My mother, Helen Anderson, died from a rare form of cancer (of the gallbladder) seven years ago. I still can’t quite believe it, but “it” is real: she is gone.
Over the years, I have come to different types of terms about her death. I think of grief as a changing, yearly, renewable contract. Some years are heavy, with frequent moments dipped in pain. Others are less heavy in sadness; instead, you feel white-hot anger. Angry at yourself for not capturing more of our time together; angry at not having you to turn to; angry at the random unfairness of it all. The first year’s contract was — as they say1 — about denial and immense sadness. The next few years are…less clear. Hazy. I can’t remember the years 2017-2019 because I was very much on autopilot. As I wrote in a previous blog:
Everything feels kind of hazy and grey; I am living, but I feel like as though my soul has gone and my body is empty. It feels like I am a Sim. Someone is playing me in the game — I'm eating and drinking and have autonomy, but it is not a real existence.
I get through most days okay.
On the surface I seem fine. I am coping — but it is the quiet, unassuming and random moments when I remember, and then I fall apart. I had just eaten for example, when I suddenly remembered your last week in the hospital. Suddenly, it feels like I am being strangled. It is difficult to breathe; I'm transfixed while being tortured by my brain. Images of you during that last week flash by, my vision becoming a kaleidoscope of painful memories.
I am never sure what the contractual obligations of grief have in store for me until the end of the year. At this time, I reflect on the months that passed and find I can quickly pinpoint what I signed up for.
This year was loss. I am, and have been at a loss this year. As I move closer to my mid-thirties, I feel overwhelmed with transition and choices. Who am I? Who do I want to be? How can I move closer to this in the next decade? Big questions, for sure. Ones that are squarely in my lap and no one else’s. I wish I could speak to you about it all. And so, I am at a loss. I feel less. Less secure. You were how I grounded myself.
One way I distil what grief feels like is through writing. Here is a poem I wrote and performed this summer about being mother-less.