I’ve written about the waves of grief before. I feel as if I’m standing on a stump that rises above the water a foot or two. The grief is there, it’s a constant, but it’s usually below my radar. It’s not always the things that you think will knock you on your ass. Grief is tricky that way. You can’t always prepare for it. You ready yourself for the big things, but you never know when something will come along out of nowhere and knock you off balance – maybe even right over and floundering in the water, gasping for air.
This week I went to help my dad clear out and pack up the house a bit. He’s sold the family home and moving in about a month, and there are decades and decades of stuff and things and memories to go through. There is a house full of stuff and things and memories to whittle down to an amount of stuff and things and memories that will fit into an apartment. My goal on this visit was to get through all my drawers and hope chest and decide what is getting donated, thrown away, or coming home with me.
The drive there was a nice morning jaunt. An hour and a half of time for me to listen to a couple podcasts and leisurely drink my Parisian Mist. I arrived to the house – a house I’ve never personally lived in, but my stuff and things and memories made the move and have lived there for about 20 years. I arrived in a light, airy mood, ready to take on the task at hand.
First I went through my mom’s clothes and picked out a few items I didn’t want to send to the thrift store. It was hard sorting through all those pieces I could picture her wearing, and remembering the person she was when she could still pick out what she was going to wear each day. I sighed some big sighs, but there were no tears.
The next few hours I spent going drawer by drawer, smiling as I found concert bracelets (EdenFest) and tickets (Lilith Fair); buttons (vintage Canada’s Wonderland and Cotton Ginny); old school projects (Research Essay: The sexual habits of teenagers at GDCI – my first sex research project); and oh, so many pictures! I only came to misty tears twice. Once at a bookmark my mom gave me with a personal note written on it and the second at a random card my mom had sent me, filled with words about how proud my parents were of me and encouragement to keep on being my amazing self. I got angry at the world only once when I found a notepad of my mom’s from a meeting she’d attended in 2008, a mere ten years ago. It was a stark reminder of just how far and how fast Alzheimer’s really has taken her from us. The last ten years has seemed like an eternity and a blink all at the same time.
Even when my dad and I were going through my mom’s hope chest I was ok. Much of its contents went into the box of “to be shred” paper, and some was marked for the dump. My mom’s veil and wedding dress she held onto since 1970, lovingly folded and tucked away in blue tissue paper, is now in a bag bound for the trash heap just outside town. All the cards she saved over the last 50 years from showers and weddings and anniversaries are now headed for the shredder. It makes one contemplate all this stuff we keep and accumulate.
At the end of the day, my dad and I went out the Sky Ranch and had some dinner, then he went for his end-of-day visit to see my mom. I stopped in for a few minutes on my way out of town. Usually my mom smiles when she sees me, but today I got a blank look, a furrowed brow, no recognition of who I might be. I realized after I had my hair a way I never wear it – tied up in a bun on the top of my head. I wonder if that threw her off. I said my goodbyes to my parents, gave my mom a kiss, and said it was nice to see her. I got in my car, packed with stuff and things and memories, and headed home.
I was in a pretty good mood. I was having a good drive, finished up a podcast and turned on some music. I put my ‘Songs for ME’ playlist on shuffle and began to sing along. Things were going well. I felt light and thankful. I had about 10 minutes left in my drive when I saw a shooting star straight out in front of me; it made me smile, and I was grateful for my family who I was about to arrive home to, just in time for bedtime tucks. The randomly shuffled music went from Corey Hart’s Everything in My Heart to Richard Marx’s Right Here Waiting. I wasn’t quite in the mood for that, so I asked Siri to play Tommy Page’s I’ll Be Your Everything, but she couldn’t find it, so back to Richard Marx it was. I began to sing along.
Oceans apart day after day
And I slowly go insane
I hear your voice on the line
But it doesn’t stop the pain
Then I got to one line and as I was singing it, that wave came out of absolutely nowhere. There was no build up of sad. Nothing. Out loud I sang
I took for granted, all the times
That I thought would last somehow
My voice cracked and trailed off as I sang… that I thought would last someh….
And that was it. Full on tears. I couldn’t sing anymore, I could barely breathe.
I cried and cried. I sobbed as Richard Marx continued on without me.
Then Siri decided some Hairspray would be appropriate and I continued to cry to Mama, I’m a Big Girl Now. The sobbing abated a little, but I knew there was still a lot more in me that needed to come out. I wasn’t done.
I pulled into the plaza near my home and parked. I put on the song that helped me after my grandmother passed away 20-or-so years ago. I knew it would kick up those waves and swirl me around some more. As Patty Loveless belted out How Can I Help You Say Goodbye…
Momma whispered softly, time will ease your pain
Life’s about changing, nothing ever stays the same
And she said, how can I help you to say goodbye
It’s OK to hurt and it’s OK to cry
Come, let me hold you
And I will try
How can I help you to say goodbye
…I sobbed. I howled and wailed and wept. I cried the kind of cry where you can’t breathe. I just let myself go. Unrestrained. My soul needed this.
Sittin’ with momma, alone in her bedroom
She opened her eyes, and then squeezed my hand
She said I have to go now, my time here is over
And with her final words she tried to help me understandMomma whispered softly time will ease your pain
Life’s about changin’ nothing ever stays the same
And she said, how can I help you to say goodbye
It’s OK to hurt and it’s OK to cry
Come, let me hold you
And I will try
How can I help you to say goodbye
Patty finished up her third verse and chorus and I sat in the silent car for a little longer, reigning in the sobs, preparing to drive the two more minutes home. I steadied myself, got out of the churning water and waves, climbed back up on that stump, so I could walk into my house more balanced. That was the plan, anyway.
I mindfully breathed for that two minute drive and I was ready to get out of the car and walk into my home. Then I pulled into the driveway and I began to sob again. I turned off the car, put my arms on the top of the steering wheel, laid my head down and wept again. A couple minutes later, I’d righted myself again, or so I thought, and I walked through my front door.
Tears. Silent ones this time. Unrelenting. My love called to me, but I couldn’t answer. He came to the front hall and I began to sob again. He held me. We stood there as I sobbed, his arms and chest enveloping me. My safe harbour. I steadied myself again. “Tough day,” he said to me. But that’s the thing. It wasn’t. At least it didn’t feel that way at the time.
If these last years have taught me anything, it’s rarely the moments you think will knock you on your ass that do. It’ll be something like a stray Richard Marx lyric that’ll send you reeling.
