The Grey Blanket

Just over four weeks ago, my mother passed away at the age of 91. There is no age when it's not too soon to lose a mother, not even at 91 years and a full life. Despite her Alzheimer's disease, and whether she knew my relationship to her or not on a given day, she always lit up when I walked into the room, always loved me. Okay, maybe she didn't love me the one time she yelled at me in the hospital to "get out," but that was my "Alzheimer's mom," not my real mom.

In real life, grief doesn't work like it does in the textbooks. Forget Kubler-Ross's stages. I haven't been in denial or angry or bargaining. Just very, very sad. Overwhelmed at times by the magnitude of the loss. The best I can describe it is to say that it's a heavy grey woolen blanket that weighs down my worldview and my spirit. Sometimes it lifts and sometimes it's just there, like a fog around me. I can function to take care of the must-do's in life, but my "joyful woman" spirit isn't functioning very well right now.

At one point while I was driving over to see my dad a week ago, the immensity of the loss overcame me and I nearly blacked out as I was driving the freeway, sobbing. The closing in of the darkness from the outsides of my vision, along with some dizziness, scared me so badly that I will not let myself cry while driving anymore. I didn't know that grief could crush a sturdy woman like me to that extent; I've never in my life been close to blacking out from anything at all.

So that's how life is.