here and gone, gone and here
Last spring, Mom was here. And she was gone.
The mother who had listened to me spill the aches and joys of my heart since I was small did not know my name. The grandmother who had delighted in the “sturdiness” of my babies as she gave them baths and changed their diapers was now fragile, needing others to bathe and change her. And the woman who had played ping pong with determined gusto and walked miles with her dear husband struggled to lift her spoon to her mouth. Slowly, steadily, mercilessly, Alzheimer’s stole her away.
This spring, Mom is gone. And she is here.
Though she took her last breath almost a year ago, Mom’s calm confidence that she and we would “be okay,” even in tough times, breathes peace into my soul when I feel overwhelmed. Though her hands are still, her love of fabric, needle, and thread lives on in my daughter’s artwork. And though we lowered her body into the ground last May 30, Mom’s contentment, fueled by her habit of savoring, rises within me as I watch a cardinal swoop across the back yard or hold a granddaughter close to enjoy a book together.
It turns out that the grief of last spring (and of all the years demented by Alzheimer’s) has a name—"ambiguous loss.”
My family and I experienced ambiguous loss—grief without clear resolution or closure—because Mom was physically present but (increasingly) psychologically absent. An experience of physical presence with psychological absence can also occur when a loved one suffers from addiction, brain injury, or chronic mental illness.
Sometimes this strange mix of presence and absence occurs in reverse—physical absence with psychological presence. A loved one may be physically absent due to a natural disaster, war, or some unexplained disappearance like kidnapping yet remain psychologically present because it’s not clear if the person is dead or alive.
Dr. Pauline Boss, the psychologist who coined the term “ambiguous loss,” suggests a both/and posture for navigating ambiguous loss. She says we must intentionally hold the reality of both absence and presence, even though they seem mutually exclusive.
That, I realize, is exactly what we had to learn to do during Mom’s long slog through Alzheimer’s. We had to name and grieve how she was absent, even as we enjoyed her presence when she joined Dad in a song or sighed with pleasure when snuggled close to one of us on the sofa.
When Mom died last spring, I expected all sense of her presence to gradually fade out. Based on my understanding of healthy grieving at the time, I believed I would slowly let go of my relationship with her and move on. Yes, there would be memories, but the mix of presence and absence would eventually yield to acceptance of complete absence.
It has been a happy surprise to find that Mom’s physical absence—not having her diminishment right in front of my eyes—has opened a door into an increased sense of her presence. I am experiencing more awareness of Mom, and myself in relationship to her, rather than less.
I sometimes find myself talking to her in my mind, sometimes aloud: “Oh Mom, you would love kissing these baby cheeks!” Or “After all these years, I’m learning to enjoy cooking, Mom.” Or “I wonder what you like most about where you exist now, Mom.”
This spring, a grief theory called “continuing bonds” is helping me make sense of my grief journey. This theory suggests that when loved ones die, you continue in relationship with them, rather than moving through stages that end with detachment and moving on. Although your bonds with your loved ones shift in significant ways, the bonds continue and may last throughout your lifetime in some way.
As grief blogger Eleanor Haley points out, continuing bonds theory acknowledges that grief is ongoing and says that it’s normal to stay connected to your loved one. It posits that many grief-related behaviors—holding onto items, visiting places where you feel close to your loved one, talking to them, and more—are normal rather than pathological. In fact, they may help you to better cope with your loss and the accompanying changes in your life.
Oh Mom.
It’s almost Mother’s Day, my first one without you. I miss you. I am so grateful for how safe and seen you made me feel and how you taught me to love and listen. You are still nourishing my heart through those good, good gifts. Thank you!
Love always,
Nita