Written by Quinn Terry - Staff Editor and Contributor

Grief is a funny thing.

I know, I know - that seems like an odd thing to say, but it’s true. Everyone has an opinion on what grieving should be, and it’s never what you expect. It keeps you guessing - it takes you through dizzying ups and downs. Some days, it disappears altogether and fools you into a false sense of security. But don’t worry, it’s never quite gone. It’ll return when you least expect it. I have found that some people grieve quietly, turning inward until they almost disappear. Others rage against the pain they cannot see, refusing to give in quietly, begging for something physical to hit, to bleed, to feel. Some do a bit of both - others meet it head on, daring their grief to consume them. They don’t give in to the grief, they merely place their burden squarely across their shoulders and take each day one step at a time. They don’t think beyond the next breath.

I don’t know which one I am, but I’ve felt them all. Like I said, grief is funny - and I should know, I’ve had a lifetime to think about it. My father passed away two weeks before my second birthday. Now, this is a grief that isn’t all that hard, as I don’t have any substantial memories to go on. There are no shared moments to grieve, no traits to miss, no echoes to feel. I wouldn’t even know what he looked like if it weren’t for the pictures I have of him. After a childhood of feeling vague jealousy any time another kid would talk about their dad and wondering why my mom wouldn’t get out of bed most days, I got cocky. I thought I could handle any loss life happened to throw my way - I couldn’t fathom any new kind of loss. What more could I go through? My first memory of my father, and all of the following, are of a gravestone. Placing little shells on the cold granite, bringing him the cigarettes mom said he loved. People have pitied me because of this for my entire life...would adding another loss really make a difference? These are the arrogant thoughts that passed through my mind.

So when my mother died and I completely fell apart, I was confused. We’d never gotten along, our relationship was barely functional, and I’d said I wouldn’t feel a damn thing if she died. Nevertheless, I found myself seated by her hospital bed for two days, caring for the woman I’d decided to hate years prior, and I sobbed. I wept, I sang to her, and I yelled. The doctors told me that the aneurysm had destroyed most of her brain. They looked at me like I was a monster when I said to take her off of the machines. I didn’t have to think - I knew she hated being in that hospital bed. I’d decided to feel nothing at all. It’s easier to feel nothing. Besides, I had work to do - a funeral to plan and ashes to scatter at the beach. I’m sure people thought I handled it well, and I remember pretending I was made of stone during the service. An impenetrable wall that let nothing in. The issue with walls is that they don’t let anything out, either. And I was so, so angry. I am always angry.

I’m still not quite sure how I’m making it, but I am. Slowly. Painfully, most of the time. I am quiet, then loud; I cry and I laugh from one moment to the next. I joke about it, probably more than I should. The one thing I’ve learned, though? Grieving when you’re a woman is a treacherous tightrope. You can’t be too angry, and you can’t dwell on it for too long. You must cry softly in public, and wailing is not appropriate. Your grief must be gentle, feminine. It must wear black doilies and speak softly. Pictures of fainting on a velvet settee come to mind. I thought this shit had died out, y’all, but apparently the norms regulating female grief stayed in the Victorian era. Oh, and if you don’t cry at all at your mother’s funeral because you have to sing and you had to plan all of it and you just need to make it through this one day? People think you’re a cold and unfeeling bitch. All the while, you’re just trying to survive.

Most importantly, you are never, ever supposed to talk about how your mom wasn’t perfect. Because moms are always good, right? The thing is, mine wasn’t good all the time, or even most of the time. So what am I supposed to do? This is the question that’s haunted me for over two years. I still don’t have an answer. Mom missed my father for my entire life, and I missed her every second she was around because she was never actually there. She turned to a lot of substances to get her through life, and now that I’m older I know it was hard. I know she was depressed, and I know that she had addictions. But when I was a kid, I didn’t get it and I shouldn’t have had to try.

And I think that’s why I’m so damn angry - because despite gathering my pride and telling myself I didn’t like my mom, I’m still that little kid who hasn’t given up on her yet. I loved my mother so much: the way she twirled her hair when she was thinking, her toe rings with little flowers, and her love for ZZ Top. I noticed every little thing about the woman that made me, and despite her weaknesses I loved her. But in the end, she didn’t have the energy to care like I did. She couldn’t, and that’s why I pushed her away. Every day I wanted her to love me the way I loved her, and she didn’t. Don’t get me wrong, she loved me as much as she was able to, but I was never satisfied. Still, I always had hope that she would be who I wanted her to be. A selfish kid’s fantasy, maybe, but it’s what I held on to. I always had a big imagination.

So when she died, I knew I’d never get the chance to see her be better. For herself or for me. My grief is two-fold - I grieve the mother I had while yearning for the mother I’ll never get. She died a week before her two year mark for being clean, that’s some irony for you. She left me before she was supposed to, and I don’t know that I’ll ever forgive her for that. It doesn’t make sense, I know it doesn’t. Grief doesn’t make sense though, so forgive me for still holding a grudge.

Every milestone hurts, just a little bit. I don’t get parents on my wedding day, they’ll never hear me sing again, I don’t get to watch my mom get healthy for the first time in a long time, and I didn’t walk when I graduated college because they couldn’t be there. I can never ask them about anything ever again. I never asked much to begin with. There are so many questions I should have asked.

Despite this, my grief is not always a hard and angry thing. I think of my parents very often. They are in every beat of my heart, every breath in my lungs, every hair on my head. As long as I’m alive, so are they. My mother told me so many things about dad before she was gone. She used to say that he was the moon, looking down on us every night, because the stars weren’t big enough to express what he was in life. Every sunrise and sunset was a masterpiece, and he used a paintbrush in heaven to color my day with joy. Every time I see a sky full of riotous color, I imagine them together again, racing through the clouds to color my day with the most bittersweet beauty. It hurts, it always will. But I swear, sometimes I’ll feel a breeze on my cheek and know they are with me.

I think of my parents very often. They are in every beat of my heart, every breath in my lungs, every hair on my head.

Some days, it’s enough. I work hard to make them proud, and mom sings to me through the radio with her favorite songs while dad smiles at me from the surface of the moon. They are here, I am proof. And when I’m angry, I know they are with me then too. I don’t apologize for it. I make room for my grief, and I do not lay down quietly. Somehow, I know that’s how they want it. Their brown-haired girl yelling to the sky, refusing to forget them.

Grief is a funny thing, and dammit, I’m going to keep on laughing.

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Life After Loss: What I Learned About Grief

Written by Quinn Terry - Staff Editor and Contributor