Turning Pain and Tragedy Into Healing
My intended topic today was “wasting time”–the question of whether or not we truly waste time when we take a few steps back or get stuck somewhere for a while.
But, as I’ve mentioned, until this week I was iterating my business plan in a different, more practical direction, so I’m kinda flying by the seat of my pants here. I didn’t plan this part yet.
As soon as I saw the My 500 Words Challenge prompt for day 5 the creative muse flew off in another direction entirely.
It said: “Tell us about a day you will never forget.”
April 11, 2013.
The day my sister and I had the privilege of supporting our Sweet Mama as she let go of this life.
Mama’s health had been declining slowly for a couple of years, and the decline rapidly picked up pace at the end of February.
We made the decision to bring her home on hospice at the end of March, so early that morning when I learned from the overnight nurse Mama had been agitated, spiked a fever, and had vital signs out of control, my sister and I were quickly at her side.
It happened rather abruptly; although she was on hospice, it was everyone’s expectation that she would linger a long time. We were both with her by 7:30 and she was gone at 9:37.
When we had been making our plans to bring her home, I advocated for a couple of things.
The first was, as morbid as it sounds, we get her funeral arrangements made ahead of time. I believe it’s the wise thing to do, when you can, because it means you can focus on your grief not details.
The second was that we keep Mama with us for a little while after her passing and prepare her for burial ourselves.
We were blessed with a wonderful hospice team and funeral director. They honored our process in every way.
After the first shock of how fast it all happened settled a bit, we bathed her, anointed her body with Frankincense and other oils, and dressed her again in her pretty bold purple satin pj’s. And, I was compelled to put her socks on, because Mama ALWAYS wore her socks.
About halfway through this process, I felt my mother’s spirit moving out of her body, and clearly sensed her above me, looking down over my shoulder and watching us lovingly care for the body that birthed us.
Because our funeral home contact, Steve, is simply amazing, he allowed me to help load Mama onto the gurney for transport, and let me be the one to zip up the bag when I was ready.
I’ll tell you: zipping that bag over my Mama’s beloved face was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done.
Even though this is about a DAY I’ll never forget, it’s really about a series of days, so allow me some creative license here, please.
Our Mama was raised Catholic, and her parochial school education was a source of pride for her. Even though she wasn’t a practicing Catholic in her adult life, we felt it was right to end her life with Catholic rites.
To that end, we decided against having a public “viewing” at the funeral home, but the wonderful Steve set up a private time for just my sister and I to spend some last quiet time with Mama after they had her readied.
Then, we had her funeral on April 16th.
My sister and I weren’t raised Catholic, so navigating the liturgy was a little complicated.
We were supposed to jointly speak during the service. I ended up standing mute while she carried me through. It wasn’t my grief that stopped me; it was the tight parameters we were given about what we could and couldn’t say, and it all went against my truth, my experience, my reality of my mother.
The most real part of the funeral experience for me was when we followed the casket out and it was loaded into the hearse. My son was the one who carried me through that part.
Mama went back to the funeral home. We live in Maine so an April burial is out of the question. But I was dead set against her being embalmed, so Steve offered us options, one of which was taking her back out of her casket and storing her body until we could have a burial service.
I know for a lot of people that is an awful thought. But for me, it was comforting to know her lifeblood wouldn’t be replaced by toxic chemicals, and that she would be under Steve’s watchful care in the meantime.
That meant, of course, we had to open up the grief wounds again a month later when they were just forming their first tenuous webs.
We buried Mama on Mother’s Day weekend, on May 11th.
I DREADED the day, far and above how I had felt about the funeral.
Why? For as long as I can remember, whenever the fear of my mother dying popped into my head it was accompanied by the image of a casket sitting over an open grave.
Now my nightmare was coming true.
I wasn’t even out of the car before my knees were buckling. It didn’t even occur to me to not make a spectacle of myself: I was on my knees laying over Mama’s coffin in a heartbeat.
And my sisters and children surrounded me and just held on.
We got through the service, and again, Steve knew just what to do. He allowed me to stay until the bitter end, first letting me operate the lever that lowered the casket into the ground, then waiting while I hand-shoveled the first bits of dirt in. And, he let me sit there while the cemetery workers finished their job.
I know all of this has been a graphic account of my mother’s death. And I’ll be honest and tell you I’m crying my eyes out writing it…and I know my sister is crying her’s out reading it…but this is the point.
In our culture, we’ve lost the wonderful traditions that allow us to grieve and heal. The lovely Jewish method of sitting Shiva is such a therapeutic process. So many other cultures handle death and grieving with much more grace.
We’ve been indoctrinated to believe we are supposed to suppress and repress our feelings, and this is so incredibly toxic.
I love the Miranda Lambert song, Mama’s Broken Heart. It’s about a breakup, not death, but that’s grief of it’s own kind.
And, the satirical nature of the song,”gotta keep it together, even when you fall apart,” so aptly illustrates the foolishness of trying to suppress our grief and pain and trauma.
I’m listening to it now, because it’s making me smile despite my tears.
And, because my Mama was a lady through-and-through, and all of the advice in Miranda’s song is EXACTLY what Mama would have said.
But, our Mama went to her grave carrying all her pain–and she had a great deal.
And, my sister was already carrying a tremendous pain burden when Mama died. That’s her story and I won’t tell it here, except to say I didn’t only advocate for doing the grieving process the way we did for my own sake: I did it for her’s, too.
Her previous loss was sudden and tragic, and she didn’t get the option of doing some of these things. So, grieving Mama in a healing way began to heal many things…for both of us.
My advice?
Give yourself permission to grieve–anything and everything you need to–and let the healing begin.
It’s way past time for a cultural change: we need to grieve, we need to heal, and we need to express our emotions in a healthy way. Part of my passion is advocating for deep, abiding healing for women and a redefinition of the cultural paradigm of female community.
Getting it out into the world started when I finally let myself grieve.
For now, what do you think about how we grieve and what needs to change? Let me know in the comments below.
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