Updated: Dec. 26, 2015
Originally Published: Aug. 9, 2015
When will the counting of days, weeks, and months since her passing come to an end?
I found myself at my daughter’s dance class, staring blankly, unaware of the teacher’s puzzled gaze as I occupied her usual spot. My mind drifted back to the moment I stood vigil in my mother’s hospice room, hoping she would finally release the earthly shell she inhabited for ten long days. I first grieved my mother when dementia claimed her mind, but the clock reminded me it had been exactly one week since she took her last breath—a moment when dementia snatched away her very essence.
Two weeks and four days later, we managed to coax my father into joining us for dinner, a much-anticipated pizza night—a favorite of ours. As we requested a table for five, the reality of only four of us struck me. “Martha would have loved that salad,” my dad remarked as I settled in. Reminders of her were pervasive, yet time continued its relentless march forward, indifferent to our sorrow and the hunger that brought us together.
One month and two days later, we gathered to celebrate my father’s 84th birthday, his first without Martha by his side for over six decades. Despite the somber ambiance at the Chinese buffet, children’s laughter punctuated the air, their joy a stark contrast to the grief that lingered in our hearts.
One month and nine days later, while attending a conference in Baltimore, I instinctively reached for my phone to call and share my day’s events with Mom. Instead, my father answered, and for a brief moment, I was taken aback. I quickly redirected my thoughts to tell him about the traffic and my rental car.
Two months and 12 days later, my daughter and I attended a birthday party filled with laughter and excitement. As the birthday girl made her wish with her grandparents by her side, my daughter leaned closer, wrapping her small arms around my neck, and whispered, “I miss Nana.”
Three months after losing my mother, I still find myself shedding tears at memories, smiling at old photographs, and missing her profoundly. Friends have grown accustomed to my “I’m fine” responses, feeling reassured by my facade. We finally completed the wheelchair ramp that would have supported my mother, now serving as a sturdy aid for my father, whose grief and physical frailty have become ever more apparent. His gait has slowed, his posture hunched, and his eyes reflect a deep sadness—an end to a 60-year love story he wasn’t ready to conclude.
Holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas now loom ahead, challenging us to mask our emotions while attempting to celebrate with family and friends. Some we will see for the first time since her passing, and those moments will inevitably bring the stark realization that our lives will never be the same.
When will I stop counting the days, weeks, and months since my mother’s death?
This article was originally published on Aug. 9, 2015.
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In summary, the journey of grief is a complex one, marked by moments of reflection, longing, and the challenge of moving forward. As time continues to pass, the memories linger, and the emotional weight can feel overwhelming.