Grief At The Six Year Mark

I’ve been doing it for six years now, so I recognize the signs that it is happening. It starts with a late night check of my phone to see if my mom’s number is still in there. It’s not. Then a few nights later, I go back and read the emails I sent to Johnny as he traveled the world. I read the emails and get sucked down the rabbit hole of her rapid regression. I re-read how hard it was for her at the end. How sad I was. How mad I was that this was happening.  Most of the subject lines say something like “mom” or “mom update,” but the one on June 18th says, Mom.

With a period at the end.

Because it’s the email that is telling him it’s time to come home. I re-open the wounds of those last few weeks on purpose and I don't know why.

Six years later, the end of June still reminds me of how she asked me to buy her a large desk calendar so she can plan the rest of the summer. She noted the 4th of July, and when I would be coming back to visit with the baby. Doctor’s appointments scheduled for July 14th that she’d never make it to. Her handwriting was perfect, and she spent so much time and focus on it. I have it somewhere.

Each year as June comes to close, I break down during a drive somewhere random, like the store, at the gut-wrenching realization that I don’t remember the sound of her voice. And I make a note to dig out the old home videos and convert them to DVDs so that I can hear her. But I don’t do it because I’m worried that I won't be able to handle it when I hear her again.

June 6th I think about how the hospice nurse said she wouldn’t make it to Monday, the 9th. July 7th and 8th, I find myself transported back to her bedside with the sound of Johnny’s guitar in the background and a baby in my arms. She made it to July 9th. She made it to 12:09 on July 9th, and then it was over.

Over for her, but not for us. Because July 9th was the first day of a new version of life for us. Because July 9th was just the beginning of figuring out how to be a mom without a mom, a daughter without a mom. Now, when the day comes around, I beat myself up for going to get milkshakes with my brother and my new baby 20 minutes after they called time of death. Then I give myself grace because it felt right at the time. And then I beat myself up again.

The rest of the week is a blur of phone calls and sleep and new baby cuddles. It was standing in the shower and saying out loud “My mom died” because when I said it,  it felt like I was speaking a foreign language. Still does.

Grief six years later is not less, it’s just different. It is not easier; it’s just different. Grief six years later still punches you in the gut when you’re not expecting it. Grief six years later is realizing you can’t really say “a few years ago” when someone asks when she passed. It is the quiet panic that happens inside when you worry that because it’s been six years that maybe people won’t think it’s a big deal anymore. Grief six years later is another reminder that we’ve missed six birthdays, six Mother’s Days, countless milestones, and 2190 days with her. It makes you realize how freakin' young 53 is.

Grief six years later is, for the most part, manageable. And then it rears its ugly head in May for her birthday and Mother’s day. It goes into hyperdrive at the end of June and beginning of July and begins to ease a little towards the end of the month.

It is planning a trip to Indiana and looking forward to laying in the field where her ashes are so you can be as close to her as possible.

Grief six years later is more good days than bad. Grief six years later is still a rollercoaster, just a rollercoaster we’re starting to get used to. It's being able to mange these weeks during the summer of emotional ups and downs, and then wake up on July 9th and be able to celebrate that one of the people I love the most in the world is six years pain free.