I Thought I'd Pregamed Grief

Somehow, in my mind, I really thought I could jump the line and skip this grief thing.  Obviously, that was foolish, impossible, and magical thinking. All the preparation I did for my mom's death, and I did a lot, did not, in fact, help me avoid what I now sit in the middle of: crushing sadness and grief.

I talked to my mom extensively about her death, how she wanted it, what to do during it and after it.
I became a certified death doula.
I read copious books.
I joined a Tibetan Book of the Dead book group.
I wrote about death (see previous post).
I constructed my own taxonomy of beliefs around my own death.
I have a house filled with skeleton representations... there are images of skeletons (and some real ones) in every single room in my home.
I even made sure I had chaplaincy care for myself when it was clear what was happening.
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I prepared. Because, as my friends in New Orleans say, "Hope for the best, prepare for the worst."

None of those preparations allowed me to circumvent this part.  And this part sucks.

I am trying to remember the grief after my dad died, and I can't really fill in the picture.  My mom and I were with him when he died, which brought me a sense of closure that I have always been immensely grateful for.  It was such an honor for me to be allowed to be there with him at that moment, the last moment of his life.  I knew firsthand that my father had a good death because I was a key player in that part of the drama. I remember my mom trying to call one of his aids to ask what to do to make his death rattle stop. I remember running after her, telling her to put the phone down. I know that was the last thing my dad "saw" on this earth, me taking care of my mom. I remember my mom walking out of the room and stopping his grandfathers clock immediately after he died. I remember hospice coming and certifying his death. I remember having him in the house until the next morning, arranging his bed with things he loved.  I remember being there when the funeral people came the next morning. I remember the van they used to take him away. I remember making Spam sandwiches for the funeral (a delicacy my father and I adore). And I remember the weeks and months after that with varying degrees of clarity.  I remember standing in my apartment on St. Charles Avenue in New Orleans in September of that year, washing dishes, listening to WWOZ with the window open, and just wailing with uncontrollable grief.  And I remember the woman who called up to me from the street below my window and asked, "Baby, you all right?" I just wailed that my dad had died, and I didn't know what else to do but wash my dishes and, cry and listen to WWOZ.  And I remember her smiling up at me, saying "Baby, you alright."

But all of that has a patina to it now. They are memories. They don't burn anymore. That was almost exactly fifteen years ago... fourteen years and a little ender a month, to be more exact. I light candles to my father and my other ancestors on my house altar every night, and their memories are just joyous and fill me with gratitude. They are still very much alive to me. I hear their voices in my head when I ask them questions or request advice.  That grief is like a warm blanket now.

This new grief is a cold, wet sweater I can't seem to wriggle my way out of.  I was also with my mom when she died in the same room as my father. It was such a quiet, peaceful death... so unlike my mom's life in so many ways.  She got exactly what she wanted for a death.  She helped me write the script and I did my best to play it out, and it was spot on.  No pain in the end. At home. With me. I know she had a good death because I was there.  I arranged her in the bed. I was the informant with hospice. Same van came to get her. I was there when she left her house for the last time. I went to the same funeral home and sat in the exact chair my mom sat in when we went there for my dad's arrangements.  And I somehow thought this would help make this not hurt so much.

I was wrong.  I was uncategorically, really, really wrong.

I do know the territory, however. I've been on this road before. It's different now; she was my mom, my last living parent. I am an orphan now.  There's a new kind of sadness that I am not familiar with. And in a way, I prepared for that, too... I am notorious for being "directtionally handicapped," I get lost on even well trod roads... often. So, being lost is not particularly scary for me.

And I know she is still there... I can feel her presence, just like I felt my dad's in the months immediately after he died. She is present in my dreams. Do I wake up seeing through her eyes, or is she seeing through mine? I honestly can't tell which it is. 

At one point, I was talking to my mom about having a service after she died.  She was adamant that she did not want one. I was of the "the service is for the living, not the dead" belief, to which she responded: "If you have a service for me, I swear I will haunt you!"  I replied, "I hope you do haunt me!"  And I still do.