I was gifted the book Dancing at the Pity Party: A Dead Mom Graphic Memoir by Tyler Feder, and I’m not sad about it. Yes, it’s a sad topic, but there is something cathartic about reading a colorful comic-style book about losing your mom. I don’t know if it’s about not feeling alone, or feeling validated in my own grief journey, or the fact that I need to actively seek ways to mourn as a busy mom. I almost need to make a date with grief because I’m either avoiding it, or I’m just busy, or I lack alone time to do it in the first place. Whatever the reason, I feel like there’s still work to be done. I know it’s important work that will catch up to me if I don’t make it a priority.
This year marks the 9th anniversary of her passing; I’ve lost some of the easily retrievable soundbites of her voice and laughter I used to play back in my mind on demand. Now that’s fucking sad. I remember trying to queue a phrase of hers in my mind, and it didn’t come. I brushed it off, giving myself some grace. I’m probably too overstimulated or tired to hear it. Fast forward to the next time I needed a go-to mom cackle to get me through, and I couldn’t retrieve it. Do I dare try to analyze why? Does it mean I’ve moved on? Or do I not need those nuggets anymore? Or does it simply mean it’s been almost a decade, and it makes sense that the memory isn’t as readily available anymore?
I am thankful that Jana not only came across this book but also thought of me. Losing someone you love is awful. The only silver lining I have found is being able to share and sit with someone else during their seasons of grief. Not because you know exactly how you feel, but because it’s the only way you can ‘pay it forward.’ Even though my mom died, I don’t know how to help everyone who lost their mom. Losing someone who was your person to cancer is different than losing someone unexpectedly. Or losing a mother that you were not close to. I feel the same way about losing my dad to cancer. Or losing my young cousin to a drug overdose. Loss is varied. Death is complicated.
Here’s what’s simple. Reach out to people who are grieving. That means anytime after a loss. A week. A month. Even years later! Even if they don’t appear to be mourning. They are. Maybe they have compartmentalized it. Maybe they are hiding it. Maybe it’s happening under the surface and heating up like molten lava, about ready to reach the surface. Find the way that makes sense to you and do something. Send a card. Send a text or a picture that reminded you of them or the person they lost. Venmo them for a coffee or treat. Drop off something thoughtful. Do the thing. If you’re worried it might be awkward or uncomfortable for you. Don’t. It’s not about you. If you’re worried it will make them uncomfortable. Don’t. They are in it. The discomfort and array of emotions. They know it well. In my experience, showing up messily is better than doing nothing at all.
This image brought me back to a memory I was afraid I had lost of the week my mom died. When I arrived to California from Michigan I walked into a hospital bed in the middle of the living room. A place where my mom had once crawled on the floor playing Allison as a toddler. The same place we unwrapped Christmas gifts. A safe place we had snuggled up under blankets, watching family classics.
My mom looked at me and said, “My firstborn is finally here. You’re here. You’re here front and center.” It was one of the last lucid sentiments she shared with me before she left this world. She kept repeating, “You’re here,” as she hugged my face with her hands. Then she noticed my 4-month pregnant belly and cried louder. She began to rub my belly, and we both cried. My sisters watched this heart-wrenching moment from the couch. They held each other and cried too.
I’ve shared my experience in many ways. In notebooks, journals, blogs, heart-to-heart conversations, and by showing up for people who have also lost those they love. There is something therapeutic about the shared experience, and something that always leaves me wanting more. I feel there’s something more I wish I could do to feel more healed. To heal others. To get more closure. Just more. Maybe it’s just wanting to keep that energy of the lost person’s memory alive and current. Letting my mom’s energy seep into my soul, and maybe even someone else’s. For healing, honoring the legacy of someone gone too early. Paying homage to my mom. My mama. The person I see so often staring back at me in the mirror these days…