It’s April, and around this time I usually get a visit from an old friend–grief. A visit that I never looked forward to until now, I understand it now. I leave the door open, but it slips through a window. The element of surprise seems to be necessary. I’m greeted with a tight hug, my eyes well up, and we take a ride down memory lane. I never understood the phrase ‘grief comes in waves’ until I was seated in the ocean.
Melandy: a nurturer who exuded bravery and courage. My mother knew the power of her imagination and she treated life like a dance. She stood five feet tall with long black hair, always decorated with delicate jewelry, and soft hands that knew to hold you without asking. The epitome of small, but mighty. She never took no for an answer. The kindest soul, but she could cut you with her words, and she did. I always wished my words would flow as eloquently as hers, and hold as much power. She always affirmed they did with, “You’re an extension of me.”
She loved the ocean and all things water. I figured it was because she was a water sign. We took so many beach trips. We biked around Siesta Key, ate lunch on the beach and awaited the sunset. Something about touching the water and listening to music was so healing. We’d dance and stuff our faces until it was time to find a spot for dinner. I usually retreated to the hotel at night because I was a moody teenager. When I lived near the beach, we would go in the middle of winter just to see the water.
During that time, I hated the rain. It seemed to ruin all of my plans and come at the most inconvenient times. She, on the other hand, cancelled plans to bask in its glory. “Wanna watch a movie?” she would ask while coming around the corner with a blanket in hand and the grin of a child. “Oh! We need Raisinets and popcorn.” We hadn’t chosen a movie so, of course, a quick store run wouldn’t hurt. After scouring the store for snacks, we would choose a romance movie and finally press play. Usually something about a writer falling in or out of love and going on a journey around the world. I would watch her rub her feet together and fall asleep while I was left to bawl my eyes out. Most of the time it was something she’d already seen, so we could still discuss it later. I learned that rain prompted the best rest from her.
On school mornings, we left early and opted for breakfast. We didn’t always make it to our destinations on time, but we did try. We sang Beyonce’ and took brief intermissions when grabbing our food. It was like morning karaoke and it set us up to have a good day. We exchanged long hugs and cheek kisses. I learned that the coffee aroma can change the trajectory of your morning. Now, I sometimes order a coffee with precisely four creamers and four sugars. Not because I love it, but because it reminds me of those moments.
We were both writers who sat in coffee shops for hours; I wrote scripts and she wrote books. She taught me that if there was something trivial, I didn’t want to speak about, it was better for it to live on the page than inside. We talked about forgiveness and making peace with your past. Letting go of things that feel too heavy because we aren’t required to carry them around, and finding joy in the present because that is what really matters. We discussed our dreams, she dreamed of love, travel, and creative expression–all of which had already come to fruition, so it was more of an expression of gratitude.
When my mom got sick, we shaved our heads together (with the help of my dad and sister), and we dyed our botched cuts honey blonde. I disenrolled from school and spent more time at home. It was my way of trying to distract her from starting chemo and reminding her that we’d still do everything together. We spoke life into each other. Mine about her health, hers about my dreams. I still remember my grandad’s look of concern. “When are you growing your hair back out?” I could only laugh because I knew it was out of love. She covered hers with wigs, and I experimented with colors. Eventually, she rang the bell, and we put chemo behind us, looking forward to a fresh start with weeks of radiation ahead.
Later, the cancer came back, but we weren’t aware. It was my Spring break, and I was preparing to leave the country, but I wanted to see my mommy before I left. If I’d known, I never would have. I arrived home from college in the middle of the night, and I squeezed into bed with her like I did as a young child. The morning after, we chatted while I got ready. On the eighth day of the trip I got a call, not good news. I was still two flights and an hour drive away from home. I sobbed inside our hotel room and on the rooftop trying to piece together what was happening.
I arrived at the hospital and tried to find an ounce of hope while staring at doctors with blank faces uttering the words “I don’t know” and “We aren’t completely sure,” while simultaneously asking us to choose between hospice and another round of chemo. This was the only time I wished I had chosen a career in the medical field instead of the arts. “Neither!” is what I wanted to shout, but it wasn’t their fault. Instead, I climbed into the small hospital bed. My body folded as if it were the size of four-year-old me as opposed to the 21-year-old woman that lay next to her. I stayed there with her for hours until she whispered, “You’re hurting me.”
That is the only thing that made me get up, otherwise I would’ve lived in that bed with her. “You smell like you’ve been traveling,” she muttered. Her side eye was lethal. I didn’t know if my mom would be there for me to see her, so yes, the “smell of travel” was her telling me nicely to get my behind in a shower quickly. However, I didn’t leave.
Over the next twelve days, my dad, my sister and I spent hours at the hospital. I was too afraid to leave. I knew what was happening, but I was in denial. I was pleading to God and thinking that if I was there, I could change the outcome. When Mom was awake and talkative, we cuddled. We sang songs quietly and talked about everything under the sun. One day, I sat reading, and my sister watched a video. She was over the protein shakes and sat up slightly, “Let’s go outside.” I got up and walked toward the door to go get a nurse. “No, just us.” Clearly, we were not supposed to do this, but I was just glad she was speaking and ready for an adventure. We felt like we were getting away with something. We packed up her oxygen tank and placed her in a wheelchair. The nurses waved to us, and we left. We sat outside under the sun and took pictures. Our last outing before I was a motherless daughter.
Afterward, I gave my voice away. I packed it neatly and decided there was nothing left for me to say–to anyone. The ray of sunshine that I once was morphed into a cynic with a slither of hope. Grief came in waves, and I was in fact seated in the ocean. It expelled all of its memories onto me, and I sank deeper into its wave with each word. I told myself I would not drown. I knew how to swim. Yet, once again, I was spun around and left to gasp for air. My dreams and aspirations seemed miniscule and the only motivation I had to finish school was that, even if she couldn’t say it, I knew my mom would be proud of me. She dreamed of love, travel, and creative expression–I could live the dream for her.
As I reminisce three years later, I no longer feel like I am drowning in the middle of the ocean, I have somehow learned to float.
When others experience loss, I desperately want to tell them something beautiful and poetic. I want to tell them that the journey will be worth it, and you will come out better on the other side. There must be something magical to say, something I wished to hear. I wished to hear nothing, so I opt for long hugs, and I whisper, “I love you.” I know that everyone’s journey will be different. I like to believe that the words I wish to say fill the silence:
“There is both beauty and pain in not knowing what happens next. If you let it, it will consume you. If you give up on your life…if you begin to overlook the little moments, grief will no longer come in waves, and you too will be seated in the ocean. Don’t worry, if you are, you are not alone. One day you will realize that we are only a moment, and it is a privilege to remember.”
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