(Do) you gotta have faith(?)

In the months since my mom’s passing, I’ve done a bit of reflecting on the issues of life and death. As per usual when someone dies, I’ve gotten a lot of sympathetic assurances that Mom is watching over me or that her spirit will never leave me or so on. I am not one to step on the beliefs of others, but it has become clearer to me as time passes that I do not share these ideas.

It is true that the impact my mom had on my development and my character will never leave me. I will always have memories of her to lean on and she does impact the decisions I make day to day. I do not want to deny that she is “with me” in that regard, but as to her watching over me or existing as a soul or spirit somewhere—that I cannot fully get behind. The wonderful thing about being human (and the most aggravating thing, too) is that we can't know what is in store for us after we die. I say “wonderful” because, to me, it means there isn’t anything to argue about. I can’t be sure she isn’t in the clouds looking down on me and I can’t be sure she is. I’m okay not knowing and not guessing. The only thing I can really go off of here is intuition and feeling. And, as much as I’d like to, I don’t feel her. For me, she is gone.

It’s sad, but it’s okay. I don’t want to hide from it, but cope with it. There is much to celebrate, much to remember, much to keep alive as my own mortal journey continues. This is not to say that I don’t partake in my own imaginative ways of coping. I write to my mom in a journal dedicated to that purpose. It’s a comfort to write as if she can hear and stay up to date. I don’t literally believe she’s reading along, but it’s a harmless comfort to me.

I know my lack of “faith” goes against what many of my family and friends believe, but I don’t say these things to hurt or depress any of you. (For all I know, I’m the only one invested in this blog anyway.) I guess I’m sharing my emotions in dealing with this loss as a way to show that there are varied ways to cope and heal. There is no singular right way. My sadness is not a result of my lack of faith, but a natural course of action during grief. I am sad a lot, but I am also happy. Happy to have known her and happy to have had her in my life. Happy to have gotten close to her in the six or so years before her death. Happy to have been loved by her. Happy to be pursuing a life she would be proud of. Not feeling a spirit or presence does not deprive me or depress me more than is reasonable. It is hard, but also comforting to not fight against the only truths we know for sure: we live briefly and then we die. While those left behind continue to live and breathe, there is no return of the departed. I am of the world and subject to its laws. Death is natural; I do not fear mine. I cannot know until I face it, but being left behind seems a lot more difficult than leaving.

A Motherless Daughter

I'm reading a book Don got me called "Motherless Daughters" and­­--though really, really pertinent and helpful--it is, of course, really, really depressing. I knew before I lost my mom that I would feel the pain for the rest of my life--and reading these stories about women who didn't handle their grief until they got married or had their first child really hits home. One of my first reactions to the news of my mom's grave condition was "how can I ever be a mother without mine?" She was the first person I went to for advice in life and the person who would listen to me as I talked things out (not even offering advice, but just letting me work things out on my own and then cheering me on when I finally did). I always assumed she would be there to answer what still seem like truly daunting questions regarding pregnancy, birth, child-rearing, etc. I made damn sure she was there for my wedding, but I know I will really need her when my time comes to enter motherhood. I live with the understanding that the moment I discover my first pregnancy will be intimately painful because that exciting news will also bring the crushing reminder that I am in it alone. I will, of course, have the best and most supportive partner to experience it with and a plethora of supportive women willing to step in where my mother cannot. This is invaluable to me. But I will still need and want and miss my mother.

Losing your mother is not an event. It isn't something that happens once and is recovered from--it is a state of being. I am, right now, still losing my mother. I am and will forever be a "Motherless Daughter." She will never be on the other end of the line when I need to call for reassurance or guidance or just to shoot the breeze. She won't be there to celebrate my first home purchase. She won't be at the hospital when I have children. She won't make her fudge each Christmas or call me on my birthdays. I may not cry each time one of these milestones (or everyday moments) occurs in the future, but I will recognize her absence and feel it. And mourn it. Forever.

This is truly helpful, the talking about it part. Reading about grief while experiencing grief helps put into context why you’re feeling a certain way or how others might be expecting you to be coping, etc. I’ve realized, and this isn’t surprising to me or to anyone who knows me well, I am blessed with an innate and useful tendency to communicate my feelings. Many people bottle their emotions in times of grief, try to move on quicker than they should, or think that showing pain and sadness weakens them or calls too much attention to them. I have cried in public too many times to count since this whole thing began. I talk to whoever will listen. I tell stories about my mom. I write about her. And I even write to her… In that respect, I am doing alright. And I thank you and everyone who has ever taken the time to lend a compassionate ear, to read my poetry, or to send me a card, text, Facebook message, whatever. It all matters. It all helps.