Entering Grief

It's been almost two months since Michael's mother, Marti, died unexpectedly, leaving us sad and reeling. Because of a cascade of other unrelated life events that followed, I am just now getting around to writing thank-you notes to the cloud of support that has buoyed us.  Friends watched our children when we most needed respite, flowers arrived to cheer us, freezer meals stockpiled so we wouldn't need to worry about the day-to-day details, prayers, messages, and cards came in droves. 


And then there were friends and family that came to Marti's service.  It wasn't just the day of work they took off to make the drive on a weekday, or even flights they booked just to make sure we were okay. It was the way they studied the picture displays to know Marti better; the hugs they gave to me and Michael's family.  They let us cry and smudge makeup on their nice clothes, they held our hands that had stored snotty wads of tissues. There were long embraces, there were big men crying. They entered in our grief with us, and that is a profound gift.  It's painful to watch people in the crisis of raw grief, knowing you can't make it better.  It's sad, it's exhausting, it's difficult.  And for some of our friends there, it stirred up their own pain as well, as a few of them had recently lost their own immediate family members.  And yet, there they were, right by our side.


Thank you all for everything you have done, and for sharing a piece of our grief with us.  It has truly made the load of sadness a little lighter for us.  Please know that every word of every note and card has been read, every message heard, every hug embraced, every prayer felt, and we are humbled that you would enter into this place with us.


I have been to too many funerals, of friends and family, and of little ones that I cared for in my role as a pediatric hospice nurse.  I was always baffled how family members could have the courage and composure to deliver eulogies.  But on November 14th, I stood up in front of the chapel, and announced that I would try, because Marti always accepted me exactly where I was, and she wouldn't mind my awkward sobs and tears amidst my words that day.  She read my writing faithfully, and I wouldn't miss the opportunity to share my words with her one more time.  So, for her, this is what I wrote:

"I had great honor of being Marti’s only daughter-in-law.

On the first Mother’s Day that I celebrated with Marti, I wrote something in her card that she needed to know.  I told her that when Michael and I were dating, he frequently pointed out that it was his Mom who taught him how to treat a woman with respect.  He always opened my car door for me.  He always held my hand.  He listened to me.  And he never, ever went digging through a woman’s purse, because you never knew what you were going to find.  “It was very important to my Mom that I knew how to treat women well,”  Michael would say.  And so I thanked Marti, not just for the doors that were opened for me over the years, but for influencing the man that Michael is today.

The other thing that Michael told me about Marti was that she was very protective of her family.  Val verified this and often described her as a mother bear- if her kids are in danger of being hurt, I was told, watch out.  She will swoop down and protect her babies.  I listened to their descriptions of Marti’s fierce commitment to her family with wide eyes and the slightest bit of trepidation.

But Marti was nothing but warm, smiling, and incredibly respectful to me, and to absolutely everyone around her.  She graciously welcomed me into their lives, boldly defended me against Wes’s teasing, and it wasn’t long until I, too, felt protected by the Mama Bear that was Mama C.

Soon after Michael and I were married, Michael underwent kidney surgery.  For those of you who have been the ones holding vigil in hospital waiting rooms, you understand how fragile emotions can be.  Everyone worries that something will go wrong.  Watching your loved one be wheeled away to the OR is one of the most helpless feelings.  When Michael came out of surgery, they only allowed one person to enter his room.  I stood outside the door with Wes, Marti, and Val, unsure of what to do.  They, after all, were his family.  But the three of them gently pushed me forward.  “Go,” they said, “you’re his wife, go in,” and they waited outside the room.  That gentle nudge was the most sacrificial of gestures.  Michael’s family had put my role as a wife ahead of theirs as his family. 

As a mother of two young boys, I am beginning to understand what it is about the bond between mothers and their sons, the desire to hold onto them for so long, to parent them, even baby them, for as long as possible.  But the thing about Marti is that as much as I knew she wanted to hold onto Michael, she so freely passed along the caring to me.  Never once was I offered an opinion, suggestion, criticism, or any indication that I could be making a better choice about something.  She fully supported me as his wife and trusted me with her son.

Marti loved us with so much respect, tenderness, openness, faithfulness, and generosity.  I remember pulling out of the driveway  after Michael and I had spent a weekend at his parents' home.   Marti was crying on the front sidewalk.  Wes had a tender arm around her shoulder, kissed her cheek, and said, “it’s okay, Marti, they’ll be back again soon.”  Now it is our turn to look back, hold each other, cry, and say goodbye for a while.

Thank you Mama C, for raising the most respectful, generous, affectionate, devoted man, the man that I had waited for and prayed for all my life.  Thank you for so generously supporting me as his wife, and loving me as your own.  It really is because of you that I am this happy.   And because of being without you that I am so, so sad."