Explaining Grief to those who have not Grieved

I am coming upon my second Christmas without my mom. Last Christmas I was in London, spending my days roaming museums or sipping cappuccino while staring at walls and wondering what I might have done to have saved her. Guilt, anger, crushing sadness, disorientation, even occasional giddiness. The most surprising thing about grief is the unexpected laugh, even black humor when one makes fun of the loved one - be it her penchant for farting and then roaring for emphasis or how she amused your young friends by calling out "Friends, Romans, Lend me your Ears!" when trying to corral a party of eighth-graders outside the house on Florida Court.

I have a few friends who have not lost a parent or sibling. Every one of them has been kind, as one would expect any human to be when their friend is experiencing grief; and yet, none of them have been able to give me what I need. I have only been able to get what I need from friends who have lost a parent. Doesn't even have to be a friend - can be a stranger I connect with at Starbucks or a lecturer, as was the case when I spoke of my grief to my dissertation supervisor and she told me about her father's death: "You can't control [the tears]. It [the emotion] just comes over you." Such helpful advice in those early days of my grief.

So I am sitting here writing this so those who have not grieved will understand what it is like. Many times I have wished Mom would have sat me down and explained it to me, warned me. I would have grabbed her and never let her go! No. I would have pushed back, become distracted and carry on, thinking how Mom was once again being overly dramatic. This, apparently, is human nature. One is inoculated against the disease of Grief until one is forced to confront it. For this, apparently, one can be thankful - those endless days of mindless joys, the senseless fights with our mums over housekeeping and boys and their meddling (always!) in our business. Were we to understand the train wreck that our lives would become once they died, would any of us seek to go on? Bear another day?

And yet I write this for my friends who still have parents, particularly mothers: losing Mom is like walking into a room naked and yet not knowing where you put your clothes or even what to wear. Losing Mom is like jumping off a cliff and being told that you will land somewhere safely and yet having no idea where that will be or when, an endless freefall (days, weeks, now months for me). Losing Mom is the phone in your hand and realizing she Is Gone.

Losing Mom is losing the nurse who knew what salve to apply, who would call your doctor even when you were 56, because she was worried you might have thyroid cancer. Losing Mom is losing the shopping buddy who knew what looked best on you and yet somehow couldn't stop choosing for you the same frilly-collared girly-girl outfits she forced upon you at age six. Losing Mom is losing recipes - stuffed cabbage, meatloaf, enchiladas, cornbread (ahhh, cornbread!) and especially the hands who made them. Losing Mom is losing the voice who would utter from the couch in the man cave, "These are the best meatballs I've EVER had, Peach." Losing Mom is losing the laughter in the corridors of the Baptist Church where you would make fun of someone's overuse of perfume, or in the pews draw cartoon figures indicating hunger (wasn't it time to take off for the Mexican restaurant?) and so she'd smile and indicate you could scooch out early. Losing Mom is losing the anchor to the day: "Hey, Mom, guess what So-and-So said to me when I told him I was doing such-and-such!" No one else will ever call you 'honey' in the same way or size you up with a glance, causing you to realize you have either gained weight/lost weight and yet smirk that maybe you can miss/should have more dinner. A mother can be both Comforter-in-Chief and Critic-in-Chief. Every daughter knows this!

Yesterday I thought of my grief as a pie and divided up the pieces. A small piece is relief. It has taken me a long time to say this. Relief because she didn't have to die of dementia as some of my friends' mothers have; or continue to complain of ailments, from varicose veins to a rapid heartbeat. But also relief that if you decide you want to chuck it all and move to Italy or become an atheist, your (admirably) practical, Christian mother is not around to disapprove.

Grief, my friends, is a journey. It is not all a dark corridor of pain, but a tunnel where one finds with every day a little more strength to move on to the next. You will grow stronger from the memory of your mother holding your hand, sending you Halloween cards with $100 just because, and singing you "Summertime" in her lovely Southern drawl.

The oil painting was created by the author's mother, Kathleen Leonard.