Losing a parent, at any age, is just about one of the most difficult losses we will ever sustain. It is unimaginable, it is inevitable, it is unforgettable.
I lost my mom when I was 19. I was old enough to have developed an incredibly intimate relationship with my mom, but young enough to still have milestones for her to miss. My younger brother was only 16 when she died, and, for a long time, this fact devastated me even more than my own sense of personal loss. It was heartbreaking for me to think about his high school graduation, that our mom would never see. It was painful - and still is painful - to think about my wedding, and the empty space her absence will both literally and metaphorically leave.
But milestones aside, it's often the little things, that catch me off guard, that are triggers that leave me with a very fresh sense of loss. Recently, it was the State of the Union Address. I watched it by myself with a plate of cheese and pear and a big glass of wine, and I thought about how my mom and I would be sitting watching it together and joking about how our political views don't belong in Colorado Springs. And we probably would have ganged up on dad when he delivered his impassioned rant about taxes afterwards. In that moment, I felt a sense of loss more profound than anything I've felt in a long while.
I thought about how I've finally taken up cooking. I thought about sharing recipes and tips with my mama. I thought about how she would have taught me how to make her fudge and lemon bars and carrot cake. I thought about all the questions I'll have when I have kids someday. I thought about how she would have come to all my poetry events, how I would have taught her about wine and she would have actually been interested. I think about the days she and I spent in the car together, driving down to Texas for my gymnastics meets, and all the roadtrips we'd planned that we'll never get to take. I think about all the questions I never asked her with answers that I'll never know. And I feel sad.
When my mama died, I spent the first year after trying to be strong, to set an example for my dad and my brother and my aunt. I wanted to show them that love was stronger than grief. What I'd failed to understand was, grief is a form of love. It is the last great offering we give to the people who really meant something to us. It is okay to feel. It is okay to hurt. It is okay to talk about it and show people your pain.
We all want to be strong, but real strength comes from our willingness to accept our utter humanity. We can't outrun death. We can't escape our ultimate fate, and we can't rescue others from the same. Death is as much a part of life as every breathing moment of our existence is. Death is the cruelest, yet most effective teacher. And death will not wait for you to be ready.
When I finally allowed my mother's death to wash over me, almost a year after she actually passed, I withdrew completely. I shut nearly everyone out. I hurt some of the people I was closest to. I made mistakes. And I learned from them. I focused on myself and building the life I knew I wanted. I suffered. I hurt. And I healed. I was crazy with grief and anger, and I lived it all. I manifested it all. I did what I had to do to make sure I made it through my grieving period in one piece.
What no one seems to tell you when someone dies is, it's okay to go crazy. And I don't mean a little crazy. I mean bat-shit, my world has been turned inside-out, how do I control myself, I definitely fell off my horse, it's best if you stay away from me right now, I should probably be a character on a soap-opera crazy. It's okay to feel everything you need to feel, whether that be elation, misery, anxiety, or sadness. It's okay to occupy that space. Just don't unpack your bags and live there.
It seems impossible at the time, but, even when someone dies, the world keeps turning. Time keeps moving. And this cruel universe will not pause itself to give you a moment to catch your breath. You have to take the pain on your toes. You have to keep moving. You have to keep going. As crippling as your sense of loss may be, grab a crutch - a friend, a family member, a hobby - and hobble yourself along down the road of life. Forest Gump your way back to your regular pace, but don't let the pain paralyze you.
That being said, cry. Watch movies that hit you in the feels. Eat the extra cookie. Call that someone for no reason other than to hear their voice, which is suddenly so precious...
I wish so much that someone had told me these things. That crazy is okay. That, yes, you are still a fallible human being who will make mistakes and hurt people, try as you might to never be that way again. The death of a loved one is not some shield that settles upon you and makes you impervious to the harsh reality of life. Expecting trauma to somehow grant you a free pass is like expecting a lion not to eat you because you're accidentally lost on the savannah.
You are still human, with human flaws and experiences. It is okay to feel everything you feel. It is okay to hurt for years. Pain, loss, grief, these are not linear. They are not things you will just "get over" one day and feel a-okay. Great loss will stay with you for the rest of your life. It will hurt in unexpected moments, in unexpected ways. Some days I still cry for the loss of my mother. It's been 4 years, 2 months, and 28 days since my mom died. And I am still here. I am still here, and I have felt the pain of her loss as though it was yesterday. But I have also felt joy.
This, too, is okay. It is okay to feel happiness, even during grief. You are not dishonoring your loved one's memory by being happy. In fact, that person would definitely want you to feel happy, even through the pain.
So feel. Feel everything you need to feel. And never stop growing. We cannot control the things that happen to us in life, but we can decide to learn from them. Keep looking for the lessons in the negative, and, suddenly, life is full of meaning.
And above all, never forget - you feel this great pain because there was once great love. How lucky are you to have had something that makes saying goodbye so hard? Now say Thank You and grow.