Grief Bombs

I’ve been missing the sound of my mom and Daryl’s voices. I’ve not been able to listen to any of his voicemails (not that he left many), watch home videos or listen to the many, many podcast episodes he left behind. I think it’s because hearing their voice would make me think they are still alive somehow, and having to hear it and then remind myself for the millionth time that’s not so. They both were so verbal, their voices and opinions were so much of both of their identities.

It’s like that scene in Back to the Future, when Marty is playing Johnny B. Goode on guitar at his parents’ prom and is simultaneously watching himself slowly disappear from a family photo. The premise is he is staying too long in the past to fix his parents’ relationship and soon will risk not existing at all. I feel like I’m coming back into the photo as my mom and Daryl are disappearing. Almost two years since Daryl’s death and nine months since my mom died, I’m wondering how to have a new relationship with and to them?

One thing that has helped me a little bit is forming new habits that remind me of them. Daryl loved cycling around the city (a necessity since he didn’t drive) and I’ve been thinking about getting on the bike he bought me and exploring the city this fall. With my mom, it’s cooking. She didn’t cook much until she retired, but it gave her anxiety a safe place to land.

I’ve read that if more than a year has passed and there is still some thing or some place you are avoiding to not get upset about your person you may need to examine why this is so. I asked my therapist if she thought I should try to listen to their voices, and she said she was not a big believer in forcing yourself to do anything when it comes to grief and trauma (this is why I have a therapist). 

I depend on my i-Phone to sabotage me and throw me into a grief spiral, as it did just this weekend. I downloaded WhatsApp, forgetting I am using Daryl’s old phone. Immediately, messages popped up, all from his friends and family around the world the week he died. It was awful. I was hunched over the phone a sobbing mess and had to leave to meet friends. That, dear reader, is a grief bomb.

This morning, clearing out my voicemail I listened to one from my mom. It was about a land deal near our cottage in northern Michigan, she suspected had something to do with the death of a local official (true crime and sharing stories of political corruption was our love language), and I cried because of the 100+ voicemails, half are from her and I never listened to them, I’d just call her back. She knew that, but would leave them anyway, so I guess having them now is kooky gift from her. I cried because I miss my mom. I won’t get another one.

Yesterday, I opened a book Daryl had bought me for my birthday on writing and found a note from him. Again, grief bombed. There are landmines everywhere when you share a life with someone. In the end grief is love, leaving and coming back again and again, sharp and true.