To Grieve

It sounds like an action verb but it doesn’t feel like one. It feels like a stealth attack. The image that comes to mind is of sitting happily in the shallows on the beach, bum nestled into the warm sand, toes wriggling in the sunshine, being lulled by the gentle surf. And suddenly a rogue wave comes out of nowhere and knocks you down. You find yourself rolling around in a churning barrel of water, knees and elbows shredded by the rough sand, unable to breathe, unsure of which way is up. Discombobulated by a jumble of emotions, as a mishmash of conflicting feelings for a person you have loved well or ill your whole life, wrestle for space in your heart and in your mind. And then suddenly the wave goes out, dropping you unceremoniously back on the beach, exhausted and breathless and raw. You never know where the wave is going to come from—sometimes it’s triggered by a song, a scent, a memory but sometimes it just hits you out of the blue for no apparent reason. Your eyes start to prickle. Your vision starts to blur and before you know it, your shoulders are heaving and your body is wracked with sobs. 

My mother died six days before Christmas. She was taken into emergency with pneumonia and two days later she took her last breath, peacefully, pain-free and surrounded by family. She finally got what she had been wanting for a decade.

It took me almost two weeks to really feel sad. I was so deeply angry at her—for giving up, for wasting a decade of her life being miserable, for not being interested in anyone or anything, for not caring. I remember hearing about something teenagers do when they’re getting ready to leave home for the first time. Soiling the nest, they call it. “My room is so small. I’m so bored. I can’t wait to get out of here.” Essentially making home a crummier place in order to make it easier to leave. Maybe that’s what she was doing. She’d cut herself off. From an ailing husband, from her friends, and eventually from her kids. Letting go of the things that were anchoring her to a life where she no longer found joy. 

She let go much earlier than I would have liked. And the letting go felt like rejection and it hurt so much. Because your mum is always your mum, no matter how old you are. 

As I was putting together a slideshow for her funeral, wrestling with a jumble of mixed emotions—anger, tenderness, resentment, relief, guilt, sadness, regret—I came across a photo I took of her years ago. She is on the very edge of the frame, seeing me off from the family cottage and smiling a little smile at me—a smile so full of love and pride. It just about killed me. That smile brought back the mum she’d been before she’d let go. And I cried like a baby. 

When I finally stopped, it felt as though the anger had been somehow diluted by my tears and a very mellow, comforting sorrow had slowly taken its place. Which feels right. Now I feel as if I’m bobbing in the sea, on the other side of the breaking waves, rising and falling with the swells, sunshine on my face, feeling sad but at peace.

I know she loved me, in her own awkward way. It was her first time on the planet. She did her best.

Sarah Cobb