Standing in the grasslands with my once-in-a-lifetime grief

Grasslands under a stormy sky. Photo by Matthew Smith on Unsplash

My work has slowed for the summer months. While that gives me plenty of time to work on the plethora of side projects that were left on the back burner, it also gives me too much time with my thoughts.

The last few weeks I’ve been plowing through, finding a surprising amount of joy in life — as long as I wasn’t thinking about my mom. I think a few people did double-takes, expecting me to be crippled with grief, but pushing through is in my wheelhouse. 

I’ll start sentences “My mom has …” Correction: “My mom had ….” and then I’ll correct myself internally, attempting to give myself grace and allowances. The things she had and did are my dad’s hands now and he’d be the first to tell you that they were as much hers as they ever were. I told myself after she passed that I would talk about her in the first person as long as it felt right. It is my grief afterall. 

Sometimes when I’m driving or doing housework I find myself saying “My mom died. My mom died. My mom died.” A new, cruel mantra.

It’s been six weeks since she passed and I know it’s real. I was at her side. I know it’s true, but my soul has not gotten on board yet. She feels like she might be in another room or a phone call away but no matter how often I replay her voice messages or hold her photos on my phone to get the “live” replay, she refuses to be manifested. 

Hi sweetheart. It’s your mommy! Just wanted to hear about Margaret Atwood — for sure! It looks like one or both girls got to go as well with you. Love to hear from you. Okay, love you lots and lots, bye-bye.

She always called herself Mommy on voicemails but not in person. I think she thought it was hilarious to make me roll my eyes from a safe distance. 

My mommy. 

The flurry of activity that kept my dad, sister, and myself busy for the first few weeks after her passing was sanity saving. Having purpose is extremely useful, but when it’s over it’s like standing on the side of the road after a car accident and wondering “what just happened?” 

Grief is different for all of us. Even though we miss the same person, it’s different for my dad and my sister too. We all had unique relationships with Mom as well as different special memories that stand out. 

My mom was a champion for her family and I miss her most whenever I do something I’m proud of. It could be a small thing that would have been a message “finally got the kitchen clean, sorry you missed it” or little benchmarks like hitting a new follower milestone on my blog or getting a creative piece published. Even more so, she was a champion for my children. They’ve had a rough go of it under the care of a single parent (me) who is attentive and loving but scattered and inconsistent. 

The author’s mom, Sharon, with her daughter Fiona.

Sharon and her granddaughter, Fiona.

I’ve always been so grateful that my mom (and dad) was able to step in with such dedication to fill up their little love buckets. Of course, they’ve lost her too. My youngest hasn’t even graduated high school yet. I think of all the things my mom showed up for. She’d be there for the smallest of their occasions. An afternoon tea at school or a 30 second walk across the stage to get a pin. I mourn what they’ve lost too. Grief compounds like that. 

For the first 24 months of their lives, my mom called my daughters on their one-month birthdays to sing happy birthday to them. 

“Happy birthday! You are three months old!” 

“Happy birthday, you are 14 months old!” 

She never forgot and would scold me if I hadn’t made time to put her on speaker phone so she could do her song, forcing a window before bed if necessary! 

The author’s mom, Sharon, with her daughter Calista.

Sharon and her granddaughter Calista.

She gave me a similar level of attention. She remembered every note I told her about my life and would check in about the details of it on our next call or visit. Whether it was as benign as me trying a new recipe or potentially life-altering like a new career, she’d be ready with questions and armed with the details. 

I have my own questions now. Mostly, “How can she be gone, when she was always there?”

A mother’s love is a once in a lifetime love but I would say hers was also a once in a lifetime friendship. I’ve lost my biggest champion and my cheerleader. It’s irreplaceable. No friendship or romantic partner could ever be asked to give with such dedication. I think few mothers do as well. 

I want to wade through fescue and stand  in the middle of the open prairie that my mom loved so well and scream “Where are you!” into the wind until it takes my breath away and I realize that she was right there, all along.