When the Heart Is Grieving and the Mind Is Trying to Catch Up
I never would have associated grief with the effects of chemotherapy. Yet here I am, in the throes of grief, recognizing so many similarities to what I experienced during chemo—the mental fog, the inability to focus, the exhaustion, and that strange feeling of being present, yet not quite present.
I've come to call what I'm experiencing Grief Brain.
As I shared in my previous blog post, A Season of Grief, I find it profoundly ironic that after writing my chapter, The Sacred Doorway of Grief: Finding Peace Through Physical Loss, Illness, and Aging, I am now experiencing grief in a way I never imagined.
On September 4th, I lost my precious Momma. Ten days later, on September 14th, her brother passed. And on October 22nd, my beloved Aunt Carol, who had been like a second mother to me for decades, made her transition.
In the span of just seven weeks, I lost two mothers.
I've already written about losing my Momma, about those final precious moments, the love, the exhaustion, and the sacredness of being with her as she took her last breath.
But life didn't give me much time to grieve.
Immediately following her funeral, my sister Vickie and I were consumed with the responsibilities that accompany the passing of a loved one. Emptying Momma's apartment, tending to endless details, making decisions, and doing all the things that simply had to be done.
And then the phone rang.
My Aunt Carol had been hospitalized.
Aunt Carol had been such a loving, supportive presence in my life for as long as I can remember. Ours was a relationship filled with laughter, shared family stories, friendship, and a deep connection that went far beyond that of aunt and niece. I always felt like a daughter to her, and she loved me as one.
When she needed me most, I made certain I was there.
As soon as I could get away, I made the four-hour drive to the Adirondacks. Over the weeks that followed, I traveled back and forth every ten days while she was in nursing home rehabilitation.
But something was different this time.
My aunt had always been remarkably resilient. No matter what life brought her, no matter how much pain she endured, she seemed to bounce back with her wonderful spirit, her humor, and her unwavering determination to live.
This time, that familiar resolve seemed to be fading.
I could see it. I could feel it.
And it broke my heart.
She needed me to take care of so many things, and I did what I always did. I stepped in, took charge, and made things happen. Whatever needed doing, I found a way to get it done, often in record time.
But staying alone in her home was another experience entirely.
The house was so quiet.
Gone was the beautiful lilt of her voice, the laughter, the stories, the vibrant personality that filled every room. Even when she was suffering, she somehow managed to exude joy.
Without her there, the house felt empty.
And so did a part of me.
Somewhere in the midst of caring for everyone, managing responsibilities, traveling, and trying to hold everything together, I began to realize that I was running on adrenaline.
As long as there was something that needed my attention, I could function. I could organize, accomplish, and take care of whatever was in front of me.
But when there was nothing pressing to do, I felt lost.
I wandered aimlessly from one thing to another. Simple tasks seemed overwhelming. My concentration disappeared. I had little interest in social media, my work, or the everyday things that normally bring me joy.
Even the launch of our beautiful book, something I had looked forward to with such excitement, became something I could barely be present for.
I simply didn't have anything left to give.
Sometimes life calls us away from life as we know it.
Away from our routines, our work, our meditation, our plans, and even the things that nourish our souls.
Sometimes life asks us to set everything aside and simply be present for the one who needs us most.
And that is where I have been.
First, tending to my precious Momma.
Then, tending to my precious Aunt Carol.
Loving them. Caring for them. Being there.
And somewhere along the way, forgetting to tend to myself.
What has surprised me most is how grief has begun to manifest in my physical body.
Anxiety.
Not the occasional worry or concern that comes and goes, but a deep, unsettling anxiety that seems to live in my entire body.
I can't remember the last time I felt anything quite like this.
My nervous system seems to be on high alert. My body feels as though it's bracing for something, even when there is nothing left to do.
And the tears?
They haven't fully come.
There have been moments, of course. Tears that catch me unexpectedly. A memory, a thought, a quiet moment when my heart aches.
But that deep release, the flood of tears I somehow expected, has yet to arrive.
And I find myself asking, over and over again:
What is wrong with me?
What is wrong with me?
Then, last night, something shifted.
A quiet voice within reminded me of something I have spent decades teaching others.
Kathleen, you have all these beautiful tools in your toolbox. Perhaps it's time to reach for them.
And there it was.
That light bulb moment. That familiar awakening of awareness.
Nothing is wrong with me. I am grieving.
Perhaps this anxiety, this restless energy, this constant feeling of being on alert, is grief asking to be acknowledged.
Perhaps my body has been holding what my heart hasn't yet had the time or space to fully experience.
I haven't truly had the opportunity to grieve my own mother, much less my beloved aunt.
I've been too busy doing.
Too busy caring.
Too busy being strong.
And now, perhaps, it's time to simply Be.
So I breathe.
I write.
I walk in nature.
I return to the stillness that has sustained me throughout my life.
I allow myself to rest without guilt, to feel without judgment, and to simply Be, whatever Being looks like in that moment.
And slowly, ever so gently, I feel a sense of peace beginning to settle over me.
I don't know when the tears will come. I don't know what the next wave of grief will feel like, or how long this tender season of my life will last.
And for perhaps the first time in weeks, I don't need to know.
I am learning to give myself the same love, compassion, and gentle presence that I have so freely given to others.
The tears, the heartbreak, the moments of emptiness, the memories that bring both laughter and sorrow—I am ready to welcome them all.
Not to walk around my grief.
Not to push it away or pretend it isn't there.
But to walk through it.
To allow the Sacred Doorway of Grief to open my heart even wider, bringing me closer to the love that has always lived within me.
Because I am beginning to understand something even more deeply.
Grief is not the absence of love. It is love learning to live in a different way.
When we love deeply, we grieve deeply.
And what an extraordinary gift it has been to have loved and been loved by these two remarkable women, both of whom lived more than ninety years.
My Momma, who gave me life.
My Aunt Carol, who enriched that life with her unconditional love, laughter, wisdom, and friendship.
Two mothers.
Two beautiful souls.
Two extraordinary blessings.
And although their physical presence is gone, the love we shared has not gone anywhere.
It lives within me.
In my memories, in my heart, in the woman I have become, and in all the ways I will continue to love.
Perhaps that is the greatest gift hidden within the Sacred Doorway of Grief.
Love doesn't end when a life ends. It simply asks us to discover a new way to carry it.
And so, with a tender heart, I continue my journey.
One breath.
One moment.
One day at a time.
With love and gratitude for all that has been, all that remains, and all that is yet to unfold.
I am truly blessed.
With love & blessings,
Kathleen S. McPhillips