“My brain is shrinking,” she said to me the last night I was in Arizona recently. Of course, it took her about ten times to say it and for me to understand what she had said, while kneeling by her bed, but this is what my mom said to me that night. She had asked me to stay with her while she fell asleep–something she’s never asked me to do, but occasionally asks my dad to do. Usually, when she has a lot on her mind, but doesn’t want to talk about it. We had a simple conversation, one I’m keeping for myself, and afterwards, I crawled back into the chair next to her bed, quietly sobbing, while she fell asleep.
Life update
It’s been a few months since I last wrote about where I was in this season of grief and a lot has happened since then, which I’ll try to quickly summarize.
– I began meeting with a psychiatrist because what I had been feeling (everything), I felt like I needed more help. I’m on more meds, which have drastically improved my simple existence in the world. I’ll write about it one day, I promise.
– I raised almost $8,000 for the Michael J. Fox Foundation for parkinson’s research and then climbed a 14,271 ft mountain, Quandary Peak, to support my mom’s previous annual hikes.
– After said hike, I was supposed to spend 4 additional days in Colorado to celebrate my grandma’s 90th birthday, but ended up cutting my trip short to go take care of my mom, as the original plans changed.
– After getting back to the Bay and immediately hopping right back into work after that trip, I had a bit of an emotional breakdown, UGLY crying to my dad about things and realizing how much I’ve been giving to everyone else, but myself.
– I went to five Golden State Valkyries games this season, which was an incredible experience. I love that I live in a place that has a WNBA team now. I also went to three Bay FC games this season (they have the cutest merch).
– I have two Labubu’s.
But the biggest news is that my parents have decided, with my mom’s neurologist, to move to palliative care for my mom. It’s a big step, but I think it’s really going to benefit all of us. According to Mayo Clinic, palliative care is specialized medical care, focused on providing relief from pain and other symptoms of a serious illness. This care is provided by a team of health care providers, including social workers, and chaplains. The care isn’t just for my mom, it’s for us too.
But this is where we are now.
The Stages of [anticipatory] Grief
They say there’s different parts to grief, but did you know there’s also different parts of anticipatory grief? According to Cleveland Clinic, there are four stages of anticipatory grief: acceptance, reflection, rehearsal, and imagining the future.
Acceptance looks like when you recognize that a loved one’s death is unavoidable. Emotions often associated with this part are sadness, denial, and anger. Reflection looks like when you begin to come to terms with how you’re feeling. Emotions often associated with this part of anticipatory grief are regret, guilt, and remorse. Rehearsal looks like when you run through your mind about how you’ll feel during and immediately after the loss of your loved one. Imagining the future looks like visualizing what your life will look like after your loss.
As you may know, grief isn’t a linear process, and the same can be said about anticipatory grief, which can also overlap with the grief process. But this is why I like to call them parts, because they are parts of a whole, instead of this idea that once you go through one stage, you move on to the other. If you weren’t already accustomed to the stages (or parts of grief) they are: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.
I think I fluctuate between reflection, rehearsal, and imaging the future at any given day, but the only consistent emotions I feel surrounding my grief are anger and sadness.
Sadness, is a familiar feeling for me. I’m quick to acknowledge when I’m feeling sad, and proud that I can actually do that. But there’s more to it than that. Underneath is despair, powerlessness, depression, sorrow, disappointment and hurt. Anger is a newer emotion to be able to name. I’ve always felt it, but as I’ve been pulling apart all of these complex feelings, I can certainly name that underneath anger is frustration, envy, disgust, resentfulness, and rage. Now, all of these are complex and I’ve only been able to name them thanks to the deep inner work that I’m doing (and my handy dandy feelings wheel). But where this sadness and anger intersect comes back to the private conversation I had with my mom. Actually, it’s more about what happened leading up to the conversation with her.
Rage, is a quiet thing
If you recall, about a month ago, a right-wing podcaster was murdered while debating politics against college-aged students. His organization is based in Phoenix, Arizona. I already had strong feelings about him (dislike), his platform (racist), and how his work was being talked about, but also I was sheltered from a lot of it living in the Bay. Shortly after this man’s death, I flew to Arizona to care give for my mom, while my dad took a vacation. So when my dad picked me up from the airport and we’re driving back to the house, I swear there were dozens of digital billboards advertising his “memorial” service that was going to be held later that week at the football stadium the Cardinals apparently play at (currently they’re 2-4 this season). Since my mom has the television on non-stop, we were hearing about it non-stop. I’m already in fight or flight mode taking care of her, and now even more so because of what is happening surrounding this man’s death.
My mom likes to fall asleep listening to a Christian radio station. It’s one of the last steps: turn the music on, tell her you love her and leave. Usually, I don’t have to listen to the music, which I have strong feelings against. But this night, she had asked me to stay in her room and wait for her to fall asleep. That night, I had to listen to the familiar music and songs I used to sing at the top of my lungs. It was difficult to listen to these songs by a lot of the artists because while I was sitting there in the chair next to her bed, I had just read an article stating a few of the Christian artists we were listening to, performed at the above mentioned right-wing podcaster’s “memorial.”
I have a complicated relationship with Christianity. It used to be a center point of my life, but as I have grown up in the United States as a millennial, done my own research/growth, had my own lived experiences–it’s become less of a focal point, mostly because I’ve seen and experienced how people have weaponized their “faith” and label of Christianity. Understandably, there’s actually a lot of trauma associated with my faith, especially the denomination I grew up in and the community that came along with it. But that night, as I’m quietly sobbing in the chair next to my mom’s bed, all I could feel was rage. Maybe I’m a little mad at God that my mom is slowly, but also quickly, dying in front of our eyes. And I also know that shit happens to good people–but what I can’t wrap my head around are platformed people (politicians, musicians, actors, etc) who claim to love Jesus, who called his followers to love people and do good, that consistently, especially in the United States, do wrong, create division, and exemplify hate through their actions, their words, the people they platform, and the laws they support and/or try to pass.
It’s a direct disconnect to what I believe, how I was raised, and the faith I’m holding on to during this incredibly challenging time in my life. It just goes to show, life, in it’s many stages one experiences, is complicated.
My mom’s brain is shrinking, as is her ability to walk, talk, eat, sleep, and think. Her memory fluctuates between her usual sharpness to not remembering why she hit her call button. She’s worrying more and more about how my brother and I are doing and providing for ourselves (and families). She’s working through her own mortality and if we’ll be okay when she’s gone. Being present and working through all of this is devastating and expected–this is part of the disease–all the while, trying to keep up with my own life, as well as trying to keep friends and family up to date on how she’s doing. I don’t know that there’s actually a balance. As someone so devastatingly pointed out to me, “No matter how much time you try to be there, help care for her, and spend time with her, it won’t be enough.”
So I’m learning, in the heaviness that is my life right now, I have to manage my own expectations, give myself grace upon grace, feel allllll the feels, and everything else I aim to do and accomplish is good enough. And good enough is enough. Meaning, with the expectations of where I thought my life would be (mostly because of the example of what my parents set out for me years ago–thanks mom and dad), that where I’m at right now, is good enough. That while I thought I would be climbing the corporate ladder and being a badass boss, yet I’m a little unfulfilled in my job, but right now, my job and career–it’s good enough. That while I thought I would be married or partnered and all that comes with that, yet I’m single, have no energy to date (because dating men is difficult and I also don’t really want to bring anyone into this…), but right now, I’m living a single and childfree life–it’s good enough. That while I thought I’d be this person who shows up for everything, remembers to text my friends all the time, maintain long-distance friendships by visiting, celebrating birthdays and anniversaries, yet I’m struggling to respond back to people, to show up to parties when emotionally it’s difficult to celebrate anything at the moment, and realizing I can’t do everything like I used to, but right now, how I stay connected (even if it’s more limited), what I can give to people, and when I do remember or have capacity to text back–it’s good enough.
I write because it’s how I process. And when I publish my writing, it brings a bit of clarity, and yet it all still massively sucks. I’m not writing this for the chance to tell someone how they should grieve, it’s simply an avenue to express that really, I don’t know how to quite grieve what I still have, but know that I won’t have it soon. However, that this reality I’m living in, in the suck, in the depth of the grief, it’s worth talking about. It’s worth saying, “I have no idea what I’m doing, but what I’m doing is good enough.”
Lauren Brooks 