My Enlightenment Through Death and Darkness as I Miss my Mom
Death,
Why do you come?
A piercing arrow through the heart …
I MISS MY MOM!
I’m brought to my knees when I find Mom lying on the floor, face up. Puddles of blood surge from her head and mouth. As we’re both barely breathing, I’m paralyzed with fear, immobilized by the shock.
I manage to get to the phone, dial 9–1–1 with unreliable, shaky fingers, and administer CPR although I can’t fully discern my instructor’s words.
My intervention would not matter. A cerebral hemorrhage had taken place, and that same day, November 27th, 2017, would unexpectedly mark my last one with Mom … FOREVER.
If a trail of tears from Heaven to Earth could be the pathway for my mom’s return, I would have reunited with her already. If animalistic shouts of emotional pain and anguish could enable Mom to hear my wounded cries, she would be with me right now — comforting and reassuring me, just like the countless times she had done before.
But she is not with me — at least not in the physical sense I fervently desire. And so, I miss my mom. And even though I have decades of autonomous decision-making and action under my belt, I still feel like a lost 5-year-old orphan, craving to consume my mom’s brand of unconditional love.
I Miss my Mom as I’m Enveloped in Darkness
I can remember every minute detail of November 27th: my mom’s lifeless expression, her last meal that was burning on the stove at that time (I still can’t get the smell of burnt oatmeal out of my olfactory system), and the patches of splattered blood that stained her blouse.
I recall the grim, solemn faces of the three paramedics that knew this was a hopeless call, the police officer’s inquisitive look when rummaging through her belongings, and the doctor’s staid appearance when dispensing the news that my mom’s life had ceased for all intents and purposes.
I can conjure up visions of the weather that day, each setting in which the ordeal unfolded, all personnel involved, the family members anxiously sitting in the waiting room, and my own dubious actions. For example, I kept telling the physician that she had the wrong patient’s CAT scan.
But while my memories are vivid on “D-Day” (Death Day), the months that followed my mom’s passing are still a blur — the majority, a fragmented chain of events and experiences that remain nebulous in my mind’s eye.
One clear memory that I have during those long winter months, however, constitute a myriad of online visits to bereavement support groups, in search of anyone who could understand the magnitude of this loss, and share any wisdom that could assuage my relentless pain.
And in the background, I would play emotionally-touching, poignant songs that could help empty a reservoir of tears, giving ample space for new ones to quickly take its place.
I played “The Dance,” sung by Garth Brooks, underscoring the notion that love and pain are not mutually exclusive. Indeed, the tremendous sorrow I palpably felt was worth it because I had experienced the strongest loving ties a mother and son could possibly share.
The Chicks, “Without You,” was on an infinite loop, representing my struggles to go on without Mom.
And when I needed to touch another area of my broken heart, I listened to a medley of John Denver songs, especially “Annie’s song.” (Mom selected Annie as her nickname because she identified more with that moniker than with her given name, Harriet.). But Denver’s lyrics and passionate renditions reminded me of the love that one human being can feel towards another.
Through those dark, gloom and doom winter days, I believed that punishment, or at least some discipline or correction, had been rendered by God for some inexplicable crime I had committed.
A petulant, obstinate child, I questioned, shouted, and cursed the Higher Power, exclaiming that He had made some cataclysmic mistake — the same type of insistent declaration I made to the doctor who allegedly scrutinized the wrong patient’s test results!
And it Gets Even Darker Without Mom’s Shining Light
It dawned on me that it was a futile mistake to convince God that He erred. He could or would not bring her back unless He was ready to send Jesus back for the Second Coming — not likely to occur during my lifetime.
God, I couldn’t even convince the doctor about a potential misdiagnosis. (Many doctors like to play God, so I asserted that even if the prognosis was correct, she could still orchestrate a miraculous event.)
Unwilling to accept reality, I then offered an alternative, plausible explanation for the chain of events: Mom had gone to elaborate lengths to teach me a lesson — disappearing for a spell, only to resurface when I acquired a new, positive life-changing mindset.
She had always promulgated the notion of the senselessness of worry, although she could not manage to implement that fundamental principle in her own life. She would hug me when any upsetting thought would cross my mind, and with a gentle, reassuring whisper in the ear, reinforce the notion that I could handle whatever the given problem was at the time.
She would then remind me of our short time in this plane of existence. “We don’t even know if we’ll be here tomorrow,” became her common mantra.
(Why did she have to prove that point! Her death embodied that ‘Here today, gone tomorrow’ precept.)
Stubborn to a fault, I discarded the ephemeral nature of life, and clung to the idea this must be a hoax. Did Mom carry out this diabolical deception to teach me not to take life so seriously, and practice day-to-day gratitude?
After several weeks passed, even I knew that my vivid imagination regarding Mom’s departure had no basis in reality. And I knew that Mom could never bear to hurt me, regardless of the principle at stake.
In time, I had to accept the notion that my mom had died. This is not to suggest that I believe the entire Kubler-Ross model of the stages of grief, or that there is any sequential pattern to reactions of loss. Although I declare acceptance pertaining to Mom’s death, for example, I’m still not averse to bargaining with God to bring her back … just in case.
But throughout it all, the depths of despair kept reaching a new low.
‘I MISS MY MOM,’ I would scream in a deserted park.
I would lie under the covers for hours, trying to telepathically connect with Mom. The only time that I ever heard her answer back was when I was half awake, seemingly hallucinating.
When I asked her, ‘Why did this happen?’ she plaintively replied: “It was my time.”
I also remember taking a lot of showers, sobbing uncontrollably, as I hoped that the sound of the water would muffle my moans and groans.
But the mainstay of my existence revolved around those online bereavement groups. It quickly became apparent to me that those who visited them were in tremendous pain too, and so we all had more questions than answers. There were three common platitudes, primarily offered by those who had experienced grief the longest:
a) Our loved ones would not want us to suffer;
b) Our loved ones would want us to carry on, and live the best lives possible, notwithstanding challenging and tragic circumstances; and
c) The intensity of the pain would mitigate over time.
These were inane principles to me — at least they did not apply to me.
After all, in my myopic view, no one could understand the uniquely close and loving relationship I shared with Mom. Growing up, I did not forge many friendships and close attachments, and Mom became the be-all, end-all for me, and that connection lasted 55 years.
I could not find what I thought I needed in cyberspace. Time to look within my immediate social circle.
No Light Anywhere as I Miss my Mom’s Brightness and Brilliance
The prospect of finding relief grew dim rather quickly. Several acquaintances (I had no friends to turn to) told me that I was lucky that my mom had lived to the ripe old age of 78 — a reference to “abundant time” that did not seem to improve matters in the here and now.
A colleague overseas told me that his 8-year-old daughter handled the death of her mother with more equanimity than I was exhibiting. This encouragement to “man up” felt callous and hollow.
Relatives told me that I was not the only one hurting, but seemingly sharing a plateful of grief, at least initially, did not diminish my portion of it.
“She’s in a better place,” others said, but I wondered why those same people were not in a rush to get there.
The more philosophical ones waxed on: “Death is part of life” and/or “What doesn’t kill you will make you stronger.” Such hackneyed quotes had no effect on my psyche, save for the resentment I felt towards those who uttered such meaningless comments.
Admittedly, all these folks were well intentioned, but I came to understand that there are no words to truly comfort a broken, grief-stricken heart.
But certain words have the power to spring the lost and downtrodden towards action.
A Life Changing Moment, Mom’s Hand in the Background
As my mom provided a great template of a devoted, involved parent, I’ve never shied away from being affectionately demonstrative with my children, lavishing love upon them with every opportunity — in deeds, words, and thoughts.
But I had become so self-absorbed and singularly focused in my incessant grief, I put my own parenting on pause. While I fulfilled rudimentary responsibilities, such as the afternoon school pick up, I no longer engaged with the kids.
I barely asked questions about school and did not have much, if any, dialogue with them.
I bowed out of invitations to participate in any outing or indoor activity.
I overreacted to situations that I once handled with aplomb.
And the hugs and kisses that I once shared gratuitously were no longer extended.
And I didn’t even notice my change of demeanor … until one very pivotal moment. After declining another request to play a video game with my youngest son, he looked at me painfully, and said with earnest sadness:
“I want my dad back. I miss my old dad.”
It was not difficult to draw an instant parallel to my experience: We were both gravely missing our parents.
While I could do little to reconnect with Mom in the way in which I yearned, I could, once again, provide the gift of presence and attentiveness to my children.
This is not Just About Me
How could I have played the role of the proverbial ostrich in the sand? I had to shift my focus and try to see this ordeal from another vantage point — for my own survival and my kids’ emotional health.
For example, I scarcely considered how my mom’s death affected my immediate loved ones. My youngest, on the autism spectrum, relied on his grandmother for an abundance of love, understanding, sensitivity, fun, food, and all other good things that this life has to offer.
When I told him that she had died, he instantly offered to solve the problem by finding her, as if she was merely playing a game of hide and seek. (This solution would have aligned perfectly with my “hoax theory,” if Mom did indeed just pretend to pass away.)
Alas, ultimately, I knew that her death was not staged, and we could seek her physical presence for a lifetime and never find her.
I subsequently explained that Grandma was in Heaven, but he was convinced that she would return in a few weeks. I countered by trying to teach him the difference between the words, “permanent” vs “temporary.” After repeated failed attempts to distinguish between the two, I had an epiphany:
His core belief that her return was imminent may simply serve as a coping mechanism. Alternatively, perhaps it reflects his optimistic temperament, favorable world view, and strong faith in “happily ever after.” And maybe it’s just a reflection of his autistic condition that abstract conditions, such as death, are too difficult to process.
But all of this may be a saving grace.
Many folks believe that we will reunite with a departed loved one in Heaven. Why should I question his belief that the meeting place will be on Earth?
My son simply extends the timeline for this reunion as each month passes, never losing hope that his beloved grandmother will come back to him.
Changing Perspectives
I’ve never possessed devout faith. In fact, I’ve been more sacrilegious than religious — not in overt, disrespectful actions, but in my uncertainty in the existence of an authentic, loving God. And it would require a further stretch of imagination to believe in His unconditional love and regard for me, especially in light of my weaknesses and failings.
My doubt in a loving, Heavenly father figure intensified after Mom’s passing. Why had He done this to me?
A perceptive, compassionate counselor asked me to weigh my thoughts on God. During the discussion, she solemnly asked:
“If God bears resentment towards you, why would He have allowed you to share your life with such a beautiful soul for all these years?”
Point taken: The flip side of blaming God and mourning a loss is celebrating the existence of this special person, and the blessings of shared joy and love.
This counselor who will become a lifelong friend (important people often come into our lives when we’re ready and open for such relationships), shared her spiritual beliefs. (This may be considered a taboo in counseling circles, but I was grateful for such honest testimony.)
She fervently believes that our deceased love ones now have all the answers that remained unsolved while they were alive. While we raise our heads looking for answers, bewildered by the complications of life’s fabric, they see only the beautiful tapestry of life as they peer down.
The counselor further added: “Can you extend the possibility, even for a few seconds, that your mom is in a state of utopia, enveloped in love and compassion?”
After a minute of quiet introspection, I answered, “Yes,” and volunteered that if I knew my mom was blissfully happy and no longer saddled with worry and stress, I would want her to stay right where she was.
This unlikely selfless declaration merely reflects my endless love for Mom.
I want what’s best for her, not what’s best for me, even though I miss my mom so much.
Reducing Grief’s Weight Despite Profoundly Missing my Mom
As I recount how much I miss my mom, and my navigation through the circuitous, complicated chain of grief, I realize that suffering can be mitigated. But this can only occur when the sufferer is at least ready to release the yoke and put it down for a moment.
I’m not referring to “willing away” grief or choosing to ignore it. I’m simply suggesting diverting attention away from the loss. Even a brief diversion can help one to cope and move forward.
Some may exemplify this principle by keeping busy, focusing on work and personal responsibilities.
Others may decide to express themselves creatively, pursuing a hobby or other channels that require energy and concentration.
There are folks who look for respite to assuage grief.
Cherished memories can quickly come to the forefront for some, and abate grief to some extent.
And others, like myself, pursue the notion of gratitude. (I’m far from arriving at this destination, but I understand it’s the direction that I need to go towards.)
I feel blessed, for example, to be the son of a mother who deserved to have a plaque in the “Mother’s Hall of Fame.” I basked and thrived in her warmth, kindness, compassion, understanding, and selflessness.
As I try to honor her by living my best life, I’m especially grateful now for the loves ones that are still physically present with me.
I’m also appreciative for all the random acts of kindness and consideration. After providing a detailed account of my mom’s passing through tears and sobs, I’ll never forget the look of compassion from members of the local support group, followed by warm hugs meant to calm and comfort.
One neighbor took the time to make a special dinner. Another one spent an entire afternoon with me after I broke down in front of her when she asked how I was doing.
My mom’s sister, my aunt, now calls regularly to check up, and commiserates about this tremendous loss that we’ve both experienced.
I still miss my mom, but with the support from others, grief gradually becomes a little less heavy to bear.
But even if I didn’t have family and friends (before Mom’s death, I didn’t have any), there is this burgeoning understanding that deep connections with others are possible to construct. It’s always a question of time and inclination.
And now, I’m not even going to rule out the kindness of strangers. Perhaps grief wears away façade and surface, and leaves us bare, ready to establish ties with others as our authentic selves.
There is no One Answer – Trying to Survive Grief
Here are some absolutes about my grief (and I can only speak about my grief):
- It hurts like hell.
- Like the waves of the ocean, it ebbs and flows.
- At its most intense, I feel as though it can have the power to kill me.
- At its peak, I have the power to reduce the intensity through actions and/or thoughts.
- It’s only a reflection of my unequivocal love for my mom.
- It will last forever.
There are countless articles about how to get rid of grief, or at the very least, how to diminish it.
But the grim reality is that what works for one person may not work for another. I needed to take an extended leave of absence from work; you may feel more inclined to return immediately, welcoming work’s diversion.
Our relationships are all different. We are all different.
While there exists the universality of emotions that accompany grief, the methods to deal with such emotions are myriad.
And I’m a proponent of feeling these emotions — not numbing ourselves to it.
I appreciated the written advice of a colleague when I told him about my mom’s passing, and the utter helplessness and profound sadness that I felt. He responded:
“CRY, CRY and CRY some more — get it out. We men should also show the world our feelings even though most of us are taught not to.
I absolutely understand production is on a back burner — I expect nothing else. Please take as long as you need and then some more.”
In essence, my fellow bereaved sufferers, feel the feelings, and when it becomes too immobilizing and crippling (my barometer of this was when I felt suicidal), find what works for you to help you get through the day(s).
Learning to Live with Pain — Without Mom
I miss my mom. I miss my mom so much.
I miss her idiosyncrasies, such as leaving lipstick imprints on her coffee mug, or turning on the gas stove burners for additional heat.
I miss her gentle kisses on my brow and cheeks.
I miss her long, reassuring hugs, and whispering words of comfort, telling me that all will work out.
I miss her sweet, melodic voice, and her spontaneous renditions of old show tunes.
I miss her zest for learning, continuing to look up any words that she did not know the meanings of, right until the time of her passing.
I miss her fun and spontaneity. (Whenever Dad tried to stump us with difficult history questions, she would sneak away to look at her iPad to get the answers.)
I miss her beautiful countenance (Mom could have been a model), and more importantly, her inner beauty.
I miss her unwavering compassion towards others. It was not uncharacteristic of Mom to cry when she would see others struggling, such as the time she witnessed a group of severely disabled adults.
I miss her delicious homemade meals, always replete with healthy fruits and vegetables.
I miss our meditation, walks, and philosophical talk.
I miss her brilliant, sage advice, dispensed with concern and affection.
I miss her admirable degree of introspection, always asking questions about herself, and about life, in general.
And most of all, I MISS HER UNCONDITIONAL LOVE.
I MISS EVERYTHING!
Another refrain: I miss my mom. I miss my mom so much.
But even without the presence of my greatest teacher, role model, advocate, and cheerleader, I can still persevere.
Perhaps this is the best testament to her parenting — somehow giving me the inner strength to function despite the sharp pains of loss that I still experience. (She always told me that I had more strength than I recognized in myself.)
And then again, Mom is still present, if I listen carefully, watch for signs, and feel her spirit within me.
She may not be physically visible, but she is part of me (the most fully-functioning part).
The emotional pain of loss is an enduring part of me, too.
But now I’m listening to songs, such as “I Hope You Dance,” “Someone’s Watching Over Me” and “My Heart Will Go On.” Such empowering tunes lift me higher, convincing me to take steps forward. even with the all-consuming thoughts of loss and the tremendous void that I’ll never fill.
Death,
You have come.
And despite the heaviest of hearts …
I shall overcome.
And Mom, you will go on.
I LOVE YOU MOM … FOREVER.
©️ 2020 by Andy Lax
I dedicate this video to my mom, the most incredible, beautiful soul I’ve ever known
