We don’t talk about dying or grief much at all in our society. That’s a shame, because it’s a complex topic that pretty much everyone has to deal with at some time. I thought I would share (with his permission) an email I sent to my oldest friend Paul Harrison recently after my mother’s health declined sharply. I thought it might help someone else struggling with these issues.
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PDH:
Several times since I’ve been home tonight, my brain has done this weird flop. I’m home, this is normal, my brain announces. And then it crowds in what is really happening. This is not normal. Mom is dying. This is as “not normal” as it gets.
It happened just now when I was jolted awake for some reason. For a second before my brain focused, it was just a normal night, and I would be going in to the office in the morning as usual. Then, nope. That’s not it at all, brain. Get with the program! This is a tragedy in the making, and you have a long way to go.
Then sometimes it feels like it flops over to the other side, and she’s already gone. There have been flashes of her real self over the last few days, but not that many, if I’m honest. The door is already open.
Maybe my brain is just trying to let me be anywhere else than where I am.
I think about all the times that I thought, without any real understanding, why don’t we let people express grief? Why must everyone be so stoic all the time? And I think about all the times over the last few days when I have been on the edge of melting down, and I have expended so much energy to just stuff it back in. No one’s telling me that – just the opposite. But I feel this intense compulsion to “keep it together.” And I’m incredibly embarrassed when I get emotional, especially in front of people. It feels shameful, like I’m doing her and everyone else a disservice. I know intellectually that’s wrong. But every fiber of myself says the opposite. I’m doing it as I write this.
I find I never really realized the extent of my connection to her. She is literally a part of me. That makes all of this so strange. At the same time, I rebel against that and I think, don’t make this about you. It’s about her, not you. All she’s gone through – the pain and loneliness and loss of so much that was so important to her. And now this is the “reward”? It’s so unfair.
I know there are many aspects of the last year or so that have, as you said, been so much better than many other people experience. That’s true. She has been surrounded by things and people she loves. She has had a fair measure of agency. And I have had the great good fortune to spend amazing time with her. But right now, in this moment, the pain can be absolutely overwhelming.
So I guess this is my way of trying to get some of this out of my head. You are my best friend in the world and what would I do without you? Which means, among other things, that you are the recipient of emails like this. Aren’t you lucky?
Love,
Adam.