I know that you know this, but I think someone needs to hear this. Some of us are grieving: situations, people, places, jobs, routines, security. It goes on. Grief lets you have a pocket of peace and then smacks you in the face with a pocketbook full of cinderblocks. This is a piece I found on my computer- just now. The intention of it was to serve as an opening for a book that may or may not come one day.

But, today? Someone needs this.

“Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form.” 

~ Rumi

The tears were understandable but not planned for. I never keep tissues on hand, and the glove compartment was out of fast food restaurant napkins. 

I had received confirmation that my mother was in from Florida and raced over in my car to pick her up. I didn’t want to be late. 

I parked my car and jogged inside with about 5 minutes to spare. 

“I’m here to pick up my mom,” I said breathlessly to the man behind the counter.

He titled his head and squinted his eyes. “Where was she from?”

“Bocca, I think. That was the message. But she lives in Miami. Lived. She lived in Miami.”

“Ah,” he sighed. “She’s right over here. One sec.”

No, I thought. No sighing. My throat got tight and it felt like sandpaper when I swallowed. Who was stabbing my eyeballs with icepicks? 

He reappeared and gave me a something to sign. He passed her over to me, staring at me. “You want me to call Chuck?”

Chuck was my husband and the unofficial mayor/ambassador/handyman/volunteer/you-name-it for our community. No, I didn’t want him to call him. I can handle this. I’m a big kid now.

“No, I’m fine. How are you?” I was both aware and unaware of the tears pouring down my face. Run! Run to your car and get out of here. Stay! Show him how fine you are.

“You sure?” he asked. “It’s no…”

“I’m good. Good to see you. See you next time you are on the block.” I dashed to my car. I imagine I dashed. I don’t know. One moment, I’m at the post office talking to one of our carriers. He always has treats for the neighborhood dogs. The next moment, I’m in my car- staring at the box from the crematorium. 

I pulled out my phone and texted someone. I don’t remember who. I tapped out: 

My mom’s here.

When my mother was dying, I didn’t talk about it. Not much. I emailed my peeps and told them I would update them but pretty much asked to be left alone. My workmate knew so if I needed to vent, I could. My supervisor knew in case I needed to take leave and advocate for her. My husband knew so my newest level of  rage would be understood.

Others didn’t. I didn’t talk about my mom much. That was my survival mechanism for the relationship at the time. Also during that time, I lost a friend to suicide and a younger family member was battling cancer. If I would have opened up my mouth, I fear a primal scream would have erupted that would have caused ears to bleed and glass to break. That’s how I felt on the inside. All. The. Time.

When I was informed of a new assignment for the following school year, I raged against it at a restaurant. I think people thought I was breaking up with my husband. I was having a crisis of identity. When a colleague came to my office to comment on my change of assignment, she didn’t expect me to cry. I was having a crisis of purpose. Right? Nope.

I was raging and crying because my mother was dying and I didn’t feel allowed or entitled to cry over that. So, I turned off the faucet of that spout and the pressure built and built and built until it exploded in other ways. I grieved over work because I would not allow myself to grieve for my mother.

I was putting on Spanx when I got the call that she died. No joke. I’m stepping into and pulling on these gravity defying skin sucking soul lying body shapers in preparation for my high school reunion. The phone call was simple. They respected her DNR and what did I want to do with her body. I hung up the phone, took off my Spanx, and looked at my suitcase neatly packed to travel out of the country for work the following day. And, I left.

If I would have stayed home and received messages of condolence, I. Would. Have. Lost. It. 

Responsible Suzie took over and met her travel partner at the airport the next day. “How was your ride in? Are you as excited as I am to teach in Mexico? By the way, my mom died yesterday. Do you want to get a coffee before we board?”

Yup. That was me. But it was what I needed at the time. I had previously arranged for my mother to be cremated upon her death. My aunt and her son flew to Florida and followed up on that. My husband did the obligatory Facebook post and thanks to spotty wifi, I didn’t see it right away. I stayed in my bubble. That bubble burst twice.

The first burst was an angry one. We arranged for her to be taken out to sea. My husband called me and asked if that was what I really wanted. Did I not just flee the country to escape this? I told him to do what he wanted to do which lead me to picking her up from the post office.

The second burst was different. I was reading a favorite book Love You Forever by Robert Munch to a group teachers. I always loved reading this book and watching how it affected people. In the past, I’ve had grown men leave the room and call their mothers. I got to the part where the grown man picks up his dying mother and rocks her and I stopped. My face was leaking. My teaching partner finished the book and explained to the group that my mother had just passed. #ProfessionalSuzieWon’tBeInvitedBackToMexico (Spoiler- she was!) The group surrounded me and offered me comfort in a way that I would not accept back home. As I walked the cobbled street back to my hotel, I knew it was a step toward healing.

A different car. A different destination. Another summer. Five summers later to be precise. And still? No tissues. This time, the tears were different. They were calming and wise. As I drove over 7 hours to my friend’s house to teach yoga (you read that right), all of the lessons I directly or indirectly learned from my mom washed over me. I was aware of some of them while she was alive and some revealed themselves to me after she left. Some were actually judgements that I had of her that were transformed into unintentional words or whispers of wisdom.

And, so, I share this catalogue of whispers with you. As I type this, I see her clearly for the first time in years. She’s laughing, twirling her hair, NOT smoking a cigarette (because this is my vision, not hers), and nursing a cup of hot coffee. She’s smiling so big that her eyes squint and disappear. I see her in love and with appreciation and as tears drip down my face one more- in gratitude- I hope that each tap of a character on my keyboard sends her a hug and an apology. I was not the daughter she wanted me to be when she needed me to be but I’ve become a better person because of her. 

My mother passed in 2013. I wrote this piece in 2018. I found it in 2020.

Yes, grieve. It’s a gift to the memory or experience.

But, live. It’s a gift to your promise of life.

You will one day be grieved. Live a life worthy of it.

One pocket of peace within a pocketbook of cinderblocks at a time.

~Suzie