A Different Woman by Carla Damron

I begin 2018 a different woman.

Last year felt nearly bipolar—incredible highs. Devastating lows. (And I’m not talking about politics—you wouldn’t want to get me started about that.)  My much labored-over novel, The Stone Necklace, won a national award. Two days before I received it, I was sitting in the hospital with my mother, wondering if I’d be able to leave town. Wondering if she’d get better. I’m thankful that she rallied and that allowed me my first visit to New Mexico where I joined the amazing women of WFWA (Women’s Fiction Writers Association). Definitely my peak for the year.

My mother had two more hospitalizations when I returned home, and the last one WAS the last one. She passed away on November 8^th. Katie Damron was an amazing, creative, opinionated, sharp-tongued, loving, passionate woman who lived a giant life. As her caretaker for the past several years, I’d had the honor of walking the final leg of her journey with her. It taught me so much about aging, and letting go, and dying.

And now I’m learning about grief.

At sixty, I’ve certainly had losses before. I’ve grieved my father, though we weren’t terribly close. I’ve mourned for pets that were like my children. I lost my favorite uncle, my sweet father-in-law, and some wonderful friends.

But nothing like this.

My priest told me to give it a year. That this process will change me. I won’t recover into who I was before, but I’ll recover into someone changed. I’m starting to see that already.

A few things I didn’t know about grief:

Weird things will make me cry. I Christmas shop in a catalog and think, “I should get that scarf for Mom,” and then …

Grief makes me stupid. Seriously. I describe it as firing on three out of four cylinders, or seven out of eight, but I rarely have all of them working for me. I forget important things. I lose my glasses (my husband would argue that that’s been a problem since he met me, which is right, but yesterday was the first time I left them IN MY CLOSET.)  I must write stuff down, stuff that should be automatic for me. My office manager has been so very patient: “Remember we have that five o’clock meeting …”

Sleep is not normal when one grieves. I’ve had weird, anxious dreams in which I am horribly late for important meetings—in jobs where I haven’t worked in years. In another dream, I brought home a Christmas tree that was four feet tall and eight feet wide and I couldn’t understand why everyone thought it odd. Diagnose that, Dr. Freud.

I am not alone in grief. Losing a parent is like suddenly joining a club NOBODY wants to belong to. “I remember when I lost my mom,” so many have said to me, and they’ve taken my hand, and I feel understood.

Holidays potentially suck when you’re grieving. I spent nearly every Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter with Mom. Thanksgiving was initially rough, but friends had us over and that was the perfect distraction. I find that making plans, and doing the holidays in a different way than before, renders them easier to manage. Jim and I must invent some new traditions, and that’s okay.

Other people want comfort from me. Mom had hundreds of theater students and many of them see her as family. Her loss devastated many beyond the small circle of our biological family. Sitting with her other “kids,” and remembering the impact she had on them, has been both sad and lovely for me. I know she lives on in them, like she’s a part of me. I hope we can be of help to each other.

Grieving may cause magical thinking. During the last hours of Mom’s life, the candidate we both wanted WON in a Virginia election, a surprising victory for a democrat. I think Mom helped that along. And if she did, there will be more surprises to come …

Managing the business of death is a PAIN IN THE BUTT, and it’s harder when you’re grieving. Mom left her affairs very much in order, but still… yikes. I’ve met with a very nice probate judge, I’ve argued with bank managers, I’ve negotiated with siblings over prized family possessions. And I have stacks of paper that need attention, with more to come. 

And perhaps the hardest one: grieving makes is nearly impossible to write. I want to do it. I need to do it. I sit in my writing spot, and I see the words just offshore, but they won’t come to me. My priest said not to worry about this. That when it’s time to write, I’ll know it, and the words will flow like water. I sure hope she’s right.

Maybe this blog will be the start?

I love a poem by Gwen Flowers about grief, which ends this way:

Grief is not a task to finish
And move on,
But an element of yourself-
An alteration of your being.
A new way of seeing.
A new definition of self.

I start 2018 a different woman, and by its end, I may have changed even more.  It’s okay though. Experiences shape us from womb to grave. That’s something else my mom taught me.

Thank you, Katie Damron.

You can learn more about my mom here: http://www.theitem.com/stories/katies-final-bow,298828

PS:  I mentioned weird dreams. Here’s the weirdest: I dreamed Jean-Claude Van Damme had been cast as Huckleberry Finn in a movie! Turns out, I half-slept through a commercial and that movie is actually COMING OUT.