It comes in waves

I often have dreams of my childhood home. Random things and experiences but they happen under that roof. Or my grandparents’ house. I’d like to think it’s because there is so much history—so many memories tied to those homes that it’s a way for my family who has passed to say “hey, we’re with you.”

The ache for my mom has been deep lately. Like any loss, it ebbs and flows. Lately, it’s been flowing. I smell her sometimes randomly—it’s a rush of nostalgia to the nostrils and I feel enveloped in her arms. I miss our chats. Lately when I’m driving I find myself wanting to call her and chat. “Hey mama, headed home from work and thought I’d say hi” was a normal occurrence for us. Or an “I’m on my way up to see you, need anything?” Some days lately it’s hard to hold my shit together.

There is a guilt that comes from the relief you feel when a loved one no longer needs you. I miss being needed by her. It was also hard. Both of those things are real. That said, I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

I miss her voice. The songs she’d sing and the impressions she’d do. The way she’d do little dance moves with her pointer fingers. I am forever grateful for the laughter she brought me. She taught me to have fun. She taught me that humor gets us through. She taught me joy. Even when the chips were down, there was laughter. Even typing those words I can hear her singing “the sun will come out, tomorrow, so you better hang on ‘til tomorrow…” from Annie.

The ache for her and for my dad live in the same deep cavern of my stomach, just below my chest. It’s a hollowness. A burn. A dull ache. A gut punch. An emptiness. A longing. A tightening that shoots up right through my chest, stealing my breath when I remember she is gone.

This is real.

This is really real. She isn’t here anymore.

Grief is strange in that it feels like an alternate reality sometimes. You feel out of your own body because you are just trying to float on—float forward, hopefully. But it’s just that. It’s floating. It’s not feeling your feet under you for months or years. It’s tingling in your extremities. It’s a dream, but it’s not. It’s someone else’s life that you woke up in. Right? It has to be. This can’t be real.

But it is.

It’s real.

It’s really fucking real.

My parents are gone.

And slowly, somehow, your toes find the ground. Eventually the balls of your feet. You go from floating to gliding to walking again. Moving through this new reality you have found yourself in.

I went to a medium once who connected with my mom and told me my mom sits right on the side of my bed, so close to me, so excited to be near me. Sometimes that image is what carries me on days where I can’t walk. Sometimes the thought of her that close to me is what pumps air back into my lungs.

I have this deep sense of knowing that my mom and I have been connected in many different lifetimes. It’s why our bond is so deep. It’s why the ending of this life took air from my lungs. It’s also why I know her and I aren’t finished yet. We will have more adventures together in another place and time.

What gets you through these type of days?

xo