Grief: An Unexpected New Beginning

Grief: An Unexpected New Beginning

Last week was a hard grief week. It marked the one-year anniversary of Mom breaking her arm and moving to an assisted living facility.

The day she moved, we got her settled by mid-afternoon, where she enjoyed ginger ale and an egg salad sandwich at the facility’s daily afternoon social. I documented the day with photos, like a proud parent whose child is at their first day of school.

Fred and I enjoyed a slow dinner with her; she marveled over the desserts—her favorite course.

That night, we returned to her condo to pick up the last of her things she’d need immediately. I stood at entrance and cried. The room was not warmly lit, as it had been all those years when we’d watch TV and chat during my sleepovers. All that made the space hers had evaporated.

My brother and I reflected on the move-in when we spoke on the phone last week.

“It was supposed be a new beginning for her,” I said.

“It was,” he offered, “It was the start of her new beginning.”

Last January, I knew she would not likely live to see 2018, but I’d hoped a change of environment would prove me wrong. I wanted her to embrace assisted living as a fresh start: new friends, activities, community, and excitement. Instead, the change twisted her into a withdrawn and tired state.

Grief is triggered by a remembrance of these kinds of days. It’s not necessarily the loved one’s birthdays or anniversaries, but the seemingly plain dates that plot our lives in one direction or another.

Writing Born Dying mid-grief means that I am forced to confront this kind of loss calendar. There’s no hiding—even in the days and weeks when I feel paralyzed. Yes, grief is fluid—some days are lighter than others—but diving into those red-circled days helps me wrestle with the reality of deep loss. In turn, I hope my wrestling can be meaningful and useful for others.

I meet with a hospice grief counselor every two weeks. She and the book-writing keep me on target. On my toughest days, I hug Mom’s ocean sunset cremation scatter box tightly and tell her everything I’m feeling. It’s ridiculous, but healing. That’s the thing about grief: even the most absurd of rituals is comforting—because each journey is unique.

“You got your new beginning,” I tell her as I hold the scatter box. “It’s just different from what I expected.”

4 thoughts on “Grief: An Unexpected New Beginning”

    • Ruthie:

      Thanks for your sweet words and this memory. I love this “ritual” of the Superbowl and puzzle. Thanks for sharing. These are precisely the kinds of things that bring us comfort in our grief.


  • I have grieved for my mom and am now at the time where I must prepare to down size, make some major changes. It’s been 15+ months since my husband of 66 years passed and a year since a dear friend became someone special forr me, however at 86 and 87 we must be practible and think and plan for what comes next….it is hard!

    • Shirley:

      Thanks so much for reading and sharing this. Prayers abound for you in this time of grief for your husband and always for your mother. I’m grateful you’ve found someone special to share life with–whatever changes happen next.

      Love, light, and peace,

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