Two Years
Two years ago today was the last time I saw my mom.
Two years ago today, my brother and I sat with her while she took her last breaths here on earth.
Two years ago today, I drove home from her house, the last time I’d ever get to visit her there.
Two years ago today, my entire life changed.
Two years is an eternity. And it’s also a split second.
Think about all the things that can happen over the course of two years. Let’s say you start a new job – two years into it, things are probably pretty predictable. You know what you are doing, you know your coworkers, you know what to expect every day. Or let’s say you move to new town – two years into living there, you are probably pretty comfortable and know your way around, you know your neighbors and where to go shopping and to get what you need.
Grief is not like that. Life two years into losing a loved one is anything but predictable and comfortable. Two years into it, every single day is different. I don’t know what each day will bring. I know my mom will continue to not be here, but I don’t know what else is going to happen. I don’t know how I will feel. I might wake up feeling OK, I am most days. I might wake up feeling completely devastated. Or it can turn at the slightest most unexpected times; the devastating moments sneak in here and there.
Everyone says that over time grief gets easier, it feels less intense. And I know in some sense that is true. But for me it feels more like there is a huge gaping wound that’s trying to heal, but it keeps getting poked and prodded by little tiny paper cuts every single day that keep the wound open and raw.
The tiny little paper cuts show up in the smallest seemingly insignificant moments. Seeing a mom walking a baby in a stroller, with her own mom walking by her side, and feeling a sudden stab to my heart that my mom isn’t there to do that with us. Having to stuff down tears at a kids’ event when three other families show up with a grandma in tow, knowing my kids will never get to have the simple everyday experience of their grandma tagging along with them to weekend excursions and parties. All the school concerts, birthdays, school plays, holidays, and milestones – having nobody on the other end of the phone to tell about those things, that cares in the way your mom does about every single detail in your life and your kids’ lives.
Not a day goes by that I don’t think about her. Two years of having nowhere to put all that love and all that energy we used to share.
Two years of watching my newborn that she held and snuggled grow into a walking talking toddler with all the warmth of the sun, and my heart breaking that my mom doesn’t get to be here for any of it.
Two years of watching my five year old little girl grow into a seven year old “big girl” who is coming into her beautiful strong and sensitive and unique self, and knowing everyday they are missing out on having that granddaughter/grandmother relationship that’s so so important.
Two years of having nobody to call in the middle of the night when I’m up with a sick kid, or to ask what I was like at a certain age, or how she handled a certain thing with me when I was growing up.
Two years of sorting through everything she owned, assimilating her collections of artwork and jewelry and little treasures into my own home so that we can all still feel her presence around us.
Two years of only seeing her in photos on the frame in my living room, playing a lifetime of memories on repeat.
Two years of using the same roll of parchment paper I brought home from her house to bake the same cookies she taught me how to bake as a kid.
Two years of wearing her baggy sweatshirts because it’s the closest thing I can get to a hug.
Two years of radio silence in the evenings after the kids’ bedtime, when we used to text each other for hours about anything and everything, until one of us had to go to sleep.
Two years of no silly cat pictures being sent to me just to make me laugh when I was having a rough day.
Two years of missed birthdays and holidays, which to me does not get easier over time – each time we miss another holiday it’s another one of those searingly painful paper cuts and I almost can’t believe it’s happening AGAIN.
Two years without hearing her voice, hugging her, holding her hand, sharing a meal, or laughing with her.
Two years without her sense of humor and her unconditional trust and support.
Yet all around me, life just goes on. The sun rises and sets. The seasons change. It’s so strange and so heartbreaking and beautiful at the same time.
It would be so easy, so second nature to just load everyone into the car on a Saturday morning and head down to spend the day watching TV in her living room and eating snacks and just being comfortable together and doing nothing in particular at all.
Instead, visits can only happen at the cemetery or in our imaginations, and we create our own new weekend traditions and try to keep busy. I talk about her all the time, telling my girls every single memory and story that I can think of on a daily basis, so that they know her as well as they possibly can even though she can’t be here with them.
Two years on, none of this has gotten any easier. There is no “getting over” losing your mom. It’s life-altering. The only way forward is to keep her with you every day in all that you do, to keep her memory alive and to carry on all of the good things she brought into your life, and to share those with your own families to pass down through the generations.
I hope wherever she is, she is with all her pets and the ones she loved here on earth. I miss you Mom, and I hope Gram and Aunt Marie are there talking your ears off :)