The Momless Club

Hey girl,

I know we don’t know each other that well and it’s been a while since we’ve seen each other, but I just wanted to let you know how sorry I am.

I never knew your mom. I don’t know anything about your relationship with her, but from what I’ve been told, you two were pretty close. When I heard the news today, my heart just sank. The small, shattered pieces I have left broke for you, for everything you are facing, and for what is to come. I cried my entire drive back from Milwaukee, after having just kissed my mom’s urn and whispered goodbye and then watched my dad tear up as I pulled out of the driveway, leaving him all alone yet again. I thought about my mom, about how much I miss her every single day. And I thought about you and the pain I know you are feeling. I was going to text you, but it didn’t feel right. It felt too impersonal, too cold. So here I am, writing a blog to a beautiful, sweet woman I hardly know, wanting to tell you so badly that it will be ok… but I can’t, because that would be a lie.

All I can tell you is that this fucking sucks and you are going to fucking hurt. A lot.

You are now part of a club… the momless club. It’s a club that no one ever asks to be a part of, that everyone tries to avoid and that no one understands. It’s a club whose dues to join are steep, cruel and painful. A club full of members who become heartbroken, sad, semi-versions of themselves. It’s a terrible, awful club – one that you would give anything to get out of. And I am sorry that you had to join us.

I wish I could tell you that it gets easier, but it doesn’t. I wish I could tell you that you’re going to be ok, but you won’t be. Nothing will ever, ever be the same. Time won’t heal your wounds. Prayers and faith won’t ease your pain. Kind words and sympathy cards won’t bring you peace of mind. But here’s what I can tell you. You will survive. It’s going to hurt like hell, but you will make it to tomorrow. And then, suddenly, it will be a week, a month, or 77 days from now, and you will still ache with every fiber of your being… you will still cry at the most inopportune moments, but you will still be here. And from my own raw, personal experience, I am going to tell you to hold on to that.

Here is the other thing I am going to tell you.  People will want to be there for you. Let them. People who’ve been through it before and people who can’t possibly understand your pain – let them help you. Whether it’s meals (that you probably won’t eat), books (that you will maybe eventually read), or just an ear to listen to you tell the same stories, share the same memories, over and over, just so you can hold on to her for a little bit longer. Let them be there. But under no circumstances do you let anyone tell you how to grieve.

Don’t let them tell you that your mom wouldn’t want you to be sad. Or that you should be thankful for all the great years that you did have with her. Don’t let them tell you that it’s ok because she is in a better place now – because you know what – she should be here with you, and that really sucks.

But most importantly, do not let anyone EVER compare their own grief to yours. Every loss is unique. No one else’s story will ever compare to yours, so don’t let anyone diminish the pain you feel. Don’t let them make you feel crazy or selfish if you need to stay in bed all day or drink too much so that, just for a few short hours, you can numb the raw, sharp pain that makes you feel like you physically won’t survive. I am a firm believer that it’s why wine exists in the first place.

“Some scars time won’t heal, some goodbyes you’re still gonna feel. Some ghosts just keep comin’ back, from the past, and won’t ever let you move on. That’s why they make Jack Daniels. Two fingers in a glass. It ain’t gona make it any better, but it won’t hurt as bad.”

Embrace whatever vice you need to, and don’t let anyone tell you that you’re doing it wrong. Drink to much, cry your eyes out. Eat a pint of icecream or just stay snuggled up in bed with that cute pup of yours.

Grief is a total motherfucker and it wreaks havoc on your life and your ability to feel normal in a world that has turned completely upside down. Do what you need to – because still I promise you this… you will survive.

And someday, you will even laugh again. It will feel weird; the first time it happens. You will feel guilty, that for even a second you forgot about the pain you were feeling. But then, laughing will get easier. Life will get a little more tolerable. You will still cry, probably every day, in the worst possible moments. Sometimes it will just be a few tears, and other times it will be all-consuming sobs that you don’t think will ever stop, but they will.

You will experience emotions that you can’t even name. You will become frustrated with people who want to help, but can’t – because they just don’t understand. You will say “I’m fine” and “thank you” so often that they will lose all meaning. You will be angry and sad and pissed off and then sad again. But you will survive. And that doesn’t seem like much now, but it will be the most important thing you will need to remember when you wake up in the morning and realize that what you had hoped was a terrible, horrible dream is actually your sick new version of reality.

I am sorry you had to join this club. I am sorry for everything you will go through over the next few weeks. But just know that you are not alone. You will never, ever be alone. And neither will your mom. I sent up a prayer to mine and told her to keep any eye out for her. And when she’s ready, to pour her a big glass of wine.

Stay strong girl.

xo