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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. For the last few years, I’ve called myself a single mom as way of explaining that my marriage dissolved and the bulk of parenting rests on my shoulders. The term encapsulates the responsibility of raising kids without another adult with whom to make family decisions. Yes, the role can be exhausting and sometimes piercingly lonely. But, I strongly believe words matter, and the coupling of “single” and “mom” increasingly makes me uncomfortable and sad.

For starters, the word “single” attempts to define a person through division. It describes us solo parents as half of what we once were, when in fact almost everything about life has doubled. Raising kids alone means assuming dual roles. We are both the comforter and disciplinarian, the scheduler and minister of fun, the chef and dish washer, the home decorator and garbage person. Each of us can ramble off moments that required us to draw on unknown reserves of energy and skill, like standing tip-toe on ladder in the middle of the night to change a smoke alarm battery that won’t f*ing stop beeping. That’s because we exist at 200 percent almost all the time.

Then there’s also the ick factor of defining a person through partnership. Instead, why not place emphasis on the reward of raising kids autonomously? Within my home decisions aren’t split. The days flow like a semi well-oiled machine. Well, sometimes. And through necessity my children entertain themselves for long periods, and are responsible in ways never imagined. Now don’t get me wrong, if a stunning individual appeared in our lives, he would be welcomed with open hearts and arms. That said, I don’t want my role as a parent to be defined by having or not having a partner. I want my role as a mother to be defined by my relationship with my children and my relationship to the role itself. 

I love being a mom. I adore the increasingly complex ideas and emotions my children verbalize. Their loud and restless bodies fill the house with kinetic energy. And they constantly remind me to laugh, play and be silly. At the same time, I’ve grown adept at managing a home and being the boss of almost all decisions. So, as the Chief Everything Officer for my household, I’m giving myself a promotion to independent mom. Independent, not because I don’t need anyone else, I certainly do, but because I’m reveling in my own freedom and strength. Strong, independent moms and dads raise strong, independent kids. More power to you.

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Robynne Boyd is the Co-Founder of Goodgrief App, the social network for loss. It is now available for free in the iOS App Store, Google Play and www.goodgriefapp.com. You can follow Goodgrief App on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter.

I Talk Aloud to My Dead Mom.

My mother is dead. She’s been gone for almost three years now, and yet, I still speak to her. Aloud.

My lone voice greets the air with a “Hey, mom,” when her presence feels particularly strong. Or an “I love you,” after her memory springs vivid. Her spirit lives in and around me and so our conversation continues on a new subtle level. I find it comforting in many ways.

I have a feeling this is more common than I realize. Does anyone else speak to their dead loved ones?

I’d love to hear from you.

~Robynne

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Robynne Boyd is the Co-Founder of Goodgrief App, the social network for loss. It is now available for less than the cost of a latte in the iOS App Store, Google Play and www.goodgriefapp.com. You can follow Goodgrief App on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter.

Waking Up To Grief

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. The daunting task of making it through another day when even simple tasks turn challenging.  Getting dressed. Work. Kids. Eating. Holding it together. Falling apart. And finding one’s way into sleep again.

It’s the nightmare version of Groundhog Day where panic, dread and anxiety play on repeat. At the very beginning of my own grief, I remember waking up already out of breath, my body in a constant state of fight or flight. Later on, the dread turned into exhaustion as my brain struggled with the hard task of adjusting to my new situation and trying to forge meaning from uncontrollable circumstances. Nothing’s quite as tiring as the heavy lifting of carrying a broken heart. Over time my mornings became lighter and easier to face. These days, dread doesn’t descend frequently. Anxiety doesn’t grip my stomach. My breath travels in and out more easily as I’ve slowly shifted into a new reality.  

Looking back, it makes sense there’s cognitive dissonance between the old and new life.  There’s so much new information for the body and mind to assimilate as we struggle with acceptance and eventually crawl towards joy. Waking up to grief is process. Please be patient with yourself.  

-Robynne Boyd

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Robynne Boyd is the Co-Founder of Goodgrief App, the social network for loss. It is now available for less than the cost of a latte in the iOS App Store, Google Play and www.goodgriefapp.com. You can follow Goodgrief App on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter.

Facing the Grim Reaper

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?” Leaning closer I searched where her fingers pointed. There was a patch of skin tinted the purple of a fading bruise. Skin I’d known for 39 years. Skin that smelled like home. Skin that housed more love than I’ve ever experienced elsewhere. Skin that aged years in months. My fingers brushed the surface. I felt silk over bubble wrap. “They’re probably some of the tumors, mom,” I said gently.

Earlier that week she had met with her oncologist. What must have started years before as an imperceptible division of cells within her breast now had a foothold in her lungs, liver, kidneys, and bones. The tumors overlaying her ribs were the most unsettling proof of the disease’s progression. Her doctor suggested immediate radiation. The treatment could slow growth. It could buy time. If not, the tumors might mushroom through the skin leaving her seeping and in agony. Even so, my mother gave the doctor a firm no.

Refusing medical treatment takes steel. Something even stronger is required in the face of a possibly painful end. My mom had this impalpable metal – forged from an unwavering faith that life and death were part of life itself. Both a mystery. Brimming with good. Replete with bad. All natural. Through this lens, she opened to a mystery beyond the expertise of her doctor. And like in Zeno’s paradox of the tortoise and Achilles where one can only ever approach a destination, my mom and I grabbed each other by the hand and tried to cross the great divide.

I’m not suggesting anyone else should follow suit. I’m trying to be specific about how my mom chose to live and die. This choice was her right, and right for her. And, it became one of her great gifts to me. Because in her own gentle way my mother revealed that the grim reaper has always been in the room. At her side. At mine. At yours. And her response was to meet death eye-to-eye and say, be not afraid.

So I searched death’s face with trepidation. Death is solely unforgiving at first glance. The unknown, terrifying. Yet, in walking side-by-side with my mom those 22 months, I began to glimpse a different visage. A skull covered in eternal spring. Because even while the reaper shadowed my mom’s every move it whispered “life, life, life,” beseeching us to suck the marrow from time itself. It was the gift of truly living.

“She outlived her disease,” is what her hospice nurse said when my mom passed away many months after her oncologist predicted. That was October 26th, 2016. On this almost two-year mark, I’ve come to an outlandish post where I believe death deserves a seat at this beautifully laid table of life. I want its power to give and take to be part of a brave conversation. One we hold eye-to-eye, and heart-to-heart. Maybe then when the grim reaper does come, always too early, we will have forged enough of our own impalpable metal to help us choose “life, life, life,” as we shake from saying goodbye.

Much love, Robynne

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Robynne Boyd is the Co-Founder of Goodgrief App, the social network for loss. It is now available for less than the cost of a latte in the iOS App Store, Google Play and www.goodgriefapp.com. You can follow Goodgrief App on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter.

Waves of Life

“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.

On the downside, her mantra arose from being an only child who was frequently in trouble. It grew when leaving South Africa with a young family in tow to begin a new life in New Jersey. It strengthened flying between continents to say goodbye to her aging parents. A mid-life divorce nurtured it. So did working outside the home for the first time in many years. The refrain solidified when refusing metastatic breast cancer treatment to live her best life even when that meant fewer days.  

On the upside, my mom’s catchphrase expanded when listening to Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, her eyes closed and time stopped. It warmed on walks when pausing mid-step to gape at a flower’s beauty. It thrived from bursting into song in public (much to my chagrin) because she didn’t give a damn. Her unceasing love was the fuel.

In short: it came from perspective.

Suffering is everywhere. Incredibly, the same applies to beauty. That’s the antidote. Seek it and you shall find. “In a world that is filled with pain and loss and sadness and war and trash- actively seek beauty,” says Jennifer Pastiloff, a female empowerment wunderkind, who coined the term “beauty hunting.” Though my mom didn’t invent a viral phrase for her outlook, she was a huntress nonetheless.

What my mom saw so clearly is that pain and joy are twins – forever conjoined. One cannot preclude the other. In fact, each may be a symbiotic experiences meant for the heavy lifting of life. Each allows the other to be felt more strongly and weathered more gently. Pain creates an appreciation for beauty; beauty enables a softening around pain. For all we get is this one beautiful, and sometimes tortuous, life. These are the waves. Up and down we go…over and over again. It’s to be expected.

Thanks mom, Carol Wertheim Boyd (1948-2016)

~Robynne

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Robynne Boyd is the Co-Founder of Goodgrief App, the social network for loss. It is now available for less than the cost of a latte in the iOS App Store, Google Play and www.goodgriefapp.com. You can follow Goodgrief App on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter.

The Void

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.

The void, that’s what I call it, because, it can’t be filled or shored up. Trust me, I’ve tried. But not busyness, friends, flirtations, counseling, books, or hundreds of downward dogs have shrunk its size or impact. The hole remains. And anyway, it is so very tiring trying to change one’s shape to be something it is not.

So here’s the new tactic: acceptance. I imagine it like a new organ, something foreign yet essential that needs to be incorporated into the body. Time to study it. Familiarize myself with its sharp edges and bottomlessness. Perhaps in this way I can welcome this new body part that is more empty space than anything else. In other words, perhaps the solution is there isn’t one. There’s nothing to fix. I am now a body and a void. So be it.

~Robynne Boyd
Co-Founder Goodgrief App

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Robynne Boyd is the Co-Founder of Goodgrief App, the social network for loss. It is now available for less than the cost of a latte in the iOS App Store, Google Play and www.goodgriefapp.com. You can follow Goodgrief App on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter.