A colleague of mine's mother died this summer, suddenly and unexpectedly. As he’s an only child and his father is already dead, he had to go back to Texas to morn, bury his mother, and take care of the estate. I talked with him about it when he got back to San Diego. He told me, “I don’t know what I did for the past two months; it’s all a blur.” I responded, “You did what you had to do—you survived your initial grief. That’s all that you were supposed to do.”
Even three years now after the tragic death of Allison’s mother, there are some days where the best we can hope to do is survive our grief. The year is full of too many days like this: May 31, the anniversary of the accident; Mother’s day; July 1, the date she died; July 5, the date of the funeral; Thanksgiving; Christmas; birthdays. Today is one of those days. Mom’s birthday is today, September 1—exactly two months after the day she died. Today, we will try to simply survive our grief.
I have a quotation on the door of my office from a beautiful and moving book by Nick Wolterstorff, Lament for a Son. In this book, Wolterstorff describes the tragic death of his son and how he and his family survived their grief. He says that the death of his son has forever divided his life into two separate parts. The first half, when joy could be consuming; when life could seem right and whole; when geography was all that separated.
This was all before. I now life after, after the death of our son, Eric. My life has been divided into before and after.
We, too, now life in the after. After, when even moments of joy are tinged with the sadness that the joy cannot be shared with Mom. After, when Christmas will never be the same. After, when the sight of a stranger wearing white Keds in the mall can bring us both to tears. After, when my side of the family is unfairly forced to live in the after with us. After. Forever after.
As I write, I’m listening to a song by the Streets, “Never Went to Church.” It’s a song written about the death of his father:
Sometimes I think so hard I can't remember how your face looked,
Started reading about dreams in your favourite book.
Panic and pace when I can't see the right thing to do.
You'd be scratching your head through the best advice you knew.
And I feel sad I can't hear you reciting it through,
I miss you dad but I've got nothing to remind me of you.
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I guess than you did leave me something to remind me of you,
Every time I interrupt someone like you used to,
When I do something like you you'll be on my mind or through,
'Cause I forgot you left me behind to remind me of you.
During this after, at least I have Al to remind me of Mom. Sometime she gives me the same look of exasperation that Mom used to. But she also is fiercely proud of me, just like Mom. She is my constant reminder of Mom here in the after.
Happy birthday, Mom.
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