Grief: The Price We Pay For Love

"Grief is the price we pay for love." ~Queen Elizabeth II

Since my mom's death, I've been called "strong" and "graceful."

No one who's watched me try to carry a 24-pack of bottled water from my car into my house would call me strong. And no one who's seen me trip over my own feet--which I do quite often--would call me graceful.

And no one who's witnessed my more-frequent-than-normal meltdowns would call me those things, either. 

Like the panic attack that ensued after I received news I had abnormal cells in a mole on my chest. The panic attack it took me almost a day to realize had nothing to do with the abnormalities and subsequent scarring and everything to do with the fact that, despite her mental illness, Liz always switched on "mom mode" when I had any health-related issues. But she's not here anymore. I can't call her. She can't hug me and tell me everything's going to be okay. 

Or like the temper tantrum I threw after my friend Sue kindly helped me hang my mom's artwork in my dining room, bedroom, and spare bedroom. I chucked a box of Kleenex across the room and screamed to no one in particular (but actually, directly to Liz): "These aren't supposed to be here! They're supposed to be hanging at the house in Lodi. And you're supposed to be there, too." And then I sobbed, uncontrollably, in a ball on the floor for the better part of half an hour.

***

Let me preface the next paragraph by saying I genuinely appreciate--from the bottom of my heart--the calls, the texts, the cards, the Facebook likes/messages from each and every one one of you. They make my days better. They help me get through them. 

But my friend Taras has been a saving grace in a different way, and that's because he treats me like a person who didn't recently lose her mom to suicide. And, for whatever reason, he always shows up right when I need to forget about the last couple months for a minute. Or for an hour. Or for an entire evening. 

Recently, he told me I was a "bad ass." I didn't get it at first, what he meant by "bad ass" or why he considered me one. But after some thought, I realized that damn straight I'm a bad ass (which, for whatever reason, sounds cooler than strong or graceful ;)). Because I worked myself out of that panic attack. And I took care of getting that mole taken care of. Because I got myself up off the floor, dried my eyes, and took Bella for a walk around the block. 

I keep taking care of things. I keep getting up after I get knocked down. I keep trying. And I won't ever, ever stop. 

***

If I had it to do all over again, would I decide to forego the hurt and heartache but live a life that was easier and duller? No. Not in a million years. ... I would never choose a different mother.

Liz was my first friend and confidant. She was my first protector. She was the first person who'd have laid down her life to save mine. And she was the first person who loved me. 

And grief, that's the price you pay for loving someone back. Unconditionally. ... It's worth it. Even on the worst days, it's always, always worth it. 

So, as Max Lucado said: "Next time a sunrise steals your breath or a meadow of flowers leaves you speechless, remain that way. Say nothing and listen as heaven whispers: 'Do you like it? I did it just for you.'" 

Thank you, Momma. <3