I’m someone who likes a somewhat non-cluttered refrigerator on the outside. On the inside all bets are off – it’s slightly gross in there! We have the usual things on there – remember notes, a whiteboard that could have any manner of random Amee thoughts, my daughter’s mail that I must remember to give her the next time I see her, and a few select pictures. The pictures I keep on the fridge hold a very specific, special meaning to me. One is of Shawn and I when I was not at my “healthiest” weight and I like to look at it and remember that whatever weight I currently am I’m still loved by God (because weight and I are on a constant journey). Another picture is of a friend and I doing friend things and I like this one because it reminds me that friendship is special and needs to continue to be cultivated. My last picture is of my son and I at Chick-fil-a’s Date Knight that we attended on May 1, 2012. This picture represents an important before and after in my life.
When I arrived home from that event and got everyone into bed, I received a phone call from my mom stating that I had to come over quickly because something wasn’t right. I rushed over and found her doubled over in pain. I quickly got her into my car and took her to Community Hospital. After a battery of tests and poking and prodding that lasted most of the night, a team of doctors came into the room looking grim. Whenever a group of important people approach me about anything it starts my heart racing and palms sweating. The “elected” ER physician started to speak to my mom and told her that she has a pretty significant growth in her thyroid and needs to be taken care of immediately. They wanted to admit her for testing, and she agreed. The next week was full of biopsies and tests until we found ourselves in the oncologist’s office (the same oncologist who treated my father’s cancer) sitting in a room waiting for a meeting. When the kind doctor came in, she told us that the type and stage of cancer was such that my mom would be required to go to Chicago for experimental treatment. No one in Northwest Indiana was equipped or familiar enough with this cancer to make an effective treatment plan. That was the summer that driving in the city became a thing I could no longer “not want to do” and I became a pro during our many, many trips to University of Chicago.
On September 14, 2012 my mom and I went to an appointment in Chicago to start a new treatment plan as the ones tried so far weren’t working. The doctor was busy and had an emergency and was called out. They had my mom lie down and try to get comfortable for our ten hour wait. Finally, the doctor came in, looked at my mom, and with tears in his eyes he said, “I think it’s time to stop trying.” She quickly agreed saying that she thought it was time to stop trying a week or so ago but wanted to be strong for her family. And, with that, we started home at 4:00pm … on a Friday … in Chicago. After entering hospice and being lovingly cared for by the hospice staff at Riley Memorial Residence my mom died on September 20, 2012.
This is the quick version of the story because I want to get to this point – grief never ends … but it changes. I was standing in my kitchen yesterday doing dishes when I was suddenly overcome with a deep longing to see my mom again. When both my mom and dad died, I did a lot of work to grieve “correctly”. I worked with a mentor on getting all the feelings out and I gave myself permission to cry. I went through all the stages like a pro – denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally, acceptance. I remember standing in my shower a week after my mom died and I realized that she was dead … gone. I started into a panic attack and I cried out to God to give me a breath. It was really that dramatic. So, I breathed that breath, then another, then another, and then another until I got to a place where I wasn’t cognizant of only breathing but living. And I have lived a lot of life since that day in the shower. I’ve loved and I’ve lost again.
But, standing in my kitchen almost eight years later I was brought to my knees by a longing so deep belonging to grief. Because grief never ends … but it changes. It allows you to smile and then eventually laugh again. You stop thinking about the person being gone every second of the day because, ultimately, they’re always with you. You can’t stay in that place of intense grief because it’s a passage. Grief isn’t a place of weakness and certainly not a lack of faith. Grief is the price of love. And it hurts!
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