Amy Sedaris has said that after her mom died, she separated friends into those who understood and those who did not. “When my mom died, I divided people up: ‘Oh, both of your parents are alive? You go stand on that side of the street.’ Because you don’t know what it’s like ‘till you lose a parent. It just changes everything." She has also lost her father to Alzheimer's and shared her mutual grief with brother David on a recent episode of Anderson Cooper's "All there is" podcast.
The transformation in our lives following such deep loss usurps our other relationships. I know it did, it has, for me. Even though I started off sound -- completing my thesis and master's with merit at King's College London when Mom passed in August 2018 -- I would soon realize I had few real friends. It also drove a wedge between me and family members it turns out I was not especially close to to begin with, while introducing me to cousins who knew grief and knew my pain and wanted to help.
At a recent group grief therapy session, I realized why it is critical to guard our hearts and minds during grief. Not only was the counselor ill equipped to really help -- she was kind, but apparently unable to control crosstalk -- a woman was so vile I will probably always remember her hurtful words. Apparently, trying to sue the doctor who killed your mother is some sort of cardinal sin in her judgmental eyes. Side note, my late uncle, brother and I were not successful. If your 79-year-old mom goes into her catheterization with a pre-existing heart ailment it's almost impossible to prove malpractice, despite her dying on the table immediately following the procedure, in the State of Texas.
Oncologists told me a clot was found but it was impossible to decipher whether it was pre- or post-mortem. So right, bitch lady, my family was oh so evil to try and sue this idiot.
As you can see, I still have anger. It was 10x worse following Mom's death, but it is there under the surface when I am challenged. I have no tolerance for phonies, for older witchy women who apparently can't stand a lady our age who still turns heads, for men who just want to flirt but not really listen, for family members who thought I should have moved on the minute Mom was cremated or snobs who have judged me by my bank account ($16.33).
When you lose your mom -- and I assume your dad (mine is still alive) -- you lose the most important leg on the table. Some days it still stands, but most days a good wind could blow it over. I've found a way to keep the table up, even place some things on it - a couple jobs, an article for the BBC, tutoring assignments - but most days I just want to sit on it and crush it.
Grief counselors don't help. I had a young one for one day. His mission was to find me a job right away so I'd be more stable. "I am job searching for a journalism or teaching position," I told him sweetly in the Zoom call. "No no, a job that you can get. Those jobs take a long time." I was so effing mad. During my grief I have lost count of the journalism jobs I have turned down, the most recent being a fabulous energy reporter position in North Dakota.
I dream of Mom. I have dreamt of her every night this week. Last night I was in Southern California again and wanted to tell her the next morning I'd take a walk along the coast. I saw a MALIBU sign outside a restaurant. I was born in Los Angeles, and my young parents drove across the Southwest, starting a life near my grandmother Mimi, Uncle Al and those gorgeous orange trees. Mom, a Texan, felt out of place. People made fun of her drawl. She said, "You were my only friend." She took me to Disneyland and Knott's Berry Farm.
Of course I miss her, no one even comes close.
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