Okay, so that’s a little dramatic, but I’ll be honest, this birthday hits a little different than all the others.
This birthday marks me becoming a different age than I was when my mom was still alive. I was 43 when my mom was still here, and now I’m 44.
I know that Time just keeps on marching forward, but it feels like I’m leaving her behind, which, I suppose, is exactly what I’m doing. Maybe that’s what we need to do, but it’s a helluva lot easier to say it than it is to do it.
Now, I don’t have a particular issue with getting older — in fact, I genuinely believe, now more than ever, that getting older is a privilege — but these days, I would sort of love the ability to travel back in time, or at least slow it down a little bit.
I’m going to be totally honest here: the last few months, and the last month, especially, have been rough. The funeral is over, the graveside service done, and the urn is buried very, very far away.
It is a bizarre thing to witness my mind and my heart play tug-of-war with the reality that is, versus the reality I wish was, instead. I’m a little bit in awe of the tenacity of both sides, though it’s not very fun to be the rope.
Most of the time, I understand and accept that my mom is gone, but every now and then, I feel a flurry of guilt-ridden panic, realizing that I haven’t called her in a while and she might feel neglected.
When they talk about the stages of grief, or grief coming in waves, they leave out the part that the stages and waves can all crash upon you in no particular order and sometimes all at once.
Grief is not polite. She does not wait her turn. We don’t talk about the rip tides of grief, the undertows, whirlpools and rogue waves that leave you drowning, interminably treading water, unable to find the bottom (though you feel like you must be at the bottom by now) to push your feet against in a last-ditch effort to find the surface.
I mean, it’s a real bummer when you’re feeling like you’re finally coming up for air, and then a host of pain and guilt that you are pretty sure you released months ago come barging in.
You will have great days, weeks, even, and then suddenly, you are not having a great day, or week. Everything that happens feels more, because you are feeling more.
Adding to the giant pile of everything, adding another year to my age, which, like I said, normally isn’t all that confronting (apart from my 25th birthday, when I felt very behind in My Life! and My Goals!, which is adorable to me now), I’ve been feeling a lot of anxiety and pressure to start a family. I’m sure my mom’s passing is adding to my desire to become an ancestor myself.
As my coach keeps reminding me, any grief brings up all grief, and I’m really sad that my mom didn’t get to be a grandmother, and I haven’t gotten to be a mother, yet, myself. Realizing that it’s somehow been nearly three years since my miscarriage (though I was certain I’d fall pregnant again much sooner) has had me acknowledging the grief and loss of what might have been, and what isn’t yet.
I am a fan of hope and dreams and magic. If you’re reading this, you probably already know this about me. I believe in you and me and us. It’s kind of my thing. I have faith in God, in Spirit and in the Universe.
And despite that, let me tell you, three years is a long time to continually and simultaneously try to hold onto hope and not get my hopes up, every single month after month.
I haven’t given up hope on the family front, but my hope reservoir is perilously low these days, so it’s sort of like running a marathon without eating for a couple of days before.
Some people have told me that they think I’m very brave to share my process. I promise that I’m not trying to be brave. Honestly, I don’t know how much brave I have in me these days.
The truth is, I don’t know how to do this differently, and I don’t think I should try. I know that healing in silence can be a damn lonely and perilous-feeling road, and while I know that only I alone can traverse some of my current path, there are other parts that require a village.
I’m always pretty honest about stuff, because a) it helps me to write it and share it, and b) I believe it helps others when I’m not one more coach painting turds with glitter and glossing over reality with toxic positivity.
Here are some grief-y things I’ve done lately that are not the glossy, “look-how-well-I’m-coping-with-loss” things I’d probably rather share:
– I’ve picked fights with Adam, trying to push him away, because unexpectedly, a small, very young part of me feels insecure and unsafe without my mother here earthside. She’s so afraid of being abandoned, she tries to force it so she won’t be taken by surprised when it happens.
– I have been anxious about my business, knowing that now is not the time to grow, but I’m also feeling afraid of my business slowing down and stalling out. It’s a tricky thing when you know you need to take space and time to heal, but taking that space kicks your anxiety into gear, wishing for a win to change the tide of feeling sad, alone, less-than, and invisible.
– Speaking of invisible, I feel like I’m less than I was. I feel half here, and half God-knows where else. I feel overlooked and quiet and unimportant, unimpactful.
– I’ve let my space at home become cluttered and messy. It’s never been easy for me to let go of stuff (the impacts of poverty and moving 22 times before I was 22 years old), but right now, I have a visceral, and I think, understandable resistance to letting go of things, which causes friction with Adam, who prefers a tidier space (honestly, me too).
– I’ve lost a lot of weight and secretly been happy about it (once a dancer, always a dancer), while also being concerned because I’ve lost a lot of strength and endurance. I can’t run anymore. I’m seeing my doctor about this, and am in the midst of tests to make sure there’s nothing else wrong. My grief counsellor is not surprised: our organs hold our emotions, and grief sits in the lungs.
I’m also doing a lot of things that I think are good and helpful: I’m making sure I’m taking lots of space to be with friends and family. I’m working on staying better connected to people, and saying yes to opportunities for fun. I’m baking up a storm. I’m getting outside as much as I can. I’m finding every opportunity to be in water and let water baptise this new version of me.
I’m playing with my beloved Grimby, and we’re getting him a puppy (how he will feel about this is yet to be determined). I’ve redesigned my brand and am launching a new website that I think is stunning, and me. I’m looking for good news and I’m remembering that many women have children in their forties, and all my tests were very, very positive.
I’m reminding myself that I am okay, even when I don’t feel okay. I am big enough for all of this.
I’m off to Vancouver to visit family and celebrate together. And my dearest ones have said all the right things, and made a big deal out of celebrating me, which feels nice.
So maybe it’s an okay birthday, and that includes feeling sad and happy at the same time. I always say that I think it’s important to be able to entertain more than one thought or feeling at a time. I’m just getting really good at it.
This poem by Mark Nepo is my constant companion these days:
“Everything is beautiful and I am so sad.”
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