I used to call it the “month of mourning” … mostly because I grew up a comic book nerd, and I love alliteration.
You see, my mother died of cancer in June 2006, one month and one day before her 65th birthday. To say that kind of a loss leaves a mark isn’t necessary. Many of us have lost parents: Biological. Adopted. Foster. Family friends. Stand-ins, you know? “Uncle” Marvin. “Aunt” Eleanor. Whomever we looked up to, whoever we loved, we’ve lost them. And when I lost mine, I can say I lost the one person who loved me unconditionally. I lost someone I could never get back, a feeling of security and strength, and, of course, love that I would never get back.
So back in the day, when that particular month and a day rolled around, I went out. And then I went out some more. And some more. And some more. Clubs. Bars. House parties. I’d flood myself with liquor, anything to dull the pain of remembering that she was gone.
Those first few years in particular were rough. I still remember the dreams. At first, she’d be there, only to disincorporate as if she were made of sand.
We cremated her. Apparently, my subconscious believed in literal processing back then.
Next came the conversations, the adventures, those moments where I forgot she was gone. She was here. With me. We laughed. We talked. We shared. We were together again. Seriously, I could fool myself into thinking she was still alive.
Until my alarm went off.
And then, in between that moment when the dream fades and the eyelids tighten, that moment when I would float back up, just before reaching the surface, I would remember. She was gone. And then I would take another moment to relive that loss. Again.
So I pushed it all away. The feelings. The conversations. The dreams. And how do you do that? By drinking until you pass out. Because, honestly, at that point, the brain’s a little too busy for another Malcolm D. Lee movie starring me and my mom. No imagery. No immersive dreamscape. Just a straight shutdown and restart the next morning.
Funny thing about that strategy. In the short term, it works. It took about five or six years, but I stopped having the dreams. I could get through the month of mourning without waking up to the heartache of remembering that my mom was dead. I could celebrate her life. I could be grateful for what time we had together, and while I’d give anything, everything, for just one more minute with her, I could be content with the time I did have.
Now, if only I could remember it.
Because that’s what I didn’t account for. All the drinking and cavorting and partying. All those long, long nights going and going until exhaustion dropped me. All the time I spent snoring in a stupor rather than actually sleeping.
I took myself out of so many memories.
The dreams I drank to oblivion were my brain’s way of reconciling my mom’s death. The anger, the pain — it was all to get me to a place where I could live with the memory of my mom without it devastating me. So that I could remember her fondly, remember all those good times. My then short-term solution had become a long-term haze in my mind.
The cost of forgetting my pain was the loss of those morning drives to school when I missed the bus. The Pizza Hut parties. Hearing The Shirelles sing “Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow” on an eight-track inside our Chevy station wagon.
I still remember the big moments, something with a true emotional impact. But it doesn’t feel like I’m part of those memories anymore. They feel more like a summary or a highlight film. I’m no longer in the Malcolm D. Lee movie. In fact, I’m at home watching the trailer for that movie on Netflix. And they’re my memories.
Why am I talking about this so close to Christmas? Well, some of you might be going through your first holiday season without a loved one. Parent, spouse — the relationship doesn’t matter. What matters is that you loved them. You wish they could be here and they aren’t. They’re gone. It sucks. And I am really, truly sorry about that.
But I can tell you two things.One, this does get better. Best advice I ever got was from a friend who lived through this. He told me that this would hurt. That it will always hurt. And it hurts because you love that person and you miss them. But as time goes by, that pain will get more and more bearable. You will learn to manage it. How to exist beside it. How not to let it consume you along with everything and everyone around you. You will learn to function with it and be happy again.
The second one is from me, so take it with a grain of salt.