I am not usually one to commiserate things like loss. When something is done, it is done and I try to move forward. While I celebrate birthdays and wedding anniversaries, once you’ve past childhood, only major milestones are really celebrated, and at that, only with the smallest of fanfare. We had a small party for my 50th, but only immediate family came and it was essentially a mid-summer gathering because I felt like I should mark the occasion.

But it has been one month today since my Mom died. Four weeks, thirty days. And in so many ways, it feels like yesterday. It still feels raw and new and like no time has passed. The phone calls I received that night (from the various doctors) replay in my head like a broken record. Discussions we had with the surgeons the morning before loops endlessly in my head.

No matter how much I try to dismiss them, no matter how many times I have this inner argument with myself, I cannot make the voices stop. I haven’t been able to write in my journal about it. I can’t. I don’t want a record of it.

There was no wrongdoing, no wrong choices, no bad decisions. The complications were too great.

But it doesn’t stop the hurt. The tears. The anger I feel. It doesn’t stop her very sad cat, Merlin, from wandering around her house, crying, not knowing why she doesn’t come home. It doesn’t stop my sister from wanting to call her every night at 6 like she has done for the last 6 years. It doesn’t make me dread Christmas because come December 25, Mom won’t be sitting in my chair, chit-chatting with me as I cook our Christmas dinner. Knowing the rational reasons doesn’t stop any of the pain I feel or the complete disbelief I have that my Mom is gone.

Gone. And never coming back. Death never seemed quite so permanent until I lost my Mom. I keep trying to write about the other things I had planned (for this week) and I just cannot. Everything circles back to this. While it feels like I am stuck, I don’t think that I am. I feel I need to be here, deserve to be, want to be here. She was my Mom for 51 years. Saying goodbye has to be a process and while we are packing up her things, parting with her physical possessions, her essence, her being, will always remain with us. Wanting to sit in that, be in her space, be among her things just feels like where I need – where we need – to be a while longer yet.

So, I am giving myself permission to remain here, to take the time I need – and whether that is another 30 days or 90, I honour my need to miss her in my own way. Grief has no timeline¹. Everyone’s journey is unique.

1. I will ensure that, if the journey becomes too much, everyone has access to proper professional help. ↩︎