I've been on the fence about even writing this blog for over a month now. I don't want people seeing this show up in their news feed and rolling their eyes thinking, "Here comes Joe with another piece of writing about how hard his life is." And frankly, I don't consider my life to be all that difficult. Surely, there are obstacles, but overall, I'm quite blessed. I just tend to let things fester in my brain before they ultimately are forced out by way of alcohol and I end up sharing too much. But today, completely sober (at least so far), here are my honest thoughts about what the last year has been like for me (it's cheaper than therapy).
One year ago, on April 14, 2012, I walked into my mother's condo to find her dead. No warning. And no time to brace for it. Not a day goes by that I don't think of that horrific image, her laying there next to a vacuum, cell phone continually ringing. I'd never discovered a dead body before. It was surreal and still feels like a dreadful dream. It makes me shake even to write about it. Thoughts came rushing into my head faster than I could process them. This couldn't be happening. She was only 59 years old. She'll never see her grandchildren grow up. But life is like that. It doesn't happen the way you expect or were prepared for. Then came the funeral, the emptying of her condo, and everything else unpleasant that comes with it. Oh, and breaking the news to my Grandmother only to have her die from a massive stroke. I still don't think I've completely processed everything. But one thing that does bother me is when people say, "At least she (Grandma) didn't suffer." The last thing that happened before the stroke was finding out her only child was dead. So please don't tell me she didn't suffer. She suffered in ways no one with a heart like hers ever should. At least it wasn't prolonged. That's more accurate.
So I'd love to be able to tell you that it's gotten easier over time. But I'm not there yet. Whatever "there" is. Sure, there are days when I'm entrenched in playing with my sons, laughing with my wife and mindlessly scanning my Twitter feed for PimpBillClinton tweets where I feel normal again. I've even gotten to the point where I can mention Mom in the past tense without feeling completely unhinged. But, being honest, I've realized that there's no timeline for healing. And I've also realized that people go on with their lives and assume you're fine if you don't shout in their ear with a megaphone that you're not. So, if you're around me and I get distant, seem to shut down socially and "get weird," there's a decent chance it's because of this.Simply asking, "How are you?" isn't a bad idea either. But I think most people are afraid of the answer or are simply too consumed with other things to even ask. It's human nature, I guess.
The hospice where my Grandmother died offered group counseling services after her death, which I was able to participate in free of charge through her insurance. It was the strangest experience. I went twice. There was this large, hairy male in his 50s that looked like Hagrid from Harry Potter who went on ten minute diatribes about his 85-year-old mother passing months earlier. Part of me wanted to punch him in the face for being so melodramatic despite his mother living a long life. Then I realized, 59 or 85, losing a parent is losing a parent. I still think he talked too much, though. Then there was a family of three Spanish boys, aged 15 to 21. They'd lost their mother recently too. Their father was there. At one point, when asked how he was dealing with the loss, he said with voice cracking, "I'm trying my best. I know I'm not Mom and I can't give them that. But I am trying." His frustration was obvious. And I wanted to offer a hug just because I sympathized with his situation. He was forced into a role where he simply had to be strong despite his sadness. That's the role that's been hardest for me, personally.
Something else that's been hard is seeing some people around me constantly mistreat or take their parents for granted. I suppose it's easy to take those closest to you for granted, but I'll admit to feeling more than my share of angst watching people argue, bicker with and treat their mothers as nothing more than a burden. I can only dream of seeing my mother grow old enough to become an unbearable nag.
I have a close friend who also lost his mother. And he told me, "You start thinking about life in two halves, 'before Mom' and 'after Mom'." I couldn't quite grasp the concept until now. But it's exactly what I do. I can think of a family party, a movie release, a song playing on the radio, a shirt I bought, and I can tell you whether it was before or after Mom's death. That's the profound effect a good mother has on you, for better or worse.
So, if you've recently lost a parent or someone incredibly close to you, I hope this doesn't make you worry that it'll "never get better." Things do, in a way, get "better." But (as analyzed on an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm), better doesn't necessarily mean "all the way" better. Just better. And next year, maybe better still. It's still heartbreaking every single day. But we adapt. We have to. For my kids I have to. For my wife I have to. And that's what I tell myself every night before I go to sleep.
If you've still got one, give your mother a hug today. You'll never look back thinking you did too much of that.
Peace and understanding,
Joe
jdeprospero@gmail.com
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