Finding Grace in My Grief
A post on grief that was once published on my no longer active WordPress blog.
This post was published in June 2018 on my since-deleted WordPress blog, Sweatpants and a Tiara. I wanted to repost it here with the intention of seeing how far I’ve come in my grief and to support others who may be experiencing loss. This was written by a 28-year-old me who was just coming to terms with the significant impact of this loss. At the time of writing, I had no idea how badly I was hurting and how much worse it would feel in the days ahead, or how much healing I would really need to finally accept my grief for exactly what it was.
It recounts some difficult-to-talk-about moments so feel free to skip around it, but my heart is yearning to re-read and to share it in this container.
I have made no edits to this original post, only formatting changes.
If you are suffering, remember to give yourself grace. You grieve what you had once, and still, greatly loved.
Finding Grace in My Grief
“It will be okay. I’ll be okay.”
This has been my mantra since Wednesday, December 27th when my mom was rushed to the ER for the second time in two days because her oxygen and blood pressure were quickly declining. Just the day before she was sent back to the rehabilitation facility with both oxygen and blood pressure stabilized.
My mom had medical issues for a very long time, but they worsened after back surgery five years ago. We found a wound on her back and it essentially ruined her life which is a passionate, heated rant for another day.
After we found the wound, she was mostly on bed rest to close it which weakened her body. She was unable to maintain her protein levels because she was completely inactive which in turn caused her body to feed off of every ounce of protein she put into it. In addition to this, she never fully recovered from her back surgery instead of reaping the full benefits of therapy because she was put on bed rest so early on.
Long story short, inactivity also led to drop foot which led to a boot which led to another wound (who would’ve thought that having a gaping wound somewhere on your body would make you susceptible for more wounds) which lead to infection which resulted in an amputation of her leg. Things just continued to escalate for her even after she got a brand new prosthetic.
In addition to the wound and the leg, she had quite a few scares with her heart health and low blood pressure. Through it all, she remained positive on the surface, believing that she was fortunate to even wake up in the morning. It was apparent to those closest to her that her quality of life and will to live was dwindling. She was continuously asking for prayers.
She sought my help a lot and I couldn’t always be there. Sometimes I just didn’t want to be because I knew going to visit meant watching her suffer more which I know is selfish.
I never truly understood how quickly a life could be cut short.
On December 14, 2017, she had a stroke.
Although she was able to come back from it, she couldn’t necessarily voice what she wanted to say, her brain was scrambled, and she wasn’t able to write. My brilliant mother with gorgeous handwriting was unable to properly communicate and it broke her heart. She rarely ever cried in front of me but after suffering her stroke, it was all she did.
She was in the MICU for a few days. One of my most treasured memories was visiting her the first day she was awake and playing her Christmas music. I had heard that people who suffered from strokes could miraculously sing songs they knew. Some part of our brain remembers rhythms and melodies, which is really beautiful if you think about it.
She sang along to Jingle Bell Rock and quietly sang the words to “Merry Christmas Darling” by the Carpenters. However, reality hit whenever the music was done and her nurse asked her to tell him the date and verbally describe simple illustrations. She couldn’t do it. She tried, but she couldn’t do it.
She was broken.
When my mom was rushed to the hospital after we spent a snowy, quiet Christmas together at the rehab facility, they were able to get her vitals back up quickly. When we got back to her room at rehab, I made her promise to hang in there and to give me a few more years. She cried and said she would. She had been calling me Judy (her sister’s name) since the stroke, and before I left she said, “I will, Adele.” And we cried and exclaimed “baby steps!” and held each other as she continued to happily say my name.
That is why her being rushed to the ER again the next morning came as a surprise. I sort of dilly-dallied in getting there that day as I thought it was going to be the same thing as the day before.
It was much different. As I arrived, my mom was half awake in the ER bed, nurses surrounding her.
“What happened to our plan!” I exclaimed as I walked in. I put down my coat, “What happened to baby steps?”
She looked at me, distant. She didn’t look right.
“I’m sorrryyyy.” She wailed. “I’m sorry!”
I took her hand in mine and sat down next to her. I asked her nurse what was going on and they said her blood pressure was dropping – all of her vitals were dropping. They would soon be taking her for some tests and they’d bring her back. She laid back in her bed, eyes up toward the ceiling. She didn’t say much else as she began to fall asleep.
They took her for tests.
When she returned, she was awake but her eyes still remained toward the ceiling. She was mumbling but words were inaudible. I took her hands as the nurses told me someone would be in when they had the results.
My mom clasped my hands in hers. Her grip was tight. She was shaking but in a way that I had never seen anyone move before. She was shaking up and down and he hands were grasping and loosening, her mouth still moving.
“Mom?” She looked at me, but I knew she wasn’t there.
“Mom? Are you going to die?” I asked, hoping she would answer ‘no.’
She looked at me and I could see the fear in her eyes as they glazed over. She looked up once more and closed her eyes.
She continued to hold my hands and shake. I immediately began sobbing. I didn’t know what was happening.
She fell asleep and stayed asleep.
They eventually brought her up to a room. I called her name a few times and only once did her eyes flutter open. There was nothing there. She closed them. That was the very last time I saw my mom’s beautiful brown eyes.
In the middle of the night, I received a call telling me she was in the MICU as her vitals were still dropping. She was in a coma. The rest of the week was quite a blur. Because I wasn’t sure what was to come, I tried finding grace everywhere. I spent a lot of time crying and praying which are two things I seldom did.
She remained in the MICU until January 2nd when they told me she could no longer breathe on her own as she had pneumonia caused by aspiration. They told me that they could perform a tracheotomy to try to keep her alive and a tube in her stomach so she could get some nutrition, while also performing a blood transfusion. They told me that there was so much ammonia in her they didn’t know if she’d ever wake up. As her power of attorney, I was given the option to either take her off of support and let her pass naturally or potentially ruin her life and run the risk of her living in a vegetative state. Ultimately, I made the decision to let her go.
My mom held on for a few more days so I went back to Pittsburgh for a night or two to collect more of my things in case I was going to stay in Erie longer.
On the night of January 4th, I received the call that my mother had passed away. I remember speaking to the nurse and getting through the call as if it were business as usual. I called my aunt and continued to talk as if everything was fine.
After we hung up, it sunk in. She was gone. My mom, my best friend, my leader, my role model, my coach, my hero, my everything was no longer with me.
I have experienced a lot of loss, but nothing like this. I’ve never cried so hard or so much in my life.
I spent the next few days and even weeks in a weird place emotionally. I have always thought of myself as a strong person, so I didn’t want to give into grief. This was a big mistake.
Because I was dealing with regret and loneliness, not to mention the financial closures and planning that arose from her death, I closed myself off from people. I became emotionless. I avoided answering texts, calls, messages. I barely left the house and if I did, I went out in solitary and only to the grocery store. I spent a lot of time in bed or on the couch which if you know me, isn’t like me at all.
I kept telling myself, “there will be a day when you won’t feel like this,” but I kept hoping it would be the next day or the day after that.
It did not come the weeks after that either. Even when I went back to work, I found myself taking walks by myself to cry or crying on my drive home.
I would see other people living their lives and I’d think, “how can they be so happy when the world lost someone so wonderful? Don’t they know what’s happened?”
I think I was angry with my family, friends, and even strangers on the street because I was jealous. If their world was just turned upside down, they sure didn’t show it and I was furious with the fact that mine was.
I kept myself awake at night questioning whether or not I made the right decision. What if I had never moved to Pittsburgh and left my mom to suffer alone? What if I had been around more? Thinking these thoughts and having this guilt made me feel crazy. Not only was I empty, I was irrationally trying to avoid feeling hurt.
One day I realized enough was enough. I told myself that I had two options – to stay angry and emotionless or to just accept that I was grieving. I chose to let myself grieve.
I gave into the tears and I let my friends see me cry. I told people when I wasn’t feeling well.
I started seeing a therapist who has reminded me that everything, EVERYTHING I’ve felt is part of the grieving process and it’s natural.
Strong people are allowed to grieve.
It’s a natural way of surviving after a tragedy.
Now not only am I thinking, “It will be okay. I will be okay.” I’m thinking, “I’m fighting through the greatest challenge I’ve ever had and I’m stronger than ever. I will be okay.”
There is not a single day that I don’t think of my mom. I REALLY miss her – I miss our daily phone calls, I miss asking her how to handle situations, I miss her laugh, I even miss her yelling at me when I do something stupid – but I’m going to be okay. I’ve been toughing through situations myself and I’m getting pretty damn good at it.
I am still not fully myself but I don’t think I ever will be. I am starting to believe that I am meant to be a different person – a stronger one. Life threw a curve ball at me but I’m handling it. The past few months have shown me who my support system is and who I want to be there for when life either throws them for a loop or is kind to them. I’m becoming their biggest fans because their love for me is beyond invaluable.
Occasionally, I write my mom letters in a notebook which have been my solace. I still cry when I think about everything and I cry when I write to her or about her, but there’s comfort in this sadness knowing that I’m still communicating with her and that I’m letting my emotions out. Even writing this blog post causes a tinge of pain. I have been working on it since February but couldn’t bring myself to finish it, but I knew I had to. I had to for myself because this is such an integral part of my story and the biggest chapter of my life and being able to finish it has proved to me that I am taking the necessary steps to healing.
I’m hoping that someone who is going through the same thing or having a hard time with something, can read this and know these six things:
You are allowed to grieve. It does not mean you’re weak or you’re failing.
Get rid of the mindset that you’re alone. You are not alone.
Ask for assistance.
Remember that this is all temporary. There will be better days ahead, they’re just not here yet.
The best thing that you can be is present.
It will be okay. You will be okay.
And please – if you’re going through something, I am here for you. Don’t hesitate to reach out. I’m not the best at giving advice but I’m always someone who will listen and try to provide comfort if you need it.
I will miss you forever, Margaret Zgainer Stewart, like the stars miss the morning skies.