A co-worker of mine lost their mother this weekend. Their eyes filled with tears as they shared with me this horribly sad occasion. “I lost my Mommy”, they said. A full grown person “lost their Mommy”. And you know what? These people that raise us from children? They will always, and forever, be our “Mommies and Daddies”. Always.
This co-worker and I have had our challenges: we often don’t see eye to eye and have had difficult words in the past. And yet? On this playing field? We are the same. I too “lost my Mommy” on 12/9/22 and I don’t know when, if ever, I will feel I’ve gotten beyond it.
These people that raise us from children? They will always, and forever, be our “Mommies and Daddies”. Always.
If we are amongst the lucky, with our parents we are always their children, their babies: innocent, untarnished and perfect. We have no other history with them, and everything we do is unquestionably brilliant. They are the only people who will listen eagerly to our every word, cherishing each syllable as though it was our first because they were actually there for our first words, our first steps, our first smiles, our first laughs. For them, all of that is cherished because they are our parents. With them, we need have no fears, because we are protected.
We believe when we lose them that we have lost all of that; No one will ever know us the way they did; No one will ever cherish us as they did. And we are right. No one else ever will… others will know us in different and also beautiful ways, but not in the same way.
So how do we move beyond this type of loss? We remember…
I’ll never forget how people used to say to me when my father died in 2018, “You will carry the memory of your father always in your heart.” “He will always be with you as he is a part of you.” All of those words seemed so trite and “bullshit” at the time. I wanted my “Daddy”, damn it! I didn’t want to “remember” him. I wanted HIM. Not the same.
But over time… it gradually does begin to make sense. (Trust me, I miss them both every day, all the time). It just hurts a little less.
So how do we move beyond this type of loss? We remember. We hold dear that which defines our relationships with these lost “gods”. Because what else are they to us as small children? They hold the power of life and death over us: their smiles mean happiness and their frowns that the world is over. A hug or a kiss, especially when we are small, feels like nothing could ever be more perfect: all is right with the world and we are eternally safe in those arms.
Simply put: it takes time. God how I hate that phrase! “Time heals all wounds”. Fuck you! Yeah, yeah, yeah whatever… but you know what? It’s actually true. Actually.
Carry that with you: know that you were, and are, loved. Always.
Because as you gain some distance from this passing, “this death”, you begin to see the ways in which you carry on their legacies: for good or evil! You will find yourself doing this or that just like Mom, or just like Dad. And in those moments, they are alive in you. They really are a part of you. But it takes some time and distance to be able to hug the parent inside of you as though it was them. It will be a while before you can be your own fan, honoring their cherishing of you from inside of yourself. You know that’s what they would’ve wanted you to hold in your heart. You know it.
So what do you do? You make it through today, and tomorrow, and the day after that, and the next one… and eventually, you hear them. You hear their voices in your heart’s ear. You feel their warm “embrace” from within you. And you know that you could never, ever be apart from them because they will never, ever be apart from you.
Will you stop missing them? No. You won’t. Ever. But you can carry their support and love and cherishing every day by caring for yourself the way you know they would’ve wanted to care for you, had they been able. Their pure spirits loved you beyond your comprehension. Were they able to demonstrate that to you in your every day lives? Probably not. They were flawed humans, not gods after all, just like the rest of us.
Our parents were flawed humans, not gods after all, just like the rest of us.
In life, they would never forget the first time they held your precious life in their hands, or counted your tiny toes, or looked into your impossibly perfect eyes and thought “I will care for this baby with all that I have. I will protect them with every fiber of my being.” Could they have kept that promise? Most likely not. But did they mean it? You can count on it. They did their best. Even the “worst” of them, at one point in their hearts, had the best of intentions.
Carry that with you: know that you were, and are, loved. Always.