By Dominique, whose mum died from melanoma (skin cancer) that advanced to her brain
1. I had always imagined that I would feel frenzied, hassled, inconsolable, bereft, and miserable. I'm not. If I had to compare the sensation to a bad breakup, I'd say this:
A breakup feels like a knife in your gut, and you're staggering about, flailing, saying look I've been stabbed! But you know someone will come pull the knife out one day, and before anyone else does, you will likely pull it out yourself.
Grief feels like someone wrapped you very tightly in Saran wrap, and now your skin is taut and squished and sort of stretched, and it's almost fully covering your nose and mouth, such that you can barely breathe, and the thing is - no one's ever coming to take it off. And so you say to yourself "Ok, well I can still walk around and eat and sleep, and even chat to my friends on the phone. But this is really uncomfortable - I have to stay like this forever?"
2. Sad things don't make me more sad than they did previously. Watching a character battle cancer in a film is the same as it was before. However, pressured situations make me very emotional. Action films, descriptions of tight spots people had to get out of, time/space difficulties - for some reason the tears come immediately, and it's a full body experience.
3. I find that I want to talk about three topics:
That great mascara you found / the new TV show you're watching / your pet / a recipe I should try - the visceral elements of life.
Death, watching my mom die, and where the dead are. I think about it constantly. It's nice to think about it out loud with others. It's comforting to chat about what you think of it. And it's okay to laugh about it, and say, "Maybe she's a bird now!". Because, honestly, she'd love that, and who are we to know she's not?
My mom, and how much you enjoyed being around her. Any and all stories, big and small. We can even laugh about her quirks!
4. A significant portion of the grief is based in fear of the unknown - in anticipation of how I will feel at future points. I expected it to come at me all at once. For the loss of her to hit me like a wall.
It didn't. It stretches out before me. I have so many years to miss my mom. Her own mother is still alive. My mom never experienced losing her mom. I have, and the scary part is the worry of "How it'll feel when...".
I'm acutely aware that as the world opens up again (if) when Covid ends, I will do things, and my mom won't know about them. I worry about that. How will I feel? I don't worry about now - I can handle now.
5. I wish I had spoken to my mom about how to relate to her after her death. As in, will you be in heaven? In the moss growing on a tree? Rotting in the ground? Inside my soul? Will you want me to think of you / talk to you / be sad / be happy and move on? How should I feel? You've likely been in some type of dialogue with your parent for decades, and now, suddenly, it's done. It's a deafening silence.
My mom's brain tumours prevented her from knowing she was dying, so I never got this chance. Talk to your parents about death, and about YOUR after-life - i.e., what kind of life you will have, emotionally, after they're gone.
About Dominique Zipper
Dominique is a writer and lawyer in Canada, whose mother, Cheryl, died of melanoma (skin cancer) that advanced to her brain. Dominique cared for her mom at home, and has written about the battle to wrestle back control from her mom's 25 brain tumours, in her mom's final hours of life.
You can subscribe to Dominique's writing on Substack, and follow her on Instagram and Twitter.
