Lately, I had been feeling...blah.
It was like everything had gone beige. Nothing seemed particularly exciting, and a lot of things felt pointless.
My Mom died April, 2010. She had what we thought was a lung infection, that she hadn't been able to shake for several months. Then she caught a nasty flu bug that my kids, husband and I had in February, and the fever that came with it never went away.
I won't go into detail about this again. I have written all the painful details HERE.
What I have come to realise is this: in this whole grief process, one expects to move through certain stages in a logical pattern. The sad part is, that most people around you will expect you to move on, to be strong. There is an unspoken time line for this to occur, but it is definitely there.
After a certain amount of time, crying becomes less acceptable; like you really only had the right to that luxury within the first few weeks after the death of that loved one. If you don't cry in front of anyone, people will marvel over how "strong" you are.
People will offer you many platitudes about your suffering. You will be urged to look on the bright side of the death of that person you loved so dearly. Your grief may even be overlooked to a certain extent; measured against other deaths in the world.
I had heard many times that the "death of a partner" is one of the most difficult deaths to deal with. But what about the fact that she was my MOTHER, and a very important person in my life besides that?
So, I had been moving along logically, like a good griever, through all of my stages. I could practically check them off with a pen.
That is, until reaching that one year later mark. So, I did some googling, as I am wont to do, and found two good articles on grief.
One is called "Grief, Healing and the One-to-Two Year Myth." by Karen Carney.
From the first article, I realised I'm not cuckoo. Hooray, how nice to know. Basically, after all that scrambling around during the first year to regroup and reorganise, what is left are feelings of profound sadness.
The other is "When your mother dies" by Rona Maynard:
"My mentors prepared me for the passage rite ahead. In my mother's deserted house, as I stuffed endless garbage bags with bric-a-brac that she had treasured and no one else would want, I knew other daughters had faced the same heart-piercing duty. I belonged to a sisterhood now—one every woman must eventually join unless her mother outlives her."
Hopefully these articles will bring someone else comfort as well, and if they do, well, that makes me happy.