Margaritas and Memories

Last week Mike lost his beloved 88-year old grandma, known to friends and family as G. It's been an especially hard loss for him as she was the mother figure in his life. Losing someone you love, especially someone who represents comfort, safety and security in your world, is devastating. Even though I feel like a seasoned veteran when it comes to loss and grief, I've felt more than a little helpless and at a loss as to how to help him navigate the painful journey ahead. 

G and Mike having a margarita on her birthday.

I've tried to help by taking care of the practical things, the many tasks that follow a death. It's all reminded me of the business side of death, the bureaucracy and paperwork that follows, all of it necessary and none of it anything someone deep in the process of mourning wants to, or is even really capable of dealing with. When my sister died I remember wanting time. Time to cry and be sad, time to come to terms with the awfulness, but it seemed there were so many decisions that had to be made so quickly. It's that way after all deaths. Before anyone has barely had time to wrap their mind around the reality of their loss, they're expected to focus on myriad mundane details. It all seems a little wrong and insensitive to me.

One decision Mike didn't have to make was which mortuary to call. That alone can be a difficult choice, especially having to decide at an extremely emotional time. G had long ago made the decision to donate her body to the University of Utah's Department of Neurobiology and Anatomy body donor program. I wasn't sure what to expect of the process, but everything was handled smoothly, efficiently and with kindness and sensitivity for the family. A day after her death, Mike received a thank-you from the University along with a pine tree sapling to plant in G's memory. Every year on the Friday before Memorial Day they hold a memorial service honoring donors and thanking the families for their gift. All in all, I was impressed with their level of care and respect. 

Sunday, a wake was held to honor G. Friends and family gathered and shared a margarita toast in her memory. She loved margaritas, so it was a very appropriate gesture. Now come the other tasks, stopping automatic deposits and payments, closing accounts, settling the estate, cleaning out her home. None of it is easy. Dismantling the details and belongings of some one's life, cleaning out a place that was home--the place were cookies and hugs were given and so many memories made--is excruciating. The urge to keep nearly everything is strong. So many things are tangible reminders of moments. Letting them go takes time. It's something I found was best done in stages, erring on the side of caution. Later, after the loss isn't so fresh it's easier to let some things go. 

Mike and I have already been through so much in our three short years together. We've seen each other at our worst, during some of life's most challenging moments. Sometimes it seems like we've both aged 20 years over the last three. Surviving Julie's death, Mike   fostering Isaac and pushing so hard for him to get legal residency, job changes, financial challenges, and most recently, overseeing G's need for 24/7 care for the last seven months have been a crazy roller coaster ride. 

Facetime with G earlier this year

One thing I've learned for sure over the last three year is that Mike has really strong shoulders! He juggles more than is really humanly possible. Shortly after I met him, I met G. Mike was taking her on errands and he carried her purse for her on one arm, supporting her with his other. People say to pay very close attention to how a man treats his mother, as it's an indicator of how he'll treat you. In Mike's case, his mother was G, and I paid attention. He loved her unconditionally, cared for her, treated her like gold. Over the last several months I've watched him carry her down her stairs in what turned out to be the last time she left her house, lift her in and out of cars and into her wheelchair, make her laugh, fight for her getting the proper level of dignity and care from her medical providers, and quietly weep from the pain of slowly losing her. I knew that very first time I saw him with a purse on one arm and his little gray-haired grandma on his other that he was a keeper. He still is. 

Grieving In Front of the World

I haven’t watched the video of Junior Seau’s mother crying, lamenting the loss of her son shortly after learning of his suicide.  I don’t need to.  Just seeing the still image of her face in a news story was too much for me to bear.  It hits too close to home.  Simply glancing at her picture stirred up memories for me that I try not to think about.  It obviously unsettled my mind, because last night I dreamt of his mother crying, wailing, and grieving for her son.  In my dream I tried to comfort her.  Somehow I wanted her to know I understand what she’s feeling. 

I know that kind of psychic, gut-wrenching pain, the animalistic wailing that doesn’t seem like it’s coming from your own body, the feeling  of having a piece of your very soul forcefully ripped from your body.  There weren’t cameras around to document the moment the bottom dropped out of my world.  Not that there needed to be, because I can replay that moment in my mind like it’s a movie, as if I’m watching someone other than me experience it.  It really did feel like an out-of-body experience.  I know what it feels like to temporarily lose your mind with grief. 

It was a beautiful, sunny Saturday in May.  I was walking out of the grocery store where I’d just stocked up on essentials for the Memorial Day weekend.  I was sitting alone inside my car when Jason found my sister and confirmed to me what I most feared.  I’m sure my screaming and wailing could be heard outside my car.  I’ve always wondered why nobody stopped to make sure I was okay. Certainly I looked and sounded like a crazed, raving lunatic.  I remember hanging up the phone and numbly watching people walk into the grocery store, amazed that life’s mundane tasks continued for others, when my world as I knew it was collapsing. 

Then I called my dad.  I didn’t even try to break the news gently.  I blurted the words out.  Even though he was clear across the country in Minnesota, his screams sounded like he was right next to me.  I felt his pain through the phone.  Having to tell my dad that his daughter was dead isn’t something I’ll ever get over.  It’s why I don’t need to hear Junior Seau’s mom to know exactly what her grief sounds and feels like.  George Schroeder, a writer for the Register-Guard captured the feeling well in this thoughtful column published today, as he talked about Luisa Seau crying out “I don’t understand.  I don’t know anything.”  Sadly,  she now joins the legions of other suicide survivors in this country left wondering, trying to understand, seeking an answer to the unanswerable question of why.