Emma W.’s Story
My mum’s name was Laurel. She was diagnosed with terminal cancer at this time last year, but it is not the illness that defined her. She shone brightest in her last week of life, which is a testament to who she was as a person. My mum was a natural humanitarian, always supporting the welfare of those with unequal opportunities.
My mum dedicated 42 years of her life as a residential counselor, working for individuals with developmental disabilities. Growing up my younger brother and I had the privilege to be surrounded with diverse and loving support systems. Both sets of our “God parents" were members of the LGBTQ community, while additionally growing up alongside the many clients she worked with through her work in developmental services. My mum lived her life with compassion despite her fiery and strong demeanour. She left this world instilling both her children with kindness, acceptance, and resiliency.”
October 3, 2021
Lasagna. I cried over goddamn lasagna today.
There are so many platitudes people use to extend comfort to people like me.
People always say, “grief sneaks up on you.” But until this moment, I’d never truly understood it. Who knew a simple food item would flare up so much emotion.
You see, the last meal my mum made for me was lasagna. It was her favourite recipe, her favourite dish. Running on nothing but hydro-morphone, coffee, cigarettes, and courage, she baked one last uncomplicated dish for me. I haven’t eaten lasagna since then, until tonight.
I didn’t feel any sense of sadness in deciding to have lasagna for dinner. I didn’t feel any sense of emotion in even preparing it. It wasn’t until the lasagna was placed in the oven that I was slapped with an overwhelming wave of sorrow, riveting through me.
As quickly as October snuck up on me, so did my grief. It’s been approximately 7 weeks, 54 days to be exact. I’m still in the very early days of grieving, and it’s been one hell of a journey. I didn’t believe people when they would word vomit these clichés in attempt to console.
In fact, 24 hours ago I’d have called bullshit.
I haven’t felt sane, or even slightly “okay” since the moment I got that phone call. I wake up empty, I go to sleep empty. So how can “grief sneak up on me” when it’s attached to every breath I breath?
But what I didn’t realize is that you’re caught by surprise when you’ve temporarily distracted yourself. Your mind wanders, you temporarily sink back into what feels like your old familiar skin. But those days are gone, and that skin has been shed. It’s only temporary that I recoil back to those fragments of my old self; the “me” before being motherless and lost.
