I work in an industry that develops ground-breaking creative and influences the human experience, but after losing my mother this summer I’ve struggled to be creative, or frankly, feel human.
When my sister called to tell me that my mother was being transferred to hospice I left work and got on a plane. It’s a call I’d been anticipating for six months, but it still came as a surprise. Because I work in an open office and because I dislike showing emotion in public, I quietly emailed my teammates explaining the situation, packed my bag, and walked out.
I spent the next six weeks sitting by my mother’s death bed. At times, she felt almost like herself, beating us in Gin Rummy or swapping school stories with her teacher friends who came to visit. But most of the time she was too exhausted to watch TV or follow along as I read The Rosie Project. I gave her what little comfort I could by refilling her icy Gatorade and retelling my favorite stories from my childhood. I wondered if I was helpful. I wondered how I could feel so exhausted after doing so little.
When she had the energy to speak, I asked my mother what was on her mind. She recounted the most meaningful moments of her life: falling in love for the first time, becoming a mother. When I asked her about her work as an elementary school principal she responded concisely, “I met some good people.” I was surprised by the lack of significance she placed on her career, given that my mother worked 60 hour weeks, spent weekends planting flowers at the school, and earned a second graduate degree while working full time and raising two kids by herself. In the end, the people she loved were all that mattered.
I held a mirror to my life. How often had I jumped on a plane to attend a meeting at the cost of missing a special moment with someone I loved—my husband’s birthday, our anniversary, the birth of my niece. I can remember when my mother first called me to tell me about her diagnosis. It was 8 a.m. on a Tuesday and I was on my way to work. I was irritated that she called at this inconvenient time, assuming she was finding herself bored five months into retirement and looking for company. It hadn’t occurred to me that she called at that unusual hour because something was wrong.
I was lucky to have several more years with her, during which she lived a relatively comfortable life. But after a major surgery we knew her timeline had been cut from years to months. I flew across the country to see her every month for the last six months of her life. I cooked her favorite Ina Garten roast chicken, read her horoscope, and helped her do The Washington Post crossword. When I got the call that she was moving to hospice, I cancelled my summer vacation and booked a one-way ticket.
At hospice, I made a promise to my mother, “You were there in the beginning. I will be there in the end.” Keeping my word tested my humility, grace, and strength, but being a source of comfort to her during her transition to the great beyond has been the proudest moment of my life.
Grief is disorienting. There are no easy lessons learned. No satisfying explanation why. No promise that things will get better. Here’s the truth: Life can be incredibly cruel and unfair. Bad things will happen to you. You will get hurt. You will lose the people you love. One day you will get sick and die. We all will; it’s the nature of being human.
What limited wisdom I can offer you is this: love is all that matters. Don’t just read that sentence, have the audacity to live it. If you’ve lost touch with a friend don’t text, call them today. Make plans to visit a relative who lives in a different city. Put down your phone and talk to your friend, your partner, your child. None of this will make you immortal or protect you from loss, but your loved ones will give you something to hold onto when you are inevitably pulled asunder.
In his heartbreaking essay “It’s Later Than You Think,” FinOps Foundation President J.R. Storman writes about unexpectedly losing his eight-year-old son. When he gets the call, he is in a meeting about paid time off during which he acknowledges he has not taken more than one contiguous week away from work in eight years. He questions, “how to return to work in a way that won’t leave me again with the regrets I now have.” It’s a question I’m struggling with myself.
After spending two months care taking, I returned to work depleted. Many people around me weren’t aware of my loss, so I was burdened with breaking the news. One colleague who works in a different city saw “family leave” on my out of office message and assumed I had a baby. I corrected him, humiliating us both.
A common misconception is that you should avoid talking about grief with the bereaved. While there was nothing anyone could say or do to make me feel better about losing my mother, my pain begged to be acknowledged. I didn’t have the energy or clarity to tell people what I needed. I sat at my desk in silence, feeling invisible.
To get through each day I had to put on a mask, to act like I was fine. I wasn’t fine, but there was nowhere for me to go when I felt overcome by sadness or rage. My desk was inches away from my colleagues. Every conference room had glass walls. Even the overcrowded restroom lacked privacy. My choices were be exposed or cover up. I spent all my energy pretending I was okay, energy I needed to heal. I couldn’t do it any longer.
I’m taking a step back from work to honor my humanness: my pain, my love, and my loss. Over the next few months I will be on sabbatical spending my time writing. You can follow my work at erinwilby.com.
If you are grieving or want to support someone experiencing loss, I recommend visiting Refuge in Grief.