“Mom, if you’re really here like people say you are, then you better show me because I’m not feeling it. How about you find that tiny screw for me?”

Grief is a non-linear set of emotions that Swiss-American psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross described as having five stages that ebb and flow across the lifespan following any significant loss. In her seminal work, On Death and Dying, she identified the stages as denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance (1969), and later acknowledged that some people may not experience them or might not undergo all five (Health Central, 2022).

My own grief after her death centered heavily in the anger stage.  I feel robbed by her autoimmune disorder of what I hoped would become a different kind of relationship in which Mom and I could interact freely, in person, rather than by phone calls and letter-writing.  In a sense, I grieved the loss of our “normal” relationship as long as she was sick. My grief stage while she was alive was most prominently centered around denial. Even though I grew up from the age of nine with her disease, after becoming an adult, I set my hopes on her becoming well enough to engage more freely in the things of life together. I naively believed that one day, we’d be able to watch movies or cook meals together. I felt deep remorse over not having this while she was still here. For many years after leaving home, whenever I attempted an impromptu visit, Mom inevitably called the next day to say that she got sick after I left. I did not want to be the cause of Mom’s suffering, so this led to fewer and fewer in-person visits; I felt guilty for not attempting to see her more often.  I also felt isolated at key times of life, such as when my children were little, and while I went through a difficult breakup. Mom was always ready to listen over the phone and help in her ways, but I could not just show up at her home and be with her. 

There is a certain comfort and healing that comes from simply being in the presence of a trusted loved one without the pressure of conversation. Comfortable silences can be a language of understanding in a relationship. Telephone calls are not the best substitute for in-person relating because they presume a need to converse. Remaining silent for more than a few seconds often leads one or the other participant to conclude a phone call. One of the things that I grieve and feel angry about is that Mom and I never grew in our adult relationship with each other to be in each other’s presence, existing as our authentic selves, near to each other, and just being. Our phone calls, though cherished, became sounding sessions for my issues. She wanted to hear what was happening in my life, so I spoke. She did not often discuss what was happening in hers, mostly because she did not wish to “burden” me. Yet mutually bearing burdens is how relationships grow, and ours did not have that opportunity until Mom was actively dying and she needed my help during home hospice. For most people, hospice lasts about six months; occasionally, a hospice patient will live more than a year while receiving palliative services and treatments for their incurable conditions. President Jimmy Carter offers a good example of someone on the longer side of the hospice survival spectrum, having been in a hospice program for fifteen months at the time of this writing.  President Carter entered hospice one month before Mom did and was still functioning at an unprecedented level when his beloved, Rosalyn, passed away in November 2023. Like many patients, though, Mom lived for only a few weeks after entering hospice, and I was only able to be with her, in person, for the last seven days of her life.

In reflecting on her life and our relationship, I have self compassion for the fact that I’m angry about what was lost. I look to a time of acceptance, but for now, I take solace in the notion that anger is an energy (Lydon and Laswell 1986,  Lydon 2014) that can potentially avert its alternative, depression.

After Mom’s death, my middle child and I installed security cameras at her house to keep an eye on things when we couldn’t be there. A few weeks later, during the first battery change, I dropped one of the cameras’ tiny set screws into a rock bed below.  I wasn’t feeling Mom’s presence at all and wondered about other people’s experiences, saying they felt their loved ones around them. I got down on my stomach to search for the screw amidst a whole bunch of decorative stones and was pretty sure it would be impossible to find. I started talking [ranting] and demanded, “Mom, if you’re really here like people say you are, then you better show me because I’m not feeling it. How about you find that tiny screw for me?“

Well, I dug and dug and never did find the screw, but after a few minutes, I flipped over a certain rock, and what did I see? An engraved message from Mom. If not for dropping that screw, I really had no reason to be digging around down there, with such close attention, for many months, maybe years. I was indeed moved by this and felt her silent, guiding presence. It wasn’t as I expected it to be, but truly, her love felt tangible in that moment.

The engraved stone that I found in a rock-bed at Mom’s house.

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References

Health Central, LLC. (2022, June 7). The five stages of grief [blog post]. Accessed on May 20, 2024 from https://www.healthcentral.com/condition/depression/stages-of-grief

Kübler-Ross, Elisabeth. (1969). On death and dying. The Macmillan Company, New York, NY.

Lydon, John. and Laswell, Bill. (1986). Rise [Song]. On Public Image, LTD, Album. Virgin and Elektra.

Lydon, John. (2014). Anger is an energy: My life uncensored. Dey Street Books/Harper Collins. New York,  NY.