Grief is a Motherfucker
I lost someone once
I keep avoiding this. It hurts too much. More than that, I don’t think I could ever write anything that would do her justice. I wrote something to share at her funeral. I did the best I could at the time, but it still didn’t, couldn’t capture everything. As of today, it’s been four years since she transitioned. All this time and it still hurts as much as the day it happened and the five days leading up to it. I still miss her every single day. I think about her every day. Grief is a motherfucker. It changes shape and intensity, but it never goes away.
After she died, I could hear her still talking to me in my head. But with time, she began to fade. I knew it was inevitable, but I hated it just the same. I’ve been going through a lot over the past year. Every once in a while, her voice returns; just quick glimpses, and I realize she’s still around, watching over me.
I can’t bring myself to write about her. It hurts too much. I find other thoughts and activities to occupy my mind, trying to avoid the pain. I know that doesn’t work, that I must feel it, must move through it. But I’m afraid my grief is so immense that it will swallow me whole, that the wails will travel for miles and frighten those it reaches–most of all, those closest to me.
Sometimes reminders appear throughout my day, reminding me of her presence, laughter, and unwavering belief in me. Sometimes the thing that transports me back in time to when she was here catches me off guard. It stops me in my tracks and catches my breath. Sometimes I can’t breathe from trying to stifle the pain that so yearns to erupt from my chest.
I saw a woman that looked like her a few months ago. I stopped and stared at her like a lunatic. I couldn’t look away, didn’t want to look away. I knew it wasn’t her, but I wanted, pleaded, for just a moment to believe that she could still be here.
Of all the people I’ve lost in my life, this is the one that hurts the most. It could be because enough time hasn’t passed, but I don’t think so. There’s something so profound that I can’t quite pinpoint. Maybe it was love. Unconditional love. She loved me. She didn’t just use words but backed them up with consistent action. She showed up for me even when I didn’t expect it.
I think that part of why I avoid thinking about the grief is because I’m afraid of what she would think of me now. Right now. Some things have occurred over the past few years that I know have made her proud. But this past year, right now. The sick part of me tries to tell me that she’d be disappointed in me. And that is something that will break me. But another part of my brain reminds me that my illnesses lie. It tells me that maybe she is still proud of me. I am not okay, and I am admitting it, owning it. And, what’s more, I’m working on it. I’m doing the work, and I keep trying. Every fucking day. Even when I don’t want to try anymore. Even when I’d rather move on. I’m still trying. I’m still here.
The first time I ever admitted out loud that I wanted to be a writer was to her. She told me I should write. She encouraged me. Was it a coincidence that the first time I wrote something and shared it publicly was at her funeral? Probably not. And now I’m doing it every week. I’m trying.
Sometimes she still pops into my head and says, “You’re such a good Mom,” even when I feel like I am not, when I think I don’t deserve the beautiful beings I love more than anything. But I remember what she said, knowing she wouldn’t lie. She loves them, and they love her.
Sometimes she visits me in my dreams. It used to happen more often, but that’s faded over time too. She visited on November 8th, and I awoke and wrote this:
I lost someone once.
She was the first person to believe in me,
My 33 years on the planet.
She comes to me occasionally in my sleep,
Not enough for me.
Sometimes she’s there, and she knows she is gone,
Other times I know she is gone.
Last night she visited.
I was in the present, reviewing the memories of the past, things that hadn’t happened in real life but had occurred in another world.
She had painted some pictures,
Watercolors of nautical scenes,
Greens and blues of the sea.
At the center of the aquas and teals were lighter hues, white and yellow, indicating that the water was more shallow, less dark and dangerous than the ones in which I was presently swimming.
She told me to keep going, to swim toward the light.
It looked so small compared to the waters I was in, but she knew I could get there, would get there.
She told me to keep going,
Even after I wrote on the memory boards that I couldn’t continue without her, I didn’t want to.
“Keep swimming; you will reach the light,” she said, pointing to the lighter water.
“Hold your breath for a little longer.
You’re gonna make it, and it’s going to be so beautiful.”
A relief.
Joy.
As I sit here and write this, hot tears pour silently from my eyes and down my face. I feel as though I have an elephant sitting on my chest. I’m cold. My hands are trembling. I still resist the urge to yell, to cry out. I wish I had someone to hold me, the ugly, disheveled mess that I am, to tell me that it’s going to be all right. Someone who isn’t afraid of my pain and what it looks like and sounds like.
She sent me a cat a few years ago. But not just any cat, a black cat. She found this hilarious because if she was going to send me a cat (even though she wasn’t crazy about animals), it was sure as hell going to be a black one. He comforts me and always knows when I’m not doing well. He’ll stay close and make me love him, reminding me I am loved. Then, he’ll curl up in my lap, purring, and take a nap. She loved naps too.
A couple of years ago, she one-upped herself. She sent me a person. As it turned out, this person had also lost someone of incredible significance. We both came to the conclusion (separately, then shared) that our people had found each other in the next place and said, “We’ve gotta get these bitches together.” So, they did. And it has been the most beautiful and rewarding experience. I feel so lucky every day to know this person. I am honored that she is in my life and that I get to love her and that she loves me—a best friend for the ages.
That’s something we talked about a lot. Honor people while they’re alive. Tell them you love them. Show them you love them. “Give people their flowers while they’re still here.” We knew we loved each other because we said it, and our actions followed suit. We were “thick as thieves.”
This is what I’m able to write right now. Now, my body is tired, and my eyes are growing heavy.
Wanda Faye Stewart. My sister-mother-friend. I still love you. Thanks for sending help and still taking care of me.