The Evolution of My Grief

When Mom first passed away, many people told me that the first year will be the hardest. After living for almost two years since that awful day, what I know for sure is that I won't pass along this sentiment as words of wisdom to any future grievers. It's not necessarily because it's untrue; it's because it implies that A) grief shrinks and B) time is what shrinks it. Time alone isn't what shrinks grief, and in fact, I'd argue (along with many smart people who have studied grief) that grief doesn't shrink at all.

Each year has presented its own unique challenges. The first year following Mom's passing meant adapting to daily life without her, which was excruciating. We used to talk and text constantly, and we saw each other frequently, and then all of a sudden she was gone. The longing to speak with her was overwhelming, and I had to remind myself repeatedly that I couldn't. My brain seemed to process this realization in stages. In the first year, I had to accept that I couldn't talk to Mom now. In the second year, I had to accept that I couldn't talk to Mom ever again, which was even more heart-wrenching than earlier days of grief.

In that first year, I constantly felt anger towards the cancer that invaded my mom's body so relentlessly. Anger towards the backlogged medical system that repeatedly delayed her tests. Anger towards the doctors for not being able to help her. Anger towards the unfairness of not having Mom here to support me for the rest of my life. 

Nearly two years later, the longing for my mom hasn't gone away. I miss her daily, and I sometimes still plead with the universe to change her story so that she could still be here. The anger I have towards cancer and the injustice of it all remains.

The second year has brought about new feelings of anger. Just last week, I discovered that Mom's obituary has been removed from the funeral home's website. Additionally, Dad's health benefit coverage through Mom's workplace's "two year survival benefit" is set to expire this Friday, coinciding with Mom's two-year death anniversary. These milestones feel like reflections of society's perspective on grief. Grief is acknowledged in the first year, certainly. It's tolerated in the second year, sure, but beyond that... an unspoken expectation to move on.

If you were to ask me what has changed for me after nearly two years and a whole lot of grief work, I will tell you that it's the frequency of the intensely emotional moments and how I support myself through them. There are several grief analogies out there, but one that resonates deeply with me is the "grief jars" analogy, coined by grief counsellor Lois Tonkin. I appreciate its visual nature and what it signifies: "People tend to believe that grief shrinks over time, but what really happens is that we grow around our grief." To me, this means that I don't have to "get over" grief or anticipate its eventual disappearance. I've come to accept (and even value) that it will always be a part of me, but I've also learned that I will be OK. I can miss Mom, mourn her loss, AND continue living.

 

Another analogy that strongly resonates with me is that of a "grief backpack." It illustrates that grief doesn't vanish; it's like wearing a backpack that we can't take off. Sometimes it feels light, almost forgettable, but other times, it's as if someone has filled it with rocks, making it difficult to carry. Growing alongside our grief is symbolized by the strengthening of our muscles, making it easier to bear the weight of the backpack as we grow.

It's important for me to acknowledge that my "jar" has been getting bigger. I frequently miss my mom and the longing for her presence still brings tears to my eyes. But instead of getting stuck in intense sadness for hours or even days, I recognize and acknowledge my sadness. Then, I take a hot bath or shower, write down and process the thoughts (or share them with someone), and then continue on with my day and my life.

I am strong. I am resilient. I am growing.