From Mourning To Healing
Twenty one years ago this week, my mother died of breast cancer – 8 days before she would have turned 58.
Mom’s passing blew my entire world apart. At 24, I couldn’t fathom living the rest of my life without her. As anyone who knew Mom would tell you, she was the embodiment of strength, resilience and positivity. During her first bout with breast cancer at 48, she quietly underwent radiation treatment, going into remission shortly thereafter. So when the disease returned seven years later, I had every reason to believe she would beat it once again. I naively clung to that belief, even while bearing witness to every stage of her decline.
Living at home at the time, I saw it all. The debilitating ravages of chemo. The increasing amount of time she spent sleeping. The slowing down of her once effervescent, bouncy walk. Still, denial is a pretty powerful thing, especially when it’s encouraged.
That summer, I had a long-planned two-week trip to London. Mom wouldn’t hear of me cancelling.
“Go and have a wonderful time, I’ll be better when you get back.”
She died six weeks later.
Dad insisted Mom had wanted me not to miss out on anything, to go on with my life. But that didn’t take away the overwhelming regret and guilt I felt about losing precious time with her. Once Dad was gone too – also from complications of cancer – I held on tightly to the things that reminded me of both of them. Her favorite books and antique knickknacks. Photographs and furniture from his office.
My home was pretty much a shrine. But it took a friend brave enough to say that for me to realize it.
“I don’t know how you can live like this. I can feel them everywhere and I didn’t even know them.”
Minutes after she said that, the night before Mother’s Day 2010, I finally began the long overdue process of letting go, parting with all but a handful of inherited items. Along with the kitchen and both bathrooms, my bedroom – modeled after Mom’s preferred style of décor (English Country frou frou) – underwent a makeover. I can still remember the sharp, crunching sound of the bedroom carpet being ripped up, the cathartic joy that flooded me. At long last, I was no longer living in the past.
That was the first turning point. The most significant came in 2016, when I had a nervous breakdown. I was hospitalized twice for depression and wrestled with thoughts of suicide. It took 18 excruciating months to find my way out of the darkness. The emotional core of my entire being shifted and with it, the weight of sadness about Mom and Dad. Having fought so hard for a second chance at living, I knew I could no longer allow grief to define me.
As anyone who’s been through loss knows, grief isn’t linear. There are stretches of time when I feel like I’m doing okay. And then there are moments when the searing pain of my parents’ absence hits me like a tidal wave. But the seismic difference is that pain doesn’t consume me anymore. It recedes more quickly than it used to. For years, I spent Mom’s anniversary curled up at home and crying. Today, while still carving out time to reflect and think about her, I go to work and get on with the business of living. I know that’s what Mom and Dad would both want for me.
It is said that the only reason to look back is to realize how far you’ve come. I used to feel like the best of my life was in the rearview mirror. Now, I feel like everything is ahead of me. Thank God for new beginnings.
