Grieving and Parents

I went out on a business dinner tonight. I drove myself there and then, when I drove myself back home, it was after dark. I went to an event where I did not know many people. If this does not sound difficult then you didn't know Mama. I made myself go because I need to get out and need to be busy (and I always enjoy a good meal--especially one I don't have to cook). And I need to avoid becoming her.

On the way home tonight I realized that when my father died my mother was only four years older than I am now. You would have thought she was so much older because from the day he died until her own death 17 years later, it was as if she never stopped wearing black or acting like a very, very old woman. She acted as if life was over because he was gone. Her life would never be the same and would probably be much worse.

My siblings and I and many of her friends and relatives spent a lot of time encouraging her to get out, meet people, take a part-time job, volunteer--anything to make her life more enjoyable. It was all in vain because she always had an answer. She couldn't drive at night. She couldn't go to that neighborhood. She couldn't go if the weather was bad and they'd never understand that. Taxi? Do you know what they cost and the kind of people who drive them? I once suggested she go out on a date and I thought she was going to slap me. How could I suggest anything so disloyal to my father?

She was determined to stay miserable, and never missed an opportunity to talk about how lonely she was, how she missed going out at night. There were problems and her night vision really was lousy, but mostly she just couldn't stop being the grieving widow. She was also angry about being left alone, forgetting that her husband, who was ten years older than her, would most certainly die before her even if he had not had cancer. And she maintained that attitude for 17 years.

Today I am much more sympathetic with Mama's loss because I now understand what it's like to lose someone who has been such an integral part of your life and identity and everyday existence. Today, I also, much more than I did back then, appreciate the fear she must of felt about living alone--and especially about surviving financially. My father left almost nothing to her except a paid for house and a decent, but high-mileage, used car, having borrowed to the limit on almost every life insurance policy he had so he could raise five children and put them through Catholic schools. (Why she ever thought five children would let her go poor is beyond my comprehension.)

I am determined that I will not allow myself to be as consumed with grief as she was, no matter what problems I may face. My outlook this week is lousy. I feel more emotionally vulnerable than I did three months ago. But I will not allow myself to become what she was. Right now I am probably as afraid of the future as she was, which concerns me more than I can express, but it won't be a life like hers.