On this day ten years ago, my story was ever changed. It’s funny, because ten years and some months before that I had observed this experience, but not with the intense emotional connection that I would experience ten years later. I am referring to the loss of my grandmother twenty years ago and the loss of my mother (her daughter) ten years ago today. On the face of it, this seems like an understandable life changing milestone. The death of a loved one is always quite difficult and it isn’t uncommon to hear people say that their lives changed as a result. That isn’t the crux of this story, however. No, for me the death of my mother was not the event that changed me, but rather a gateway into a life change that is ever evolving. I am a psychologist, so these things intrigue me and influence my work and the way I approach the world. Because this is the anniversary of my mother’s passing from this world, I wanted to commemorate it somehow. And what better way to do that than to write a blog? Right? I am laughing, because this is in no way, shape, or form how I roll. It is however where I find myself. I want to share my story. In fact, I feel compelled to do so. I have been thinking up ways to tell stories since as young as I can remember and at forty-one years of age it’s about time that I get started. And what better choice than to start with my own story. At least part of it. I wouldn’t want to give away all my material on day one.
So why should you keep reading. Well I think that this story is not unique. In fact, I think this story is one that all of us live in some way, yet not all of us learn from our stories equally. This is what has really spun my interest in disclosing to you some of my own discoveries since my mother’s death. I figure if even one person reads this and it stirs something for them, then it is well worth it. But even if not a soul reads the words in this passage, well it will have been just as worth it to me. The story is really about all of our stories. I have had the great privilege of listening to many personal stories over my time as a therapist. By the way, I was just about to take my exams to become a licensed psychologist when my mother passed away, so it took me an extra year to get myself in gear and get that done. So, this story of mine that I think is a story of ours, it is the story that has been with me as I have grown as a therapist as well. An interesting twist to say the least. Although, I have some friends from childhood that might tell you I was giving away free counseling long before I pursued being a psychologist. One quick disclosure, therapists are trained to be very careful when self-disclosing and to be sure that the purpose of the self-disclosure is not for them but for the purpose of helping their clients. I would say that after 10 years of muddling through this story, I have been able to own this story in a way that it is not self-serving to tell it. And honestly, the only reason I am doing this is because I feel compelled to help others.
Okay, okay. Enough suspense. My story started in a hospital room on November 27, 2007. My sister and I had sat vigil all day with my mother, who by now was in a sedated state and no longer interacting with the world. The day before this, we had a parade of friends and family come to see her, because it was clear that the end was very near. And just days before that I had cooked a family Thanksgiving dinner in my mother’s home. She was there spending her last holiday with four of her five children and their families. My brother was deployed at that time or I am sure he too would have been there. We have some pictures from that day, which still are very touching to me. I think she knew. I think I knew really. I had been living with her for about 2 years, by this point, and the last few months of her life were terribly grueling for both of us. Her exit would come in the late afternoon on November 27, 2007, while my younger sister and I held her hands. This image is seared in my memory because of its haunting similarity to the scene that happened ten years prior in 1997, with my mom’s mother. That day I watched my mom cradle her mother’s face, while the same younger sister and I held our grandmother’s hands and watched her take her last breath. I recall walking out into the hall to tell the hospital nurse she had passed. The very same thing I would do ten years later, only this time to tell the hospice nurse that my mother was gone. Now all this is very interesting and all, but the meat of what struck me on that day was the first feeling I had when mom took her last breath. Fear. It really surprised me. Took me off guard. Sadness and then numbness shortly followed, but how was it that the first thing I felt when my mom left this world was fear? It didn’t make sense to me. What was I scared of? Catching cancer. Not being able to raise my mom’s grown children. I mean, really. Let’s be serious. It just didn’t make sense to me that I would have a lump in my throat and a surging jolt of panic as the woman who meant the most to me in this world took her last breath. Shouldn’t I be sad? But there it is. That is what happened.
What didn’t make sense then, makes tons of sense to me now. It was not Natalie, sister to four siblings, mother to one son, daughter to a still living father, friend to many, aunt to many, etc., etc. that was there in that moment. It was a little girl, who was saying goodbye to her mommy for the very last time, uncertain she was prepared for the things to come without the protection of her mother. She didn’t stay long, this little one. She didn’t need to. I had more than enough ego strength to pull myself back into the present moment and hug my little sister and let her cry with me until she felt she could let go. I was her big sister after all. I needed to do that. And from that point forward, the next minutes, hours, and days were filled with the duties that come with the death of a parent. And in the life that followed I would be revisited occasionally by the little girl, and we would cry together until she felt well enough to settle into me again. The depth of pain this loss caused me was more than I had known before. I shared the story over and over. I wanted others to know just how much she meant to me, and just how much that final scene struck me.
So why share this now? In a blog of all things. Well, I’ll tell you. In my work, I have heard a lot of stories and over my lifetime I have had a lot of friends and family share their stories with me. What is always evident is that words never seem to be enough. They don’t quite capture the pain or the joy, the satisfaction or the frustration, the depth of what we experience. What I do hear, though, is the need to tell the story. And when I hear someone struggle with their story, forgetting pieces or maybe actively avoiding them, I can see them atrophy from the world. Emotions are funny like that. Our language does not do us justice in the many ways or combination of ways we can feel at any given time. So what do we do? We tell the story again. And again. And again. We tell our stories so many times that we are able to convey the vastness of our experiences. And each time we tell our stories, we learn more and are better prepared for what life has to offer us. And if we are really lucky, we are able to recognize that if we build in ourselves the capacity to experience great joy, we are simultaneously building a means to withstand great suffering. And if we are stuck in our hurting, we are likely not telling our story, or at least not the whole story. We are fixated on a part and whether we wallow in it or run from it, that part of the story persists in its pursuit of us. Some people suffer in this a long while. Yet what I have experienced with my story and seen in others is absolutely remarkable and it speaks to the resiliency of our human spirit. When we are able to lean into the pain we are able to grasp more of that story. And if we start to tell that story more and more we start to convey to ourselves and the world the magic that is our emotional capacity and its influence on our life experience.
So, to go back to how I started out this blog, I have been privileged to both experience and witness to the healing power of telling our stories. Our whole story. From the parts that we’d like to never see again to the parts we love to share as comic relief at a party. We share ourselves when we share our stories. We experience ourselves when we share our stories. We are able to grow and be better versions of ourselves when we share our stories. Stories are infinitely important, because they can move beyond the barrier of the containment of words. The story isn’t in the words. The story is in the life and in the repeated telling of that life. I come from a faith tradition, in which many of our scriptures are told in parables (another name for stories), whereby we are taught concepts in a means that goes beyond the letters on the page. Since these texts are thousands of years old, I think it is reasonable to assume that our story telling tradition goes back quite a way. Sometimes the stories aren’t even in writing, but in pictures, images, song, and movement. They are painted on cave walls, carved into mountains, heard in chants and hymns, or even in a lullaby. Stories are the fabric of who we are. They are playing out always. They are essential to who we are and how we experience the world. My story showed me that if I lean into my pain, I will stop feeling it is a negative presence and starting learning that it is here to help me know better the depth of my spirit and the ability to feel on a scale larger than myself. My story is not unique, because it is our story. It has been told before. It is in the telling of this story that I have come to passionately and vehemently hold to what I have learned dearly.
If you had asked me, on November 27, 2007, if I was grateful for feeling the enormity of pain that came with the loss of my mom, I’d have probably lost it on you. And I will be honest, that is not a pretty sight. What a ridiculous question. Right? And it would have been ridiculous for that time. However, if you ask me today, on November 27, 2017, if I am happy for the pain I have suffered from my mother’s passing, I would say “Of course I am. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Let me tell you the story.”
Natalie M. Marr, Psy.D., LP
