“We are all driven to recreate they dynamic of our first wound so we can change the ending,” ~ Jan Bellows (IYKYK)
On Mother’s Day seventeen years ago, I found out I was pregnant with my son. Stepping into the sacred role of motherhood and sharing this news with my own mama made it my most cherished Mother’s Day. Today, holding both gratitude and grief, I celebrate my first Mother’s Day without her.
Over the past six years, we watched helplessly as my mom sank deeper and deeper into a darkness that felt like quicksand; the more she fought it, the faster she descended. It’s a ruthless beast, dementia; leaving no one unscathed.
Compounding the slow mourning I faced watching my beautifully vibrant mama lose herself was the trauma and grief of losing my sisters. Not to physical death, of course, but a death nonetheless. The two people I thought would always be safe places betrayed me, leaving me struggling to make sense of a world that no longer existed. Wounded both by their words and their silence, it felt unsafe to be vulnerable and grieve throughout this long goodbye. Knowing they leaned on each other made my grief even more acute.
During the six-year descent, I spent time with my mom, hoping to catch glimpses of her. Even when her eyes were empty and confused, her sweet smile was always there.
Perhaps my mom’s final gift to me was the painful, but liberating, lesson of learning to set boundaries with my family.