“Her absence is like the sky, spread over everything." ~C.S. Lewis
Its been two weeks since we lost Mom. She left this world the day after we heard our baby's heartbeat for the very first time, at 3:15 am, during the full lunar eclipse. The hospice nurse woke us up by knocking on our door and I made it into the living room just after she had taken her last breath. Nathan was right behind me, and my father and brother were already by her side. We did not yet know that it was her last breath, until she did not take another. I used my hands to close her eyes, like they do in the movies. We held hands and prayed, and stayed with her until 7 am when they came to take her away. I took one last photo of us together.
With the loss of Mom came a profound sadness that quickly enveloped me and now permeates everything I do. I thought it would be easier because I knew it was coming. It's not. Being awake is difficult. Sleeping is difficult. And it's there all of the time, like I'm wearing a really heavy, wet blanket.
When I returned to work after the bereavement leave, I had to call a classroom for a student. The substitute who answered was a little behind on the news and exclaimed "Congratulations!" Oh yeah, I'm pregnant I thought. Dreaming about this baby and the future does help somewhat, but is quickly followed by emptiness knowing I will not be able to share it with Mom. Not only is it a loss for me, but it's a loss for our children who will miss out on being babysat by the kindest, happiest, most patient grandmother under the sun. My heart aches knowing they will only know her through stories.
It's such a strange time in my life because what would have been the happiest time has now turned into the saddest time. One of the toughest times is when I would normally call her: on my way to work, home from work and on my lunch walks. We spoke every day of my adult life.
This loss has stirred in me more of a desire to believe in something after this life and cultivate my faith. I went to mass and a prayer event on Saturday at one church, and mass on Sunday at another. I met with a Chaplin for two hours, signed up for a grief counseling group through the church, started reading the Bible, and C.S. Lewis A Grief Observed. Still, I remain skeptical and fearful that all we have on this earth may really be all we have. If that's the case, Mom is gone forever. I don't want that. I want her to be somewhere, anywhere, and I want to be reunited with her when I die.
The Chaplin I met with hit the nail on the head when she said that I seem frustrated with myself for not having faith. I am. I want so desperately to believe, but it does not come easy to me. Just when I seem to be making progress and inching along, a question pops into my mind like "But what about the dinosaurs? Why did God create them?"
Her funeral is this Saturday, with burial (of remains, instead of internment) at Arlington National Cemetery in Riverside on Monday.