A Season of Grief

How ironic that I recently wrote a chapter in The Wellness Universe Guide to Complete Self-Care: 25 Tools for Navigating Loss, Grief, and Transition. My chapter explored the physical losses I've experienced throughout my life, including those that come with illness, injury, and aging. It wasn't about losing someone I love.

And yet, here I am, living through a season of grief I hadn't anticipated.

Throughout the editing process, book preparations, and podcast interviews, I was also caring for my Momma, alongside my sister Vickie and the loving support of Hospice. It was all-consuming, watching her slowly fade before our eyes, knowing that our precious time together was coming to an end.

No sooner had the book been released than I packed my bags to spend the weekend caring for her, relieving the hospice aide.

When I arrived, I walked into her room, picked up her rosary beads, held her hand, and began praying the Rosary in a soft whisper. To be honest, I hadn't prayed the Rosary in a very long time, and I'm sure Momma would have been surprised that I remembered every prayer!

When I finished, I kissed her forehead and quietly walked into the kitchen, just a few feet away.

And then, everything became still.

I returned to her room, and she was gone.

My beautiful Momma had finally been released from a body that had endured so much pain for so many years. And although my heart was breaking, I could sense something extraordinary. I could feel her joy, her youthful exuberance, her freedom.

She was finally going home to her Heavenly Father.

The days and weeks that followed were a blur. The wake, the funeral, emptying her apartment, attending to the legal responsibilities that accompany the passing of a loved one. I was running on adrenaline, moving from one responsibility to another.

There was little time to feel the ache in my heart.

And then came the quiet.

The emptiness of those familiar evening hours, between 5:00 and 8:00 p.m., when I would ordinarily pick up the phone and call her. The conversations we shared, the laughter, the stories, the simple comfort of hearing her voice.

How I miss those conversations. How I miss her presence.

Just as I was beginning to find my footing, I received a phone call that my beloved Aunt Carol had been hospitalized.

My aunt is so much more than an aunt to me. She is like a second mother, a confidante, a cherished friend, and a beautiful source of motherly love. We share an extraordinary bond, one that I have treasured throughout my life.

And now, she too, has begun to fade.

Without sharing too many personal details, I arrived in the Adirondacks just as she had been transferred to a nursing and rehabilitation facility. The moment I walked into her room, she burst into tears.

And so did I.

Once again, the adrenaline took over.

There were responsibilities to attend to, conversations with the director of nursing, nurses, aides, and everyone involved in her care. I wanted to be certain that she was receiving the attention, kindness, and compassion she deserved.

I'm so accustomed to seeing my aunt bounce back from life's challenges. She has always been remarkably resilient.

But this time feels different.

She will soon be ninety-one, and her multiple sclerosis has taken a significant toll. Watching someone you love become increasingly frail is a sorrow all its own.

I am still mourning my Momma, then the passing of her brother just ten days later, and now I find myself grieving the changes in my aunt and the possibility of another heartbreaking goodbye.

This is a different kind of grief.

A quiet, lingering sadness that settles into the spaces of everyday life. The empty moments. The familiar routines that are no longer there. The awareness that life, as we have known it, is changing.

When my dad died suddenly, I was in the midst of chemotherapy. Just a couple of weeks later, I underwent a stem cell transplant. Between the effects of chemotherapy, the mental fog of chemo brain, and the constant trips to New York City for treatment, I was consumed by my own struggle to survive.

For twenty years, I had spoken to my dad every single day. Yet, during that overwhelming chapter of my life, I was so disconnected from myself that I barely recognized the absence of those daily conversations.

I didn't have the emotional space to grieve.

But this time, grief has stopped me in my tracks.

I've been battling a cold for nearly two weeks. I tire easily, have little ambition, and find myself wanting nothing more than quiet and rest.

The other day, I caught myself wondering, Are you just being lazy?

And almost immediately, I recognized that familiar voice of self-judgment.

I gently replaced it with compassion.

No, Kathleen. You are grieving.

And there it was.

The very awareness I have spent years teaching others. The very tools I shared in my chapter. The recognition that grief takes many forms and that healing begins when we allow ourselves to acknowledge what we are experiencing.

Sometimes grief doesn't arrive in tears. Sometimes it comes as exhaustion, a lack of motivation, a longing for solitude, or an unfamiliar heaviness in the heart.

Sometimes the most loving thing we can do is simply give ourselves permission to rest.

Here I am, on my own grieving journey, recognizing the losses, the emptiness, and the impermanence of life.

And yet, alongside the sadness, there is profound gratitude.

I have no regrets.

I loved my parents deeply and made spending time with them a priority. I have a lifetime of beautiful memories, especially those precious moments we shared over the past twenty-five years.

And I am blessed to still have time with my beloved aunt.

For years, I have traveled to the Adirondacks to be with her, to share our lives, our conversations, our laughter, and to express my deep appreciation for the extraordinary gift she has been in my life.

Now, I make the journey approximately every ten days, simply to surround her with family love.

She has wonderful caregivers, and I am deeply grateful for them. But as she so beautifully reminds me, "Nothing beats family love."

And she is right.

So this is my intention: to be as present as possible. To continue watching over her care, to hold her hand, to share our love, and to ensure that she is comfortable, peaceful, and surrounded by kindness.

I cannot change the natural unfolding of life. I cannot stop time, prevent loss, or hold on to those I love forever.

But I can love them fully while they are here.

I can honor the memories of those who have gone before me.

And I can offer myself the same tenderness, patience, and compassion that I so freely offer others.

Perhaps this is one of the greatest lessons grief has to teach us.

That love doesn't end when a life ends. It simply changes form.

It lives in our memories, in the quiet moments, in the conversations we still carry in our hearts, and in the countless ways those we love have shaped who we are.

This season of grief is asking me to slow down, to listen to my heart, and to honor what I am feeling without judgment.

And so, I will.

I will rest when I am tired. I will cry when the tears come. I will welcome the beautiful memories, even when they bring an ache to my heart.

And above all, I will continue to love.

Because in the end, love is all that matters.

With love and blessings,
Kathleen S. McPhillips