The Term Single Mom (or Dad) Sucks
The term, “single mom” just won’t suffice anymore. The time has come to place a jauntier hat on our heads and upgrade this worn-out title to “independent mom,” or dad.
We know that the grieving process is a difficult one. Our blog is a dedicated space for talking about grief and how we handle it on our own ways.
The term, “single mom” just won’t suffice anymore. The time has come to place a jauntier hat on our heads and upgrade this worn-out title to “independent mom,” or dad.
Huntington Bay feeds directly into the Long Island Sound. I live here. Salty air, beaches, and marinas each add to the beauty of this town. As summer sets in, the waters of Long Island’s north shore are full of life. Boats reflect the vibrant energy of the long summer days and serve as the backdrop to sunsets.
Like the approach of monsoon clouds, I felt the words move rapidly toward me. Just like a monsoon, I got caught off guard. I’ve been in monsoons before. They rain fiercely, heavily, pack a mean punch and appear to never let up.
My mother is dead. She’s been gone for almost three years now, and yet, I still speak to her. Aloud.
There’s a surreal moment that happens again and again when grieving. It occurs after sleep. Falling asleep is hard enough, and yet waking up feels harder still. That’s when reality comes back into focus. The reality of a life you don’t want. The reality that you’re in free fall.
I turned the handle, waited and then reached to feel the water temperature. I stepped in.
Crisp cool air meets the skin on my face. The distinct smell of freshly fallen leaves permeates my nose and I briskly walk to the car to avoid the chill to my spine. My thoughts revert to the sweetness of home. A small town nestled in the Hudson River Valley of New York State, Red Hook is an area noted for its beauty during fall foliage.
My mom lifted her shirt and asked me to look at her ribs. I was on the couch. She sat in her wheelchair. “It hurts,” she said, “Can you see anything?”
Our life is measured in time from the moment time note’s our birth arrival. I’ve been unfair to time with my expectations of how it should behave constantly oscillating between extremes. Speed up through the work week. Slow down through the weekend.
“Life comes in waves,” my mom used to say regularly. “Sometimes those waves last years.” She was referring to the crests and troughs of life. The ups. The downs.
Grief is like a cup of coffee. In the beginning, it’s painful to hold and difficult to grasp.No matter how you carry it, it spills everywhere leaving a sloppy stained mess for all to see. Some days, it’s bitter and leaves an acidic feeling in your stomach. No matter how hard you try, on those days, it is impossible to sweeten.
Loss left a chasm in my chest. Do you have it too? It begins at the base of my throat and circles down near my ribs. Sometimes it feels like heartburn, an irritation from swallowing a ghastly morsel of life. Other times, it more closely resembles a window where the world blows through. Mostly though it’s just a dull ache; proof there’s a puncture at my epicenter.