April 30, 2020

Someone handed me this portrait at Mom’s memorial. I felt numb and overwhelmed. I remember standing there, wondering, Who are all these people? Why did they come to see me, my brothers, and my dad? I couldn’t understand it, and I couldn’t handle it. I was in such shock and awe from Mom dying that my brain couldn’t process her death—not for months, maybe even years.

I envied the people who seemed to find closure after losing someone. We didn’t have that. We couldn’t show Mom because it would have been too traumatic to see what the cancer had done to her. But today, I’d trade that trauma for closure in a heartbeat. I wish I had seen something—anything—that confirmed Mom was really gone. Maybe then my wild, radical emotions would have felt validated. Maybe then her funeral would have felt like her funeral, instead of some stressful gathering I didn’t want to host.

I’ll never forget the moment a woman approached me and carefully unrolled this paper in front of my eyes. My jaw dropped. I stared at the portrait of us, not even recognizing myself. My mind couldn’t grasp the idea of Mom being gone, but this drawing made me remember: we were all here for her. I held my breath, thanked her, and told her it was the most beautiful thing anyone could have given me. Other people gathered around, their jaws dropping too. No one knew what to say. I certainly didn’t know how to break down. I wasn’t taught to do that in front of others, nor did I feel like I could. All I felt was social anxiety and confusion.

We chose not to have a priest or rabbi at her service, out of respect for Mom’s unique beliefs. Instead, Dad stood in front of everyone and shared her story—from her first diagnosis to her tragic death. I wept as he spoke raw, honest words about unimaginable circumstances to a room of people who couldn’t even look at him. They couldn’t bear to look at me either.

It took a year before I felt any sense of acceptance. The shock finally wore off, and I realized: Mom couldn’t still be at Presbyterian this long without me seeing her. That realization opened a floodgate of grief. I cried more in that second year than I had in the first. I remember thinking, Can we have the funeral now? Now that I’m a wreck. Now that I need comfort. Now that I want people to let me cry in their arms. Now, I thought, I’m ready for Mom’s funeral.

And when I look at this portrait, I feel now. I feel everything—so much that, sometimes, I wish I could go back to the shock. Sometimes, I wish I couldn’t feel at all.