525,600 minutes
How do you measure the first year without your mother?
The last several weeks, I haven’t felt like myself, and I’m aware that it’s because the anniversary of Shirley’s death is today. I find a particular cruelty of grief is I think of her much more often since her death than I did when she was alive. I suppose that’s classic taking-someone-for-granted behavior.
I can’t say I’ve learned anything particularly profound in this first year without her, other than: Despite the work I do, despite seeing people younger than me die every day, I thought she’d live forever — or at least well into her 80s. Her mother was, I think, 96 when she died. (To be fair, Shirley’s father died of a heart attack at 45, so I should be grateful she didn’t inherit a heart condition.) Or if not forever, I took for granted that she’d be around for many more years.
Often, when I have a health care professional — specifically a nurse or doctor — as a patient, we talk about the dangers of knowing too much: They know the myriad ways an illness can affect a person’s body and, often, how much suffering likely lies ahead.
For me, it’s more like my work means that I know all this stuff intellectually about grief but am experiencing it personally for the first time. (Other deaths I’ve experienced have been my grandmothers, beloved pets, Shirley’s best friend, a former coworker — but no one as significant as a parent.)
I did subconsciously think I should grieve differently (better? faster? nonsense!) because of all I know — even though I know there’s no one right way to grieve, I still thought I could do it right.
Have we talked about how logic isn’t part of grief? That’s important to remember. Logic has no place in grieving.
What does have a place is remembrance and talking about the person you miss. I’ve been talking about Shirley a lot lately — really, since her birthday at the end of April — and that makes me happy, or bittersweetly happy, at least.
She’d love to read Ron Chernow’s new Mark Twain biography, which I doubt I have the patience to read but would love to hear her give me highlights of. She’d love to see what I’m doing with Heartwood. She would plan a visit so she could see my beloved perform improv and meet our current hounds. She and I would shop and visit her friend who lives 45 minutes away. It’s baffling that we won’t get to spend time together again.
As long as I live, I will carry her in and with me in a million ways — seemingly more every day.
Sending love today and always, my beloved friend.