Some Doors Are Simply Heavy

Some Doors Are Simply Heavy

Nine years ago today, my mother died. Those of you who know me or who read my most recently published book, Puppies, Guppies, and Letting Go (Amazon.com: Puppies, Guppies, and Letting Go eBook : Curran, Dorry: Kindle Store), understand something of the relationship between my mother and me. You also know the story of our final journey together after she suffered a catastrophic stroke and pulled herself through a painful 13-month struggle towards the end of life. This time of year is always tough on me. Her birthday was August 22, the anniversary of her death is September 2, and my birthday is September 30. I seem to always spend this season with a constant low-grade emotional fever.

This year, I think I have felt it even a little more than most years. It is not one of those momentous numbers. It isn’t like I’m balancing any other grief along with the anniversary. There is truly no open emotional wound that is tied up in my grief. I loved my mom very much. She loved me in a way that is difficult to explain.

I have come to understand that my mother was not a perfect person or a perfect parent. Nobody is. She did her best and her best was pretty damn good. One of the challenges of parenting is deciding how to choose between several equally “right” actions in any particular set of minutely unique circumstances with any particular child or any particular day.   This is the stuff of all relationships.

My mother got the most important thing right… all the time.  She always made me feel like I was loved beyond all possible understanding.  In fact, I believe that my mother loved me more than she loved anyone else in this world. If I am honest, there are probably other people she also made feel like her favorite person ever. Today, of all days, though, I prefer not to be that honest. My mother loved me so deeply that her love could not die with her.

Grief is difficult to reckon. It has been nine years. In general, I am living an active, rewarding, joyful life. There are still times when the first thing in my mind is, “I can’t wait to tell Momma.” There are still times, like today, when the heaviness of mourning burdens my spirit.  That heaviness is not pathological. That heaviness does not need to be fixed. It just is.

I don’t suggest that living in mourning as a permanent residence is a healthy or satisfying way to walk through life. On the other hand, visiting grief now and again can be a good thing. It is like grief is this extraordinarily heavy door that we struggle to open. Opening that door is hard work. It makes our emotional muscles sore and in need of rest. However, when we do get the grief door open, we often find that it is the portal for the happy memories and the love that did not die with the person. I know I, for one, would rather find easier access, but there is none. I must “put my back into it” to force the door open to experience the joy that remains of my mother.

If you are standing on the lonely side of the grief door and have been pushing on that door with all your might but have not been able to get it to budge, there are a couple of things that you might want to consider.

Know that there are people who can help and want to help. In fact, there are people who would genuinely consider it a blessing to push with you. Don’t keep trying to do it all yourself. Talk to a local hospice provider. Even if your loved one was not in hospice care, you are likely entitled to their grief counseling services at no charge to you. Find friends, clergy members, a therapist, a life coach, a Stephen Minister, a support group, or anyone who can normalize grief and the work it takes to move the door.  

Another consideration is that you don’t have to do the pushing all at once. The idea is to help you get past that heavy door to access the joy. When you push relentlessly, there is a point where exhaustion makes the pushing torturous but not productive. Do something fun and light to let your emotional muscles rest and recover. When your emotional muscles are resting, don’t try to load something else on your plate. Prioritize recovery, not the bandwidth you think you are “freeing up” when you take a rest from mourning. When you allow yourself the rest periods, you are not giving up on your journey. You are not giving up on your loved one. The rest and recovery are critical steps in the process. It is like glassblowing. If the artisan did not periodically cool the glass during the process, there could be no beautiful final product.

Lastly, it does get easier… even when you believe it never will. Once you open the door a few times, the hinges are more cooperative. Your emotional muscles are stronger.  Most importantly, you’ve witnessed the beauty that is on the other side and that is hugely incentivizing.  

Still, nine years later, today is heavy. The door is a little more sticky than usual. My muscles are a little older and sorer. I may need to put my back, shoulders, and heart into it today. So, I’m asking you…. Please help me push.

Terri/Dorry 🙂