Mom’s 10-Year Deathiversary

Grief was my first significant partnership in that it was very intense and all-consuming as we were getting to know one another. But once the honeymoon phase ended, we learned to co-exist, make space, compromises, and sacrifices for each other. As time goes on, we don’t acknowledge each other as much, but grief is still very much there in the background of every day. It’s certainly not as gripping as it was when the wound and trauma were fresh. For that, I am thankful.

As I reflect on mom’s 10-year deathiversary, I write this not only for myself but for family, friends and acquaintances who were also deeply affected by her passing.

2014

My mom passed in June 2014 from breast cancer. It has been 10 years. When I look at that number, I’m sort of dumbfounded. In her final days in hospice at home, I remember sitting by her bed each night just holding her hand and saying “I love you” over and over like a broken record. I wanted my time to be up too. I didn’t want to know a world without her in it. By this point, she was completely emaciated, refusing or perhaps unable to eat. She required assistance getting up to use the restroom before eventually getting tied up to a catheter. She became more incoherent by the hour and was on a regiment of drugs including morphine just to keep the pain at bay and make her as comfortable as possible in her final days. It was an insufferable way for her to live and unbearable to watch.

To try and have an afternoon of normalcy, some respite from death, my cousin, aunt, and I went out to Korean BBQ in Ann Arbor. That’s when I got the phone call that they were going to take mom to the hospital and would I like to come home to see her off? I said no. A part of me wanted to go running back to her, for her to hold me in her arms one last time, but I had said everything I wanted to say to her. And by that point, she wouldn’t have been able to say anything back. We had loved each other for a lifetime in the short 25 years we had together. She passed in the early hours the following morning.

After her celebration of life, I was convinced that I wouldn’t make it a year. There was no way. The grief felt so heavy and bottomless like a force controlling my body to move on against my own will. Surely it would kill me. Even though I had people around me for support, my grief was unique to me, and it was mine to bear the weight of and move through alone.

Patti & Tim (my great aunt and uncle), Monty (mom’s friend and business partner) and Tokiko (my Japanese teacher at the time) were my greatest support system. I know for a fact that if I didn’t have them in my life at that moment in time or if anything had been different about the way everything played out, if Patti hadn’t answered the call to come be with me and help me care for mom, if those four people didn’t continue to follow up with me each year about how I was feeling, I wouldn’t be walking this earth right now.

As mom was dying and for many years after, I felt so angry and resentful of my dad for not stepping in to help with her care. He retreated into his own world, the pain of mom’s imminent passing too much to bear. Completely understandable, in hindsight. But at the time, it solidified in my mind that he didn’t love her in the way she needed or deserved. I’m still not convinced otherwise. I felt angry and resentful towards all those who survived her, most notably my aunt who was a two-time breast cancer survivor. I felt angry at the world for taking her from me so soon, and I was angry at mom for abandoning me.

2024

10 years. Like I said, I didn’t think I’d make it 1 year let alone 10. When I was in the thick of grief, it was dark. I wanted to speed up time. Anything to not feel as hopeless or despairing as I did. I had to hold out hope that there was a light at the end of the tunnel even though I couldn’t see one and I couldn’t for years. Time is a bitch, but it can also be a gift.

For the first few years, I kept my head down, I gave myself space by putting an ocean between my family, my home and myself. I ran away from grief, but that’s the thing; grief follows you. It’s relentless in its desire to be acknowledged and healed. While I was abroad, grief manifested as stress, anxiety, imposter syndrome, guilt, panic attacks, and suicidal ideation. It brought me to my knees. It’s no exaggeration that each night in 2018, you would’ve found me curled up in a fetal position sobbing hysterically. Eventually, I had to do the work. There was no way out but through.

When I returned home to Michigan, I would make myself cry by looking at old photos of mom, spin out with regret of things I wish I told her, and watch the video she left behind for me just so I could hear her voice and see her smile. Grief can be isolating. It made me feel stuck as the world moved on, and historically, to get out of a rut, it helps to do something to help me understand I am not alone. So, I signed up for an 8-week grief group therapy at the church down the road from my house, which by and large was the greatest gift. It made me lift my head up and walk into this circle of people who were carrying similar heavy loads like I was. It made it OK to cry and with strangers no less. Once the 8 weeks was over, I had a core group I could call upon when grief became too much. It shifted something. Grief became less intimidating, less heavy.

And then 10 years went by and before I knew it, the grief had lightened considerably.

Now, I’m sitting at the edge of the tunnel, one foot in the darkness, and one in the light. Both coexisting peacefully. Of everything I’ve done in my life since my mom passed, that is my greatest achievement. To get to that place of understanding that it’s not one or the other, light or dark, it’s both at the same time always.

I don’t think about my mom much these days, and it’s not because I don’t want to or because I don’t miss her. But there has been this kind of radical acceptance that she is no longer here on Earth with me. She will not be a part of any future milestones or celebrations, downfalls or rock bottoms. She does not get to experience this life with me in the physical world. That is her tragedy and mine.

I think a lot about what I would do if mom showed up at my doorstep one day, explaining that all of this was a huge misunderstanding, mistake, or a cruel joke. That she just had to get away for a while. I remember I used to think I could hear the garage door opening and it was her coming home. How would I react? Would I be happy? Would I feel like I finally got my wish after all these years? Would I feel resentful or bitter? After all, I’ve spent 10 years building a life without her, one that she no longer fits in to because she’s missed so much that it would take another 10 to catch her up. Sometimes I think I wouldn’t invite her back in, but the reality is that I don’t know. I’ll never know what I would do in that scenario.

The good news is that I feel less lonely in this world as I’ve come into my own womanhood, more sure of who I am, what I like, and how to better cope with each passing day. There’s a lot of security in that. Whatever comes my way, I know I’ll make it through. It won’t be easy, of course, but nothing can top my mother’s death so that makes life’s curveballs a little easier to contend with.

Much of that anger and resentment towards my family and the world has dissipated because there’s nothing they could’ve done differently. People confront grief in their own ways. Navigating grief forced me to relinquish control. Asking the what ifs and what I could have done differently were moot. I cannot determine or control who leaves this world and when and for what reason, and when I accept that, there is peace. There’s nothing I could’ve done to stop my mom from dying. It was her time to go. Either that or we would’ve fought to keep her alive, but her quality of life would’ve suffered immensely and that’s no way to live.

Now, grief shows up for me in the form of fleeting thoughts or moments of wonder rather than waves that leave me curled up on the floor sobbing myself to sleep like they used to. That has been the true gift of time.

Regrets

One of my greatest regrets is that I didn’t get to know my mom as a woman. I didn’t get or take the opportunity to understand and appreciate who she was as an individual, what made her tick and what ticked her off. How she felt in her career, what she struggled with in her 20s and 30s, what overwhelmed her and overjoyed her about being a mom, a wife, a friend, a sister, a human. I didn’t really ask her what her interests were or take interest in watching her develop them. I never delved deeper into her family history and her relationship with her mom. I’ve gathered bits and pieces from different family members over the years, but I wish I had made a conscious effort to sit down with her and make her tell me stories from her perspective. That way I could do a better job at keeping her memory alive.

I also wish I had told her more frequently that she was loved and appreciated. I wish I had been able to spoil her and care for her in her old age like she did for me when I was a young girl. I wish I had reassured her time and again that I would be OK whether she passed at 50 or 90. Above all, I wish I had thanked her every day for nurturing me, setting me up in life the way she did, and giving me the freedom and space to explore my own creativity and humanity.

What’s Left to Say

To those of you in the thick of grief or about to be, I can only hope my words offer you some sort of comfort or relief, but I also know when my grief was fresh, I would’ve spit at the computer screen and yelled “WHAT DO YOU KNOW!?” to someone who was 10 years into their journey writing an article just like this saying that it gets better.

But it does and it did. It might be shitty for a long, long time, but then 5, 10, 15 years will pass and one day you’ll stop, look up and realize it doesn’t hurt as much as it did on Day 1.

At the end of the day, I hope you keep going. Life is both beautiful and cruel. The hardest thing I’ve ever done is coming to understand and accept that. Life is always an adventure though if you’re willing to give it time, the curiosity to see where it takes you, and the courage to make your mess your message, your magic.

Onward.