years, and you can imagine his pain. She was 80 when she died; he only qualified for Medicare last year. A completely different loss for him, of course, than it is for me. It is not that my grief is any less, or less valid than his. His grief is not my grief and vice-versa. One huge difference, is that when I wake up in the middle of the night and cry, my husband is there to console me. My step-dad’s wife, my MOM, will never be there again.

Given all the experiences I’ve had (there are more, too), I would like to share with you what I’ve learned from all of these deaths. In other words, here’s how to grieve like a boss:

Grieving like a boss, according to me, a self-proclaimed death expert, means that you have to give yourself permission to feel. All of it. Permission to express. To talk, to cry, or to be silent. Crying is normal.(Drink a lot of water.) Hug people (for the moment, at least, Covid be damned. Or at least do “face away” hugs.) If you laugh, laugh, and don’t feel bad about it. Humor is one way we cope. Grief and death are on the razor’s edge of life, and it’s normal to have a giant range of feelings. Or none. Numb is okay, too, at least for a while.

I functioned on auto-pilot.

Feisty Quill

Here are some more guidelines, a snazzy little list, if you like. (Mild annoyance here because I wrote all day yesterday, finished it, and then the f-ing draft was irretrievable this morning, damn it. This is the pissed-off, gotta get it done version, because I refuse to spend an entire day doing this again. Sigh. Besides, I gotta go vote!)

1. Do all the logistic crud that has to be done. Notify people, make funeral or service arrangements, blah blah. Let people help you do this. If you do a burial, and if you are religious, of course you will follow religious guidelines. (Muslims, for example, must be buried quite quickly after a death). However, if your family opts for cremation, remember there is no hurry to pick up the ashes. (Your beloved will still be dead). These days, it may take longer to get a cremation done and get the ashes (cremains) back because of Covid or other factors (e.g., mass shootings, sadly). The funeral or mortuary people may give you a booklet (ours did), that is actually quite helpful. Use their resources, as well as the help of your religious leader, if you have one. [As a public service announcement, if you have taken care of this stuff earlier, while you were alive, your bereaved can just focus on grief and other practical events, instead of trying to grieve and do logistical crap. They will have enough to do, I assure you.}
2. It can be utterly exhausting to notify people of the death, over and over and over again, particularly if the deceased knew a lot of people. To the degree you are comfortable, let people you trust help you make these calls.

1. People will want to help. Let them. Even something as simple as “would you mind please picking up some creamer for me?” is a clear, specific task that most of your friends would be happy to do. We don’t always know how we want others to help, but asking for help with a specific task gives others the chance to comfort you as best as they can, and you will appreciate having cream in your coffee. If not, someone else might.
2. Drink a lot of water. People forget, but you need that water to help your body. Eat well and healthily. You may have no interest in food at this lousy time, so you might as well eat in a way that supports your body with nutrition as you go through this earliest stage of pain. On the other hand, someone you love just died, so it’s okay to have a cocktail or three. (Unless you are an alcoholic, in which case, NO.) Or, you may want to avoid drinking alcohol at altogether so you can feel your feelings without becoming even more depressed (if that’s possible.) Remember, alcohol is a depressant, and it definitely, definitely will not help. I know. I’ve tried.
3. Exercise.
4. Exercise will help you sleep better, too. Get plenty of sleep, because your body needs it. Grief is surprisingly exhausting. Distressed sleep, waking up in the middle of the night, or not being able to fall asleep in the first place are all unfortunate companions with grief. As if you weren’t tired enough!
5. Spend time in nature. Go for a walk. Being outside in beautiful nature is good for you. Stars are healing. The ocean is healing.

7. Set up a memorial page on FB or other social media if you would like to hear others’ stories about your deceased person. It may be helpful for you. 8. Avoid rushing or making big decisions such as quitting your job, moving, etc. Unexpectedly, I had the urge to shave my head, just so I can honor my Mom. The practice of Mundan is common for Hindus, Buddhists, and others. I still sort of want to shave it, but because I want less attention from people right now, not more, I am not going to shave my head. Instead, I am growing it out to donate for wigs for cancer patients.

9. Balance your “alone” time with “with people” time. It is natural to want to be alone with your grief. Ugly crying can be, well, ugly, and we may not want to share that with others. On the other hand, spending time with others is good for all of you. Shared grief is a powerful thing. On the other hand, I found it so helpful when people did not pressure me to talk or be with them. One of my closest friends said, “when you’re ready,” and she didn’t contact me. I called her, “when I was ready,” and her respect of my grieving and need for quiet was–is–so appreciated. 10. Don’t expect to be at your best. After my Mom died three weeks ago, I lost track of who I had spoken with or not spoken with. One of my friends I called twice. Another I spoke with and had no idea what I had told her about my Mom’s death. I missed informing a few people altogether. Forgetfulness, like walking into a room and having no reason why you’re there, is a common trait of grieving. Cut yourself (and others) some slack. Bonus tip: Get good quality, soft Kleenex, none of that scratchy stuff or paper towels!

Well, my dears, those are my 10 tips on getting through the death of a loved one. There is no way “through” grief but into it. No quick fix. Time does not “heal all wounds,” but it does help soften them. It will never be what it once was, and you are forever changed. Your scabs and scars from this loss will never go away. You will be different, and that’s okay. As my 12 year old niece said, “That’s life. There is no life without death, and there is no death without life.” Smart kid.