Grief Is A Journey

Written for Medium.com

https://medium.com/@jencracchiola/grief-is-a-journey-e04c1a87e3dc

Grief is overwhelming. Grief is raw. If you do not actively confront your grief, it will consume you.

Everyone has a story about their grief—the loss of a loved one, whether spouse, parent, child, or dear friend. No two stories are the same; grief is each person's own journey. With that in mind, let me share mine.

My grief journey began on Leap Day 2020, just days before COVID-19 took over the US and shut down the country. I was forty-three years old when I lost my mother very unexpectedly. She fell asleep in her chair that night and entered a deep slumber that would last for eternity. I was not ready for this loss. At 68, I do not believe SHE was ready either —or at least I want to believe she was not. She had two granddaughters and a grandson to watch grow up, and a wonderful marriage to my father—a deep love that should have lasted for years to come.

The call came in the middle of the night. My Dad had left a voicemail to call him immediately, but I missed it.  My phone was on silent.  My sister couldn’t reach me either, so she tried my oldest daughter. I learned a lesson that night about emergency bypass on cell phones—when to use it and when to use silent.  My sister told me Mom was dead. Just...gone.  In denial, I called my father, who wouldn’t confirm, and headed to my childhood home.

As I entered, the police greeted me. Everything blurred, but that moment remains engraved in my mind. My mother lay lifeless on the floor, a sheet covering her. Why didn’t the paramedics try to save her? Why wasn’t she rushed to the hospital? Why? Because she was already gone. In the kitchen, my dad sobbed. All I could do was hold him and apologize for missing the call. The guilt will haunt me forever.

The next few hours were a blur. My siblings and I had a pact: I handled the logistics and arrangements, while they comforted everyone else.

I called the funeral home to arrange for my mother. Then I told my brother, who was on vacation, and my relatives the news. My first call was to my Aunt: “Aunt Pam, my Mom is gone, and I don’t know what to do.” I had never planned a funeral before and didn’t know what to expect.

We picked out her clothes for the viewing. Did we need a bra or shoes? We had no idea. What should the prayer cards read? How many days did we want a viewing? Did we want a mass or a prayer service? All of the things you don’t think about until you’re in the moment. Ultimately, we were able to have a wonderful goodbye for my mother. A week later, the country shut down, and we were quarantined. I’m forever thankful that she was properly celebrated.

Grieving during quarantine was difficult—no in-person therapists, support groups, or hugs, just screens. My grief stalled. I became a caregiver for my father, running the house and cooking. Six months later, I faced loss again.

I lost my father on September 19th, 2020, six months after my mother’s passing.

Earlier that day, we went to the zoo as my brother proposed to his fiancée, making it a joyful family gathering with my siblings and the grandchildren. It couldn’t have been a better day. Later, as I dropped my father off at home, he mentioned having heartburn. I thought it was probably the hot dogs we enjoyed at the zoo, as I felt a bit off, too. We brushed it off; he agreed to take some medication, we shared a quick hug, and I promised to call and check on him later that night. At 7pm, my future sister-in-law called. I almost didn’t take the call. She told me my father was having a heart attack and the paramedics were at the house. OK, I can handle this, I thought. Dad had open-heart surgery years before, so I assumed he might need a hospital stay but would ultimately be fine, right? Still, I wasn’t so sure. "Ed, I’m not ready to go through this again," I told my husband as I left for the hospital. While driving, I phoned my sister, explained what I knew, and said I’d call her after I got to the hospital to assess the situation.

As I parked at the hospital, the paramedics arrived with my father, sirens echoing. That sound still chills me. The chaplain took me to "the quiet room." The situation was dire, but the staff worked tirelessly. My brother, his fiancée, and I waited, then called my sister to come. She didn’t make it in time. Dad endured repeated chest compressions, but it was futile. We knew. I decided to let him go. My grief journey continued.

If you’re not an organ donor, you might reconsider. Dad wasn’t able to donate much, but they took his eyes and tissue. Mid-America Transplant treated us with such respect during this difficult time. We made the same arrangements, though his farewell differed from my mother’s, but it was still meaningful.

It took me years to heal. With all I have experienced, I do have some parting advice if you find yourself starting your grief journey.

Rely on others. My siblings and I supported each other, and I had my family. Many people say, “Let me know if there’s anything we can do,” and they mean well. Keeping busy at first helped distract me, but I realized I was ignoring my grief. Eventually, I shared my story and memories, and found others willing to listen.

Rely on support groups. I attended a grief support group, and this was very helpful. It was helpful to share my journey and to listen to others share theirs. We were on our journey together.

Rely on your faith. No matter what faith you have. For me, it was comforting to know my parents were together again.

Rely on a counselor. Once the quarantine had lifted, I kept regular appointments with my therapist. It was incredibly helpful to talk through it, process my grief, and learn ways to redirect and retrain my brain not to replay the vivid negative memories surrounding their deaths.

This is my personal grief journey. Thank you for taking the time to read. I hope that my experience resonates with others and reminds you that you’re not alone. Be patient with yourself. There is no timeline for grief.