A Mixture of Grief and Relief
Realizing the tremendous toll caring for both my parents over the past decade had taken on me, I knew I had to take self-care steps as I managed my grief after my mom's death
I do not have a good track record with grief.
After my only sibling died of cancer complications more than a decade ago, I got too caught up in dealing with her affairs, her devastated three young adult sons, my mourning parents and so many other matters. It wasn't until months later that an emotional tsunami hit and it wasn't pretty.
Then a couple of years ago, after my dad's fatal stroke, I tried to stay open to grieving and not deflect my emotions by attending to so many tasks. But, still, there were so many tasks, and so much territory to navigate for my mother.
Those two deaths were sudden. My mom's passing, however, was a slow-motion decline. She had been engulfed by, as one doctor put it, a battery of "insults to her body" that culminated with hospice care in an assisted living facility before she took her last breath at age 87 on April 24, 2023.
During my mother's last several months, I felt a clinging sense of sadness and burden, as if I were in a fog bearing an anchor as she inched painfully downward with no known cure.
I was the only immediate family member left to tend to her ongoing emotional, physical, mental, financial and spiritual needs. Even though she received superb care from the health care providers in her last few months, the struggle rode hard with me, perhaps more so since I am a guy not known for his emotional vulnerability.
Studies show that more men — albeit still a minority — are acting as caregivers, but as a man in his 60s, I have had few role models. In many such cases, daughters-in-law might step in. That didn't seem fair to me. My wife, Sherry, was tremendously supportive; I could not have managed without her. But I needed to take responsibility for overseeing my mother's care, especially when she was in constant pain while living at home before we managed to get her into a health care facility.
A Sense of Sadness
During my mother's last several months, I felt a clinging sense of sadness and burden, as if I were in a fog bearing an anchor as she inched painfully downward with no known cure. Throughout, I battled conflicting feelings. Be the good son. Do the right thing. Show patience, care and compassion as she struggled to accept her ever narrowing world.
I knew I had to reorganize my life's priorities so I could devote more attention, thought and energy to the woman who'd given me life while juggling my work as the publisher of a city magazine division and the precious time spent with Sherry and our family.
In weak moments, resentment seeped in as each passing day was one less devoted to the plan Sherry and I had been working toward: to spend even more time with our children and their families who lived out of state. My feelings of unfairness turned to guilt and a tad of shame. Even the thought of taking a break was like getting in the ring to beat myself up.
On occasion, I was overwhelmed by figuring out what to do, and a wave of emotion would sweep over me as I uncharacteristically broke down in tears a couple of times.
On occasion, I was overwhelmed by figuring out what to do, and a wave of emotion would sweep over me as I uncharacteristically broke down in tears a couple of times. Was I really making the best choices in my mother's care? Doubt was a frequent companion. All of this fueled the insidious exhaustion quietly taking residence in me.
It felt as if I were grieving while my mom was still alive. And I didn't know how to deal with these feelings and experiences that were so different from the deaths of my other family members.
Reaching Out for Help
One day Sherry asked me who I depended on for support. There was only one person. "You," I said. I knew I couldn't continue to lay my burden solely on her. So, counter to my upbringing, cultural expectations and lack of self-awareness, I reached out to a hospice counseling service.
Then a funny thing happened after my first call to a bereavement counselor. We didn't connect immediately due to long lags between voicemails. It seemed like a sitcom scene. Emotionally challenged man finally opens his window of vulnerability and no one is there to listen.
Finally, I talked to a counselor who coaxed me into sharing thoughts I only had discussed with Sherry, and she emphatically listened as I unloaded my guilt and frustration. As I spoke, it became clear that I was not only dealing with my mother's current plight, but also the toll of caring for both of my parents over the past decade.
She confirmed that it was possible to grieve before a death, and the feelings had a name: anticipatory loss. And it was good to call now since most people wait until after a passing to deal with their emotions. She assured me my conflicted feelings were OK and that it's normal to realize your life is on hold. And she helped me understand that despite my doubts and concerns, I carried a strong sense of compassion for my mother as I helped her search for peace and acceptance.
'Self-Care Is Not Selfish'
Then came the headline, the salve, the big takeaway. "Self-care is not selfish," she said. You need to take care of yourself so you can take care of others.
Sometimes, however, my mom will appear in a dream; I'm surprised (you're here!) and alarmed (who's caring for you?).
I know this is nothing new. Self-care has been a mantra for many years. But in my world of baby boomer men, those words are rarely spoken. This clarity and assurance while talking to a therapist lessened the fog and the weight. I felt some measure of relief and, taking the counselor's advice, I joined Sherry on a couple of short trips to embrace the love and joy of my grandchildren.
As the months have passed since my mom's death, there's a mix of relief and grief. Relief that the suffering and uncertainty for her are done. Grief over a nagging sense of absence; the people, my parents, who had always been there, in whatever manner that took, are gone. There is a lingering emptiness. Sometimes, however, my mom will appear in a dream; I'm surprised (you're here!) and alarmed (who's caring for you?).
Then the other day an older loved one ended up in the emergency room. For a moment, the same surge of acute anxiety I felt during my mother's ceaseless traumas rushed over me.
It passed, but I'm sure it will happen again.
And that's OK.
Unlike after the deaths of my dad and sister, this time I'm accepting and embracing my grief. Or at least really trying to.
