It's hard to describe to people how it feels to blindly grieve, knowing something is coming, and not knowing what that thing is that will justify your grief. There have been a few times in my life where my heart suddenly and heavily began to grieve a loss that I hadn't lost yet. I wrote recently that my mother was hospitalized. She was not doing well, and what I understand was happening with her was the increase in fear of dying with regrets. I understood her mindset at the time. It was strong, scary, and something she could not control. She was trying to make sense of her life choices, given her current limited options, in an attempt to reconcile a broken family. I get it. Maybe she thought she didn't have much time left and was panicking. Some people will live a lifetime not knowing how to be honest with themselves and afraid to be honest with others. I know she hoped that one day, magically, our family will fuse together and be what she hoped we would be; what we once was.
While she was in the hospital, I sat on my deck during a morning medication and sorrow landing deep in my soul. I began to weep, heavily with deep sorrow. My soul was preparing me for something that I simply could never really prepare for. I didn't know why I was mourning but I knew the weeping was a heavy grief for someone. For a moment, I tried to reconcile that I was grieving the impending loss of my mother but I didn't quite believe that. I just knew it was a loss.
I called my mother in the hospital on a Friday and she seemed more lucid with more energy. She sounded good. Laughing and clear thinking let me know she would be okay. I told her I loved her. She paused. I don't tell her I love her. Neither does she. She was released the next day. Since I'm in GA, I was hundreds of miles away while she went through this. She asked me to come take care of her. This is a complicated request. I told her I would see what I could do. As I felt a bit of relief at her healing, my heart was not yet settled.
The same day my mother was released from the hospital, 100 miles from her, in Richmond, VA, her sister Bertha became ill. The following Monday, she was admitted to the hospital. I didn't find out until that Thursday, when my cousin called to tell me she was debating having surgery. My aunt didn't want to have surgery, but the doctors and my cousins convinced her to go through with it. It was a hard situation because without the surgery, she was certain not to recover. With the surgery, there was a chance she would. She had the surgery. She was too weak. After the surgery, she was still so out of it that she could not communicate well; just quiet words that seemed random but I'm sure were not. My cousins called me and my sister and told us that the doctors said she was not doing well and she was not getting better. My sister and I told them we would drive up the next day. I really wish we'd left immediately.
The following day, my sister and I hit the road from GA to VA, racing against a clock we couldn't see. My cousin called and told us they were going to remove her from the ventilator later that day. She kept texting us, "How far away are you???" We were too far away. We were about 90 minutes away, maybe less, when I received a message that my Auntie Bertha was gone. We didn't make it. I didn't make it. We drove in silence. I tried to be strong because I didn't want to break down while my sister was driving. After all, there was nothing we could do, and I needed my sister to be calm while she drove. Tears fall without your permission. Slow mournful streams fell, and all I could do was let them.
When we finally arrived at the MVC Hospital in Richmond, we met my cousin at the elevator, and I just hugged her. What else could I do but hold a woman who just lost her second parent and the most important person in her life? As we walked down the hall to her room, I saw two of my male cousins standing outside her room, both of whom had lost their mothers in recent years. Embracing them was not just saying "Hello", and we are grieving a beautiful woman who passed today. The embrace was an acknowledgment of the impact of losing a mother, something I could only sympathize with but not sharing in what that truly means. When I walked into my aunt's room, one of my sisters and my other cousin, Bertha's other daughter, was inside. My cousin stood next to her mother, stroking her arm. She looked like she was sleeping. Her silver hair was pulled into a loose ponytail. It felt like she would wake up and sing my name the way she always did when she saw me. "Taaaaaaaaaraaaaa." She was a second mom. She cared about me. She asked about me. She only spoke sweetly to me. Her laughter echoes in me. Mother and Daughter relationships can be complicated, but there is something about the Auntie and Niece relationship that is unique and sometimes more grounding than any other relationship.
I grieved her before losing her. I miss her.
My sister and I stayed long enough for everyone to leave the hospital and go our separate ways for a while. We continued on to MD to see my parents for a few days. My mother wasn't doing well. She lost her little sister. Of 8 children, my mother and her two sisters are the only ones left. Of my dad's siblings, he is the only one left. I have both my parents and a broken family. My cousins don't have either parent and must be unified to get through this. What some people don't understand is that they have time and they don't have time. Nothing is guaranteed, especially more time. I have reconciled within my own heart that my family will never be whole again, but I understand that it never will be if there isn't a willingness to a transparent reconciliation. My aunt knew we were broken, and one of the only things she wanted for us was to heal. I don't know if that will ever happen, and that, alone, is something to grieve. I grieve it every single day.
