What Nobody Tells You About Losing a Parent

I never thought I would ever be in a position to feel this intensity of sadness, let alone write about and publish it. But that’s the thing about loss, about death, about grief; you never think it will show up at your door.

I lost my sweet mother close to two years ago, and how I have spent these last 2 years is impossible to put into words even if I try. Everyday has been ridden with sadness and despair, with hopelessness and yet, through some divine possibility, with strength. Days blurred into weeks, weeks blurred into months and yet life did not stop moving. That’s the first time I realised that we could be dealing with irrevocable, earth-shattering loss yet life did not stop nor wait for anyone to catch up. It made me angry, hearing laughter and music. It upset me to think that people partook in joyous celebrations, still made jokes, and still continued to live life normally while I was being slowly crushed under the weight of this sadness fate had cursed upon me. I remember looking at my neighbours, a beautiful family of 4, talk, laugh and discuss matters of general concern, something so seemingly ‘normal,’ and realising that I will never get to do it again. I am so grateful for the time I did spend with my family of 4 but it broke my heart to think that it will never be the same again for the 3 of us left behind.

I can’t recall the number of times I’d heard “she’s in a better place now,” and “it was God’s willing,” and “time will heal.” Time will heal, time has healed, but it has left behind a scar that is big, ugly, and unforgettable. And while healing is not linear, nobody prepared us for just how twisted it can get. The falling and the crumbling and the breaking that would happen at the smallest of things and the most inconvenient of times. The feeling of an almost outlandish sense of detachment. The random bursting into tears, triggered by a particular memory. The hoping, praying, pleading to see her in my dreams. I honestly do not understand how we survived the initial months after the catastrophe.

Grieving is an intimate process; we all grieve in our individual ways.My way of grieving was being hyper creative, pushing all reminders of my loss into a dark corner and keeping myself busy with art. My sister grieved by revisiting old memories, scrolling through pictures and crying it out. My father grieved in the way fathers grieve; silently, with nary a drop of tear for anyone to see. And that is okay. It is okay to push people away and it is okay to cling to your close ones. It is okay to want to forget and it is also okay to spend hours inside your own head, replaying the fateful day in painful detail. What is not okay is to let your grief define you. You are not your grief and I am sorry you had to see such grey days, but you are more than this melancholia that clouds your heart.

Life will never be normal, but maybe it is time to redefine what normal is. Maybe normal is endless missing and still carrying on with your day. Maybe normal is asking yourself, “what would mom do?” or “how would dad feel about this?” and pretend they are still partners in our decision making. Maybe normal is laughing with our friends, and having fun, feeling the sun shine on our face and the breeze move through our hair, while also feeling a gaping lacuna in our very essence. Maybe normal is a constant lump in our throat that never seems to go. And maybe normal is remembering and forgetting all at once.