Bittersweet

Grief is an unpleasant topic and yet it presents itself often as I learn of someone's loss of a loved one. I recognize the pain of that loss.  I know how that kind of grief feels.  It is a bitter pill to swallow but with a sweet aftertaste of loving memories. I watch others and how they react. Each handles it differently. Some hide their pain and others show it openly.  Regardless, I recognize that they are experiencing a long and lasting pain.  It is a pain that never really leaves us. Grief is forever. It is contained in some remote location within us but is released at the most surprising moments; a word, a smell, a reminder might let loose that pain and once again we grieve. For the rest of the time, we function well.  We stop crying.  We get back to the regular activities and can get through the day without breaking down; but never, ever does the deep feeling, the longing to see our departed loved ones once again ever leave us. When I was 8 years old, my grandfather passed away and to this day  I still get choked up when I talk about him. I miss his gentleness, his kindness, his attention, his loving hugs.

Grief is powerful. I have grieved several close losses. I think that I am prepared; and then I am not. I don't know which is worse: forcing myself to put on a smile and not to grieve, or to feel the grief so deeply it is crippling. All I can say is that anyone who has not grieved has no knowledge of real emotional pain.  There are those I grieve more deeply than others and I wonder about this.  I think

 that perhaps it is a soul connection that might make the difference.  My father's passing was probably

the worst pain I have ever felt thus far and yet I know what is possibly or even certainly yet to come.  How do I numb myself?  There are horrible things that happen to people in their lives, but the loss of a family member is the worst.  I recently read a book in which the author spoke to her parents about death.  They were both terminally ill and their passing was imminent. She prepared herself as best as she could and knew what their wishes were.  She learned how they felt.  They shared their thoughts, their fears, their acceptance and their clarity about what was happening to them.  As I read this it triggered a sadness in me.  I still had my mother but could not have that conversation.  I wondered what she thought (or if she thought) about dying.  I wished that I could learn what thoughts she had.

I felt saddened knowing that I could not talk to my mother about this (or anything else).  She would not ever be able to converse with me again--not about anything.  The realization that I had held my last conversation with my mother hit me like a brick. I could ask her a question and she might answer, but there would be no full and thoughtful dialogue.

I began to cry.  I was already grieving.  All of the strength left me.  I was a child again, a needy child

who needed her mother.  I was alone with no parents.  I was care giver to a stranger in my mother's body who smiled sweetly and called me by name, but my mother was no longer there.

I thought about the people who upon losing a loved one might touch the body of their departed, stroke the hair, or hold the hand.  I always think how strange this is because it is only a shell. The loved one has left.  But here, with my mother I see that I am doing the same thing.  I am holding onto the shell.  I look down at the hands that held me as a child.  They are old and cracked.  The skin is loose  and mottled with age spots.  Still, they are the hands I have known all my life.  The ones that stroked my brow when I had a fever, the ones that played the piano, that held the paint brush, that pushed needles through fabric to make beautiful clothes for me to wear.  They are the hands that stirred pots on the stove creating wonderful aromas that filled our kitchen.  They kneaded bread, hung clothes, cleaned the house and dressed me for school.  They brushed my hair and wiped tears away from my eyes. Those hands soothed and loved, tickled, and hugged.  They were loving hands filled with life and expression. 

I looked at my mother's legs.  They were wrinkled and veined, thin and weak.  I thought about how those legs had supported my mother for 96 years.  These were the legs that walked and danced.  They

carried my mother to work when she was young, to trains, to planes and ships.  They carried her to foreign lands, to hospitals, up stairs, on rocky pathways, and along sandy beaches.  They paddled in the water and kicked at the waves.  They held her upright when she felt like she might collapse from

worry, fear or grief. 

I looked at her face--that beautiful old, lined face.  It was a face I knew better than my own because unlike the brief glimpses I had in the mirror of my own face,  I had seen my mother's face all my life. I looked at it to gain approval, to search for love, to see if there was anger, joy, excitement. It was expressive. I could almost read my mother's thoughts in the way she held her mouth or used her eyes.  I still saw how she could make her whole face tell me she loved me. It was an openness--a smile, an adoring look that I recognized instantly.  Yes, I had seen it all my life.

I was putting my mother to bed; I was tucking her covers under her chin.  Only her face was exposed and as she lay back on her pillow, the wrinkles were softened, the soft folds pulled back.  I saw for a moment who my mother used to be.  Her hair was different but the face was the same. I reached out and touched her cheek with my fingers.  I traced a line along her brow.  Then I bent down and kissed her forehead.  I was touching my memories.  My mother looked up at me silently.  She was smiling.  There were no words, but I felt she knew.  She knew that I was connecting with her and somewhere in her mind she could feel it. It was a fleeting moment and then she closed her eyes.

I slipped quietly out of the room and closed the door.  I sat mutely on the sofa thinking about this. As I experienced my sadness I became overwhelmed with the knowledge that my mother was so different now.  The transition was almost complete.  Tears rolled down my cheeks as I grieved the loss of the woman  I knew so well...the woman to whom I told my deepest secrets and shared my triumphs, failures, losses and achievements.

Meditative thoughts bring new awareness and when I am very still I am given gifts of insight.  As I contemplated what was happening it was as if I were suddenly opening a treasure chest.  I was struck with a thought that delivered with it a richness of gold. I awakened to the idea that I was very fortunate to have such rich memories.  My mother may not be the woman that I knew, but here, in our home she was a constant reminder of my experiences, my childhood, my training, my feelings and attitudes.  She was a part of me.  Her essence might have been drifting away, walking a thin line between earth and other realms, but still I could see her. I could love the memory of her and

 the soul still present within her. I could touch and feel her not for just one fleeting moment but for months...maybe years.  I cherished this long goodbye with a new insight.  It was this that comforted me and held my grief at bay. 

My disappointment and sadness faded away and were replaced with a deep, deep gratitude.  It was a small change...an alteration that gave me a different perspective. Once again I was aware of just how delicate the mechanism was that fine-tuned my life.  It required constant surveillance and adjustment but when it was tuned with precision it brought joy, satisfaction and an overwhelming, unconditional love.