My complicated relationship with Grief

Grief didn’t come to visit and stay with me for good until earlier this year.

Oddly enough, Grief didn’t arrive after a momentous or profound loss of my own.

It was barely there when my first pet fish, Madeleine, died.

It stayed with me shortly when my grandparents died, but it left just as soon as it came. It was careless enough to leave a mark that reminded me of its presence, yet it was also polite enough to hide it in discreet places where I wouldn’t have to bump into it everyday.

It forgot to show up when my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer four years ago, or when her hair had started falling off. Perhaps Grief was busy with other matters.

Grief wasn’t something I was familiar with until it solemnly came knocking on my door on an ordinary Thursday afternoon this year. And this time, Grief didn’t have a return-ticket to wherever it came from.

Grief was here to stay.

Like I said, it arrived on an ordinary Thursday afternoon. I was mindlessly scrolling through Facebook when I saw my former classmate’s post: Her mother had died. She was just a few years shy of my own mother’s age, and she died of an illness that had made living unbearable. 

And just like my mother, she, too, had photos where she donned colorful scarves around her head.

It was when I saw that scarf that I realized just how close I was to experiencing a pain so unimaginable and so excruciating, it drained people of life, light, and happiness. It was then that I realized how short life was, and how long grieving would be. 

For some, it lasted a lifetime.

At that exact moment, Grief made its way inside our house, unpacked its bags, and turned itself into a permanent fixture inside my room. Grief moved in like an unwanted distant relative whose favorite hobby was picking people apart and using their vulnerabilities against them. 

Grief knew where to hit me where it hurt most – my mother’s own fight with the C-word, a word I had tried so hard to avoid for the past few months since Grief set foot in our house.

It’s been four years since my mother’s diagnosis and two years since her last round of chemotherapy. Her hair has grown back – in fact, she’s had several haircuts now – and she’s in her second year of remission. I should be happy.

But Grief has a way of making us see the glass as half empty and wanting, more than anything, to hurl that glass across the room and watch it shatter into a million tiny pieces.

I was obsessed with breast cancer for months. I spent hours researching how quickly it progressed, how to spot signs that it had spread beyond the primary site, and how bad the prognosis was for each stage and each kind of metastatic cancer. Every time I saw posts about someone dying, I tried to see whether they died of cancer and counted the years between their diagnosis and their death. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't find it in me to just leave my condolences and move on to the next Facebook post.

Ironically, outside my research, I tried blocking every mention of the C-word because I saw its presence as a bad omen. Prior to Grief’s arrival, I downloaded a bunch of thriller novels I wanted to read. I deleted every single book that contained the C-word. I removed all C-word-related movies in my Netflix list. And even though I loved Taylor Swift with my entire heart, I had to block "Soon You'll Get Better" from my Spotify because it hits painfully close to home.

Every moment spent with my mother was me constantly on the lookout for signs of a recurrence. Our bonding sessions were no longer happy moments for me – they were work. I trained myself to pay close attention to every cough, every hitch in my mother's breath, and every complaint about headaches and bone pain.

Throughout these moments, I imagined Grief as the villain pushing me over the edge, taking up too much space in my room and leaving its mark everywhere.

The idea of my mother being so close to death haunted me. I couldn’t imagine living in a world where I couldn’t barge into her room and just lay next to her while she watched Netflix on her iPad. Just like most children with no siblings, she was my best friend, and the thought of losing her one day was something I wasn't prepared to come to terms with. 

It was in August this year, after my mother’s annual tests, when I realized Grief wasn’t the monster I painted it out to be. 

Grief was just love with nowhere to go, and maybe Grief moved into our house and into my room a little too early than it had to because it was panicking over borrowed time with someone I loved. It was as simple as that.

Grief was imposing, smothering, and piercing, but it was also proof that I was capable of loving. It was proof that I was human.

My mother’s test results came out okay. I spend moments in between schoolwork inside my mother’s bedroom, watching Netflix with her or complaining about university life. I haven’t visited WebMD since August, and I leave my condolences well enough alone. Sometimes, I even listen to "Soon You'll Get Better" and cry to the lyrics.

Grief still lives with me in my bedroom, but it’s not as imposing as it used to be. Grief holds my hand on bad days and politely stows itself away on good days. 

I’ve come to see Grief as a welcome roommate whose presence reminds me that as long as there is love, it will stay. And maybe that's okay.

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