I miss her
JULY 01, 2014
The unexpected moments of grief are the hardest. Their surprise and force weigh heavily and leave me reeling. There I was, standing in front of the strawberry display at Costco fighting tears. My mom and I always shared fruit during the summer. I couldn’t get through it all before spoiling, so we would divide and conquer. It was one of those small moments that I hadn’t even known would affect me, but there it was standing in front of me in the shape of small red fruit. I walked away without anything in my cart, needing to put some distance between reality and the ache that always follows.
For the past few years, I’ve spent a lot of time with my mom. I thought I was doing her a favor, making sure she had company and the chance to get out and do the things she wanted. We’d watch movies and TV shows during the week. We’d get out early Saturday mornings and do our errands together. I loved shopping with her. We’d find a bunch of clothes and go into one of the large dressing rooms to try everything on. I’d try and convince her to buy something different than her usual apparel. She’d help me figure out what I did and didn’t need. We spent a lot of time out and about together.
Once she got too sick to go inside the stores, I’d drive her around. Then, she got too weak to go out at all, so I’d spend time walking up and down aisles at the store trying to find anything to make her feel better. I’d look for food she may eat, spa day supplies to distract her, and anything else that might make her more comfortable or make her smile. Now when I’m out shopping I often see something I know she would love. I reach for it and then stop. Those habits are hard to break.
There are dozens of moments every day when I think of her. I feel lucky that she was so infused in my life that there are endless triggers to remind me of her. The dive into those memories is divided for me: Sweet because I love thinking of her. Bitter because I feel so sad that she is gone. I just miss her so much. I look around at people I pass on the streets and in stores. I wonder what type of pain
they are enduring. I try and be aware of others who are grieving or are full of sorrow...people just trying to make it.
Two days before she passed, I began to realize that all those years hadn’t been me helping my mom as much as she was helping me. She had comforted me and extended her constant calm and unyielding faith to me...stringing us together in true friendship. I remember taking her hand and whispering how much I would miss her, my best friend. She smiled even though she was so tired. I needed her
to know how much she meant to me and words didn’t seem like enough. I had to trust that my actions over the the years were the boldest declaration of my love, and I was infinitely grateful to have those trips to the store and late-night laughs.
At the end, all I could do was hold her hand, kiss her forehead, and be there for her. It was enough.