Becoming Mother

This time of year.

It used to be a time of beginnings.

The beginning of a school year.

The beginning of parenthood.

Maybe it still is.

But it’s also the beginning of a new phase of my life.

This phase has a lot of names right now, but in this moment, the name that most aptly fits is “A Life without Parents.”

***

I was walking to my car and I noticed how blue the sky was, how white and puffy the clouds were, the chittering and chirping of insects, the smell of the asphalt beneath my feet–and I was hit with a wave of Grief so strong my knees shook.

It was the smell of the asphalt that set off the shockwave.

It made me remember those last days at the hospital, leaving my car, walking across the asphalt that stung my nostrils. I would hold Henry’s hand as Felicity walked ahead of us, affix masks to their faces into the hospital lobby, walk through the atrium where the custodian always said hi to the kids. Turn the corner, pass the statues of nuns, who presumably once upon a time took care of sick people. Then, down the hall and then a left to the elevator. A bing…bing. Fifth floor. The smell of antiseptic and the squeak of those plastic hospital Crocs that everyone who worked there seemed to wear.

What do I tell you after this?

Do I tell you that I could hardly recognize her? That I fed her a strawberry and she struggled to chew it? That I did so without crying, there in that moment? How did I do that? I detached. It was a moment that I needed to do something, not feel something. So I did. I didn’t feel. Maybe I knew that I had all the time in the world to feel later.

There’s a lot I remember. Like, a lot. I am not one of those people who experiences something traumatic and has the ability to purge all the details to drain the pain. I am one of those people for whom trauma settles into the deep grooves of my brain and rewires the nerves.

I remember that her face lost its tone. She couldn’t keep her mouth closed, so her jaw hung open. Her lips became chapped quickly from her labored breathing that only got faster and faster as she raced toward her end. I remember feeling the heat of fever in her hands as I held them, her fingers swollen.

I remember wanting to rip the cervical collar from around her neck–because who were we kidding? It was meant for healing, and healing was not what was happening. I wanted her to be as unencumbered as possible. No more arm brace. No more masks.

I wanted to take her out of the room, away from the monitors and into the sunshine, to let her skin feel it just one more time. I remember pressing my face to her arm and sobbing so hard my body shook the bed. My throat constricted so tightly I had to gasp for air. Speaking words was impossible so I pulled her arm to my chest and said all I could say through my tears. I let my tears cover her hands. I didn’t care who saw me.

This is what it feels like to love someone who is dying.

Wild. Helpless. Desperate. Destroyed.

As if someone has set you on fire and you are left to figure out how to either put out the flames or learn how to survive the burn.

It’s either absolute Denial or overwhelming Anguish. There isn’t room for modulation here.

This is the reckoning of Death. This isn’t grief yet. That comes later.

I want to write something like, May you never have to hold the hand of someone you love as they die.

At the same time, I want to strikethrough those words and insist, No. May everyone be blessed with the extraordinary Anguish of Loving someone who is dying.

To feel that extraordinary range of Love come full circle. For her to be present at my birth and for me to be present at her death. To bring the end all the way back to the beginning.

May we all be so fortunate as to know such Anguish.

May we all face a moment that leaves us forever changed. That forever grounds our daily lives with the perspective of what is Important. And what is not. What will never be forgotten. And what will.

I’m coming to terms with the fact that my life as an adult is forever going to be very different from my peers, most of whom still have their parents in their lives. Many of whom are still married to the parent of their children.

But I want to do more than come to terms with it.

I’d like to find my gratitude that my life will be different from this point going forward. That this path before me now–half given to me and half chosen by me–is replete with moments when I can fall into fits of jealousy and anger and pain and resentment.

But it is also full of opportunities for me to experience a range of love and gratitude that I wouldn’t have experienced without the hardship of this past year.

***

What I feel I need is a blessing, the way Jesus blessed those in the Sermon on the Mount. Only the blessing I would need would go something like this:

Bless those who face a hard moment that rips their lives into Before and After. That leaves holes in holidays and birthdays left uncelebrated. May their grief grant them the ability to hold space for the ones they lost in the times when their absence is felt the most.

Bless those who feel jealousy at the sight of old age, who covet the hugs of grandparents to their grandchildren. May they find joy in the happiness of others after the reflexive pain of their own loss.

Bless those who raise children in the absence of the wisdom and compassion of their own parents. May they build new support systems to hold them when they fall.

Bless those who face adulthood wondering if the clock is ticking down for them, faster than it is for everyone else. May they cherish the passing of days more than they mourn them.

Bless those families who are crawling out of the wreckage of a marriage on fire, who seek to build a new life with others. May they continue to grow in new soil.

Bless the therapists who ask the right questions, who provide perspective, who hold space for all the feelings. May they also be cared for by others.

Bless those who start over when it seems like everyone else is halfway There. May they realize that There doesn’t exist. There is only Here.

Thank you, God, for the Hard Moments.

Thank you for the Pain.

Thank you for this Life.

I will build something new.

Amen.