 5:45 AM: My alarm goes off and for a few seconds I’m groggy and have no idea what is happening. 5:45.30 AM: I figure out that the cacophonous clanging sound is my alarm, and I work to disassemble it. 5:46 AM: My brain is settled now, and I take a few deep breaths getting ready to tackle the day. 5:47 AM: I remember. I used to remember the exact moment I woke up — the realization crashing upon me like a wave during a treacherous storm. Now, I’m up to two minutes. I don’t know if that should make me proud or disconcerted. Proud that I’m getting better. Or disconcerted that she is slipping further from me. 5:48 AM: My mom is dead. I say that phrase many times throughout the day. Sometimes those four words stab me in the heart. Other times, I say it matter of factly like I do every morning. It’s my true alarm. It wakes me up every day, and I roll those words around on my tongue a few times to see how it makes me feel. At this point in the day, it is what is. Nothing I can do about it. I reach for my phone to play my morning word games and puzzles. 5:55 AM: I get out of bed and read a page from my daily grief reflections. I force the words to comfort me. Sometimes they really do. 5:57 AM: I write down four things I am grateful for. Each day, I struggle to come up with something other than my mom. 7:00 AM: I won’t bore you with the minute details of how I arrive to work each day, but by 7:00 AM I arrive at my classroom, and I oblige to the fact that life has to go on, and I must participate in it as if the worst thing to ever happen to me hadn’t happened. 7:15 AM: I jot down a few things to my mom in the journal I keep of all the things I wish I could say to her. I close it and store it away before any of my students arrive. 7:25 AM — 10:30 AM: I’m distracted with teaching my 1st and 2nd periods. We joke. We laugh. We have fun. I push them to think and build a growth mindset. I encourage them to show resilience. I feel my purpose here on earth. 10:35 AM: My first break of the day. I log into Instagram. The algorithm knows I’m grieving and spoon feeds me reels and posts filled with sad quotes, inspiring messages from our long-lost loved ones, and relatable anecdotes about grief. Some days I want to read them all. Some days I scroll past them. The students, who eat lunch in my classroom, disturb me from my thoughts, and I put on a smile when I see them. It’s not fake. Yes, I’m sad, but I’m also happy to see them and want them to feel welcome in my room. My mom always made everyone feel welcome. 11:15 AM: I’m in 3rd period. I’m helping a student. I have a good example to help clarify the point of a question. The example involves my mom. I debate whether to tell it. A griever is always cognizant of whether she is bringing up her loved one and the death too much. The burden is placed on me and how, at all costs, I must avoid making the nongriever feel awkward or uncomfortable by my grief, pain, and sadness. 11:16 AM: My internal debate concludes, and I tell the story of my mom, but I make a joke to keep it light. It’s best for everyone involved. 12:44 PM: It’s the first time of the school day that I’m truly alone. My planning period. I collapse into my chair and stare at the picture of my mom on my phone. I shake my head. I don’t have time for this. I have work to do. 1:33 PM: A student comes into my classroom to say “hi.” He’s one of a few students who actually asks how I am doing and about my mom. I could cry and hug him when he does. I refrain. 3:00 PM: I arrive home from the school day and immediately go for a run. It’s my free therapy. Being outside and exercising is sustaining me. I don’t want to say that it is the one thing helping me from spiraling into a deep depression. It’s not. I have other things. But it’s pretty high up on the list. 3:26 PM: I finish up my run and go inside to stretch. I see one of the pictures of my mom we have framed. I really look at it. And that’s when it hits me all over again. She’s never coming back. It’s a weird feeling that only grievers can truly understand. I know that she’s dead but there’s a part of me that sometimes doesn’t grasp the full meaning of the word. I guess because society doesn’t do so well when talking about grief or death. I know I’m not alone. I saw an Instagram reel stating this exact same thing. 3:27 PM: A flood of memories of my mom awash me. They are so vivid that it’s so hard to comprehend that she isn’t on this earth anymore and that I’m never going to get to experience something as simple as calling her on the phone or seeing her walk into my house ever again. I allow these intense moments to overcome me. Fleetingly. 4:00 PM: I pick up my son. He’s five. He makes everything better. Except I hate that my mom is not here here to hear and see all the funny and wise things he says and does. 6:30–8:00 PM: Every Thursday, I go to grief group. I’m the youngest there, but I don’t mind. There is something reassuring about being around these sad souls. We all have a different story. A different reason for being there. Yet, we are all bound by a common bond — grief. I don’t talk too much. I prefer to listen, but I cry alongside their pain. 8:30 PM: I arrive home. My son has been waiting for me to put him to bed. I still have to make lunches and clean up. That’s the hard thing about grief. You still have to do the everyday things on top of wrestling with your grief. It’s paradoxical. On the one hand, the minutiae of life keep me busy and distracted from wallowing in my grief. On the other hand, a simple task can seem so daunting and overwhelming when grief consumes me. 8:46 PM: I’ve finally settled into the rocking chair in my son’s room, and we read two books followed by prayers. My son talks to Grandma. I tear up every time and give praise that he still remembers her and cares enough to talk to her. I fear for the day that he won’t. 9:00 PM — 9:30 PM: I spend some time with my husband watching a funny show. Funny shows are good. Funny shows are safe. Except they remind me of my mom, and I can’t call her anymore to laugh about them together. So much reminds me of her. 9:35 PM: I go up to get ready for bed. Most nights I spend whimpering alone as the weight of it all overcomes me. I take out my journal to write to her if it gets too heavy. 10:00 PM: Another day. Another day without her. Sometimes I feel sorry for myself. Other times I’m thankful. Not thankful that she died but thankful for the new perspective on life. For the newfound insights and the greater zest, I have to live life with purpose, compassion, and empathy in honor of my mom. 10:15 PM: I drift off to sleep and pray that I see my mom in my dreams before I wake up and do this day all over again. My goal now is to become a certified sleep and anxiety coach and as part of that I developed a mini STRESS FREE SLEEP email course. I highly suggest checking it out if you struggle with sleep and panic. Buy me a coffee if you liked this blog. And if you're a parent, check out my parenting guide Now What? Mindful Parenting Checklists for Life’s Hard Moments.
1 Comment
Dianna Callahan
4/30/2024 10:08:40 am
Lauren, I am a friend of your mom and went to college with her and your dad. She was one of those rare lights that always made a room brighter, and everyone feel just a little better. You were so lucky to have her as your mom and your friend. Leave a Reply. |
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