Mother's Heartbreak

A Story of Addiction & Loss

Tag: holidays and grief (Page 1 of 2)

Grief Takes No Holiday

November 23, 2023 /

Matt,  today is Thanksgiving,  my 8th without you.  You would think after all this time the weight would be lighter.  The grief would have lessened it’s grip on my heart.  

I woke today with that familiar lump in my throat.  That feeling of choking that has become a part of life since you left.  I wanted to stop and scream that I just can’t do this anymore.   

I have so much to be grateful for.  Today, Mike and Heather are coming over.  It’s the first time since Covid that we will be spending a holiday together.   He’s frying the turkey like he did your last Thanksgiving at home.  If I close my eyes I can see both of you standing together outside by the fryer, your breath floating in the air as you laughed at a private joke 

Oh how I wish you were here.   How I wish I could look out my window and see you both standing side by side.  How I wish you would walk in my door yelling Hey Mom we need some help. 

Today my grief will be mixed with gratefulness.  Missing your presence at the table.  Your smile. Your voice.  Missing your teasing about my cooking.   I will be grateful for the presence of your brother.  Some of his mannerisms are so much like yours.  The tilt of his head.  How he speaks using his hands.   The way he stands around the table guarding the turkey before everyone gets to praise him for his masterpiece.

I never saw a time when you would not be here.  Never ever imagined the emptiness your absence would create.  I will forever long for your presence.  

I pray Thanksgiving in Heaven is beautiful.  That you are surrounded by love, peace and light.  That one day our souls will be reunited and my heart will be full once again  💕

 

Grateful With A Side Of Grief

November 25, 2022 /

Matt,  Thanksgiving is over.  Today is full of reflection.  Our gathering yesterday was a far cry from those days before your death.   The days when the house was full of family, friends and laughter.  

Over the years our family has grown smaller either through death or conflict.   It was a blessing to have Aunt Mary at 90 be healthy enough to join us for dinner.  It was a blessing to have our long time friends and Rays daughter and her new fiancé share the day with us.  Rather than a houseful of people we had 6 for which I am thankful. 

Please don’t get me wrong I have much to be thankful for.   I’m thankful for all the years we had together.   I’m grateful for all those beautiful holidays we celebrated as a family.  Grateful for having you and your brother sitting around the table grabbing pieces of turkey feeding them to the pups.  Thankful for all those lazy days we spent by the sea.  For our talks and walks sharing life.   I’m thankful for all those beautiful memories we made but grieving that there will be no more. 

I’m grateful  you spent those last years of your life living with me but broken that your life was cut short and you no longer walk through the door or hug me good night.  I’m grieving your empty chair and your handsome face that is now missing from family photos.  I’m grateful I took so many pictures as they have become precious treasures.  

I’m grateful I had the chance to support you through your disease.  I’m grateful you knew you were loved.   I’m grieving  that I know more now than I did then and I wonder how life would be today if I had that knowledge when we needed it most. 

I’m grateful for your life.  Grateful to have been your mom.  Grateful that I was able to watch you grow from a baby into a man.  Grateful to have shared your dreams and watched as you made them come true.   I’m grieving the dreams we had for your recovery.  For a future wife and children to fill our lives with joy.  

I feel like I’m severed in two pieces.   Both grateful and grieving as I continue to navigate this path trying to figure out how to survive this life…….

 

Fractured

November 12, 2022 /

Matt,  the holidays are approaching and I feel like I’m drowning.

I’m surprised that after surviving 8 years of holidays without you my heart continues to ache. 

There are so many things I’m trying to juggle.  I feel like letting those balls shatter on the ground while I walk away from it all. Time I’ve found is no help as the holidays coming remain as brutal as ever.  

I feel like I’m fractured.  Broken in half.  The before and after, the then and now dance through my mind everyday.  Memories of what used to be.  The laughter, the love, the togetherness fractured like my soul.  

The Monday before Thanksgiving I have my CT scan looking for any sign of returning cancer.  The thought takes my breath away as I remember the healthy me before that dreaded C word became a part of my life.  The holidays were tough enough without this hanging over my head.  Grieving you, grieving me, grieving the holidays that used to be.

Your brother is distant.  I know he shares my grief.  I had hoped we could be a comfort to each other as time went on.  I had hoped that my diagnosis would have us clinging to each other as we are all that’s left of us. Sadly the opposite is true.  I grieve for the relationship I Imagined but do not have.  I wonder if I will survive long enough to see it change.

If someone had told me I’d be living this life I would have laughed and walked away.  Never in my wildest dreams did I see this coming.  Never did I think your addiction would be fatal and our dreams for the future would be crushed on that cruel, cold, January morning so many years ago. 

Never did I think I would be struggling to find my footing on unstable ground.  Never did I think my world would be so unbelievably full of sadness that time is powerless to heal.  I saw things so differently when I thought about life and growing older.  I saw family celebrating the holidays together.  I heard laughter, imagined smiling faces as we gathered around the Thanksgiving table.  I imagined a life of making new memories as the holidays came and went.  

The reality is your death fractured my life.  Blindsided us both, crushing the future I envisioned.  Now, I continue to hold onto memories hoping they become a healing balm soothing my raw edges allowing peace to enter and carry me through life without you  💔

 

It’s So Much More Than Just A Tree

December 25, 2021 /

For so many the holidays are a time of cheer.  Decorating homes and family gatherings are a huge part of everyone’s plans.  The expectation of a perfect holiday season is evident every where you look.  From the Hallmark Christmas movies that play 24/7 to the Christmas music that starts before Thanksgiving begins. 

Seven years ago my holiday celebration came to an abrupt halt.  My youngest son, Matt lost his battle with addiction.  I was so broken that hearing  “I’ll Be Home For Christmas” left me running out of the grocery store with tears running down my face.  

Prior to his death, Christmas was my favorite holiday.  I was that person who decorated every room in my house.  I was that person singing Christmas Carols and watching every episode of Home Alone over and over.  I would immerse myself in finding the perfect gift for everyone on my list.  My kids called me the crazy Christmas lady and I loved it. 

After Matt’s death, nothing mattered.  My only decoration on display was my nativity set. I gave away our tree to a needy family and never put up another. The holidays became a painful reminder of his absence.  We were no longer that happy family gathered around the tree in past holiday photos. 

The years went by.  Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years became days I learned to survive.  I’d go to church. Have family and friends over.  Going through the expected traditions all with a broken heart. 

I don’t remember when my heart began to heal.  I don’t know how or why I began to feel joy.  Or when the memories of prior holidays began to become less painful.  I do know it snuck up on me.  Hearing Christmas music while grocery shopping no longer sent me running for cover.  Seeing trees brightly lit caught my attention as I stood before them remembering trees that once graced my hallway. 

My healing has been a slow process. I’ve read that losing a child demolishes you.  If you have ever witnessed a demolition you know that what was once whole has been completely destroyed.  The process of rebuilding especially when it’s a life can and does take years. 

I’ve learned grief has no time frame. Grief doesn’t up and leave after you survive all those firsts as society wants you to believe.  I’ve learned I had to acknowledge my loss, live my loss, feel every bit of my pain before I could once again begin to feel the joy the holiday season can bring.

This year a beautiful tree graces my hallway.  The white lights remind me of twinkling starts.  My Nativity set is at home on the mantel. Santa’s and snowmen have found their way out of boxes to fill once empty spaces.

I know Christmas Day will continue to hold a painful reminder that Matt won’t be home to celebrate.  I know there will be tears.  This year there will also be joy as I sit near my tree that symbolizes not only Christmas but my healing heart.  ♥️🎄

Some Days You Just Have To Cry

June 3, 2021 /

Matt,   Memorial Day weekend has come and gone.   The weather mimicking my soul.  The day was cold and dreary.   A typical Memorial Day weekend in Delaware. My mind kept going back to happier, sunny days when I would drive to the beach to spend the weekend with you.  

We always found a way to avoid the crowds as you hated when “those tourist” invaded your piece of paradise.   I can still hear your voice complaining about the people and the traffic.   I’d let you vent and then remind you I was one of “those tourists”.

Those bittersweet memories became a trigger.   The more I remembered, the closer the grief crept in.   Like one of those completely unexpected rouge waves that hits out of the blue and drops you to your knees.  

The wave of grief so powerful I felt like I was choking.  Like my breath had been sucked out of my lungs as I was being pulled under by its strength.   The reality that we would never share another Memorial Day together, that I would never make that trip again, that I would never walk into your house to see your smiling, tan face was too much for my heart to handle.

I was shocked at how my body responded as those waves continued to wash over my soul.  They call it muscle memory and my muscles were in full gear of remembrance.  That familiar choking sensation returned.   That feeling of hopelessness.  Of dread.  The pain radiating from my broken heart.  I was helpless to stop the physical response to the wave of absolute sadness that enveloped my soul.  

I used to try to fight my way through these tough days.   I’d tell myself that I was being crazy.   That my grief should have lost some of its power over the last 6 years.  I try to convince myself that I should be able to handle these memories without going to pieces.   That what society says about grieving is true.   We should be able to wrap it up in a pretty package and place it on a shelf.   That time should heal broken mothers.  

The reality is that grief knows no time frame.   Those waves are churning always ready to hit without warning.   Grief makes no sense.   It hides in our souls forever present waiting to pounce on our unsuspecting hearts.  

That day, I allowed the dam to break.   I let those waves wash over me as I cried my heart out.   I cried for you and all you were missing in this life.   I cried for me knowing that memories are all I have left of us.   I cried and cried and cried until I had no more tears left to shed.   

I could feel the waves subsiding.   Heading back out to sea.  I felt a calm returning.  My breath becoming regular.  

I’m learning that some days I must anchor myself letting those waves wash over my heart.   I’ve learned I need to feel the pain of what will never be.   After years of struggling to suppress  my grief I’ve come to realize that some days I just need to cry…………

 

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