Grieving the living

With most of the people I have lost, it has been long, drawn out processes—my grandparents got older, my parents each had diseases. As hard as these things could be to witness at times, it gave me time to be with them.

I remember the first time my therapist used the phrase “you are grieving someone who’s still here” when talking about my mom. It struck me as odd because I had only associated grief with people who were already gone. But it was so spot on.

I am forever grateful for the time I had with both of my parents, even in the hard, caretaker stuff. I realized, though, that in both of these losses, I have essentially had to grieve two different versions of each of my parents. On one hand, I was grieving the mom and dad I used to have. I was grieving my mom’s jokes and her ability to make up a dance move. I was grieving my dad’s stories and playing cards with him. On the other hand, after they both passed, I was also grieving the recent versions of each of them. I now miss how child-like my mom was at the end, how she’d need help cutting her nails or washing her hair. I miss driving my dad to appointments and him telling me I was a better driver than my mom anyway.

At times, seeing these different versions of each of them was one of the hardest parts. They were each a shell of who they were earlier in life. My dad was active, loved to stir up conversation and always loved to snack. At the end, he could barely eat, but he would still slip a joke in when he could. My mom was speedy, both in the way she walked and the way she talked. Her memory got worse toward the end, but let me tell you she could still remember any song lyric.

Whenever someone talks to me about their loved one being sick, I can sense this dual grief in them, too. It hits you sometimes like “wow, this is now my person, who they were is gone.” Whether it’s memory or physical abilities, you’re left looking at them with love but also with longing. Of course it’s not their fault, but that sadness is real. If you’re reading this and that resonates, I just want you to know I see you. It’s sucks. It really fucking hurts. So many times after leaving a visit with my mom I would feel this sense of being homesick. And now I know that I was missing who she used to be. It’s okay to miss them and who they were. It’s okay to be scared. Or mad. Or anything in between. We get to revel in the beauty of their transition. But it’s really hard. And it hurts.

If you’re in the middle of something like this, or you’re on the other side, be kind to yourself. Your grief deserves all the space it needs.