I promise I’ll get through the processing, eventually. Obviously, as a writer, this is the place I process best. And, obviously, still in the throes of losing my mom (and on a post-surgical break from mostly everything), my brain is working overtime. Trust me, I also think, “man, it’d be cool if I could focus on something (anything) else for a minute.” On the flip side, the idea of thoughts of my mom fading is almost as sad as experiencing them.
Will the world keep turning if I don’t think about my mom 24/7? Of course, it will–but my heart isn’t buying into that just yet.
When Rich’s mom died, a very unexpected question popped into our heads quite frequently:
Where is everyone?
It’s no secret that traumatic events have a way of flushing out those who will show up and those who won’t. The latter can be a brutal pile of salt in a gaping wound that overshadows the kindness of the former. This is not my first rodeo with that question, where is everyone?. A decade ago when my brother’s motorcycle met the front of a truck, I learned quickly that there were those who would show and those who would not.
There were surprises in both directions.
Throughout the grief of losing Rich’s mom and then my own, we have found the same–there are those who will show up and those who will not. I suppose the blessing of the emotional chaos and confusion of traumatic events is that those who do not show up remain unnoticed for a while–until their absence is noticed and it hits like a punch to the broken heart.
If you had asked me a year ago who would be leading the charge in packing up my mother-in-law’s life, I would have left my name off the list. Instead, my name landed in slot number one. Where is everyone? I showed up. I had no problem showing up. I showed up without so much as a thought in order to give my husband as much space to grieve as he needed. Still, I often asked, where is everyone?
Where is everyone?
This question hung over my husband and I for months as we packed away his mother’s life into cardboard boxes and fixed lingering home maintenance issues and met with realtors and filled holes left from picture hangers and painted walls. This question hung over us as we tracked down items specifically called out in her will, meant to be given to specific people. Where are those people? Where is everyone?
It was a stupid question to ask. It was a stupid question to have to ask. We learned that when people don’t show up on day one, that should be your expectation going forward.
The glitter silver lining came in the form of those friends who did show up. Many had never even met Rich’s mother and, yet, they showed up.
Of course, there were endless tasks that reached beyond our friends’ abilities–tasks meant for relatives but, where were they? We were too exhausted and stunned and sad to chase them down in the initial weeks following Rich’s mother’s death. When we finally did have a sliver of mental bandwidth, well, it almost felt like begging.
We shouldn’t have to beg, right? Where is everyone?
My mother died six weeks ago. My mother died six months after Rich’s. And so, once again, that question returned…where is everyone?
Actually, that question has been swirling in conversations for months–more so since my mom entered hospice last April. This wasn’t new. I was asked repeatedly if either of my siblings were spending as much time on I-95 as me. No, but it’s fine. What about the grandchildren? No, but it’s fine.
Where is everyone?
Oh, she wasn’t that close to my mother. Oh, I think he will come later. It’s fine, I don’t mind. Everybody handles these things differently. No, it’s fine. They just have a lot going on. It’s fine. I think they’ll come later, closer to the end probably. It’s fine.
I think back to the sharp reprimand of my sister-in-law two years ago. I’d called in tears, frustrated and scared as Mom went back into the hospital. Stop bothering your brother and start appreciating the fact that you live so close.
It’s fine. Not everybody shows up equally.
On one hand, the crickets have been loud during the last six months. On the other, we’ve found support from the most unexpected places. We are learning to focus on those who showed up but, in grief, that can be challenging. It is easy to stuff down sadness and opt for anger. Anger is so much easier than sadness. Anger feels much less hopeless than sadness. Anger comes with a finger that can be pointed at its source where sadness is murky and suffocating.
As my mother’s death grew closer, my thoughts often landed on how it would feel to finally cross paths with my brother again or how my sister might react to the news. Would they understand my loss? Would I understand theirs? Would this finally produce the moment needed to move forward together rather than apart?
Seven weeks ago yesterday, I lost one of the most important people in my life. The crickets are loud.
Where is everyone?
One of my most beautiful friends has walked beside me as I’ve tried to navigate the answer to that question. “You are an empath,” she’s explained, “And those people are not. You cannot look for compassion from people who do not have the capacity to give it.”
Where is everyone?
They are right there.
All you have to do is look for the ones who show up.