Losing my mom, two years later

It’s been two years since my mom died and the main takeaway is that grief changes its appearance over time.

To prepare myself for writing this piece, I re-read the posts from last year and the year prior. And I cried.

I think I’ll keep doing this yearly post about my mom. It serves as a snapshot for my life and what headspace I was in at the time of writing.

Same pain, lower intensity

In the immediate months after my mom passed, a friend shared with me a cartoon that was a metaphor for grief. There were four mason jars each containing a black sphere. From left to right, the jars would get progressively bigger, however the black sphere remained the same size.

The metaphor was that the size and weight of grief will remain the same, but as time passes, it takes up less and less space. The pain is still the same, but the intensity lowers. That stuck with me.

Now, my jar isn’t as big as I hope for it to be, but it’s bigger than it was a year ago. It doesn’t weigh me down as much.

Back to our regularly scheduled programming

My mom died during the heat of the pandemic. It was like four different kinds of sadness compounded into one big cry when I saw her body laying in the hospital bed. She was still. She was cold. She was there physically, but my mom was missing.

My grieving process also included the slow and tumultuous return to pre-pandemic life: meeting friends, going to restaurants, movies, not fearing for my health anytime my cousins came home from school.

Now, in July of 2023, things have - for the most part - returned to “normal”. Now, I can focus on my own life and all the aspirations I have. It’s like I’ve had a three-year delay on my early twenties and now I’m trying to recoup that lost time. I think everyone is.

As I’ve said in previous posts, when my mom died, I took the lion share of the housekeeping. I would cook meals, clean the house, repair appliances, re-caulk bathroom tiles, etc. But the biggest responsibility I took was to ensure my little cousins grow up to be decent men.

Striving to be a good, male, role model

In the years leading up to the pandemic, my aunt (my mom’s sister) and her two sons came to live at our house for reasons I won’t get into here. However, it must be said that they weren’t exactly raised with good male role models. So when they moved in with us, the men of the house (my dad, older brother and I) felt an innate responsibility to reign them in and guide them.

I’ve told my friends and therapist that living with them is like a dry run for having children. The age gap between them and myself is pretty big, so I guess it’s more fair to say they’re the younger brothers I’ve never had. Regardless, I know that I am not ready to have children. But it didn’t mean I wouldn’t try to set a good example.

A message to my younger cousins and their mother

If my younger cousins are reading this, I want you to know how immensely proud I am of both of you. You two are becoming such upstanding, young men. There were times when I lost sight of what it was like to be a kid, and in those moments I was too harsh. For that I am sorry.

The way you two have grown makes me teary-eyed. In the short years we’ve lived together you have learned so much: how to ride a bike, how to cook basic meals, maintaining a clean home! To the eldest cousin: you got your driver’s license and your first job in the same summer! While it makes me sad that you’re growing up too fast, it warms my heart knowing that you can take care of yourselves. I know my mom would be so proud of you two.

Auntie, if you’re reading this, I hope you know that I have tried so hard to ensure your two boys have had a good childhood. I loved putting them on to some good, classic movies. I loved taking them on long bike rides that pushed their fitness to the limit. I loved playing new board games with them. They grew up during a time where a chunk of their education was done over Zoom. I do not envy them whatsoever. But I hope they have memories they can look back on fondly.

And for you, auntie, I hope that you can find some respite from what has been a very tumultous past couple of years. Between work and home, I hope we were able to relieve some of the stress you definitely experienced. I hope you can take solace in knowing your boys are going to be good men. I hope you can resolve the issues that burden you.

Raring to go!

Between the financial situation following my mom’s death and the fact that my cousins are growing up, my house has felt smaller and smaller as each day passes.

I recently visited a friend’s apartment and they were telling me about living on their own. I lost myself in the thought of waking up and choosing what kind of day I would want to have. I wouldn’t have to worry about someone else using the bathroom or someone else’s dirty dishes that needed cleaning. Or — the big one — I wouldn’t have to worry if there was enough food for everyone to eat at dinner. It was enticing.

Unfortunately I live in Toronto.

Housing here is not cheap whatsoever, so I would need significant financial capital. And I’m not even talking about owning a home - the idea of which, just seems like an impossibility at this point. A studio apartment in any given neighbourhood will probably cost $2000 in rent!

This is where the conundrum kicks in: I need to stay home to save for my own place, but living at home is making me more and more antsy. I want to leave. I need to leave.

But where will I go?

This is the second part of the conundrum: if and when I do leave - will I stay in Toronto?

As each year passes, I feel more strongly that working freelance is a viable career path for me. This means I could technically work from anywhere. The idea of living outside North America is so appealing!

Don’t get me wrong, I love Toronto. Not only is it home, but I think it’s a beautiful city with salt-of-the-earth people (I just wish the municipal government agreed). And I could definitely see myself living out my years here. But right now, Montreal, Seoul or Barcelona are calling my name.

Another issue that is playing a big influence on where I move: climate change!

Existential dread & antidepressants (TW: mentions of suicide)

Feel free to skip this part. Seriously.

While I fancy the idea of working out of a flat in Liverpool or Marseille - these cities aren’t exactly built with central air conditioning in mind; they’ve never had to. Wherever I move, will they have the infrastructure to adapt with the absolutely nightmarish future we’re staring in the face? (Yes, it’s a genuine worry for me!)

In a morbid way, I envy my mom. She doesn’t have to deal with the idea that her world won’t be habitable for humans. She doesn’t have to deal with the cynicism, apathy or existential dread that comes with living in the 2020s. She lived a life, albeit a short one. She had ambitions, goals, desires. She immigrated to a foreign land in hopes that her future children could live a better life. How could she have known those children would grow up in a time where Earth would become virtually inhabitable?

Over the past year, I’ve thought about how much easier it would be to end my life. A lot more than I ever have.

Mmy generation has only grown up with the notion that we are racing towards global catastrophe. Glaciers are melting, hurricanes are getting stronger, and wildfires are becoming more frequent and less tameable. The summers are hotter, the winters are warmer and every month we are breaking some kind of climate record. There is no horizon on which to place our hopes.

Mix in a global pandemic, a bevy of personal issues, and suddenly, suicide seems more appealing.

If I’m being honest, had I lived by myself throughout the pandemic and still had to deal with the death of my mom … I think there’s a good chance this post wouldn’t exist.

One day, I actually mapped out a plan: a closed garage and an idle car with the windows rolled down.

I thought about how easy it would be to join my mom in death; how easy it would be to release myself from this burden that eats at me every day. Yes, I would miss out on the good, but I wouldn’t have to suffer through the bad.

I cried a lot that day. Mostly out of fear.

It was the fear that the voice mapping out this plan was the loudest in my head. My rational side didn’t bother to put up a fight; it laid down the red-fucking-carpet for this voice.

That’s why I finally decided to experiment with antidepressants.

As of writing this post, I’ve been on antidepressants for about 3 months. There has been a noticeable difference: mainly how I haven’t been making as many mountains out of every molehill.

However, the side effects have taken their toll as well. I’m quite tired most of the time and I don’t find as much joy in my hobbies. Ironically, my thoughts of suicide have increased in frequency too; but not in a way where I’m a danger to myself. It’s more that I feel it’ll be easier for everyone if I took my own life.

There was another recent instance where I tried calling a suicide hotline and they put me on hold. I asked my friends to give me their reasons as to why life is worth living. I disregarded their answers as bullshit; they were only placating me, talking me off the ledge, so to speak. I eventually calmed down.

I’m waiting for the full, intended effects to kick in. If they don’t, then I’ll try another brand. The important thing is that I believed I was worthy enough to go on antidepressants; my life was valuable to me.

Wrapping it up

Okay, so you’ve made it this far and you want to know the big lesson I’ve learned.

So do I.

Like I said up top, the biggest takeaway from this past year is that grief changes its appearance. I miss my mom in a different way these days.

A year ago, I really missed the physical presence of my mom pre-cancer: her hair, her voice, her touch.

Nowadays, I miss my mom’s holistic(?) presence. She left a giant void when she died; one that no single person could ever fill. Today, I did some yardwork and thought about how my mom would still cook dinner after tirelessly weeding the garden. I miss my mom whenever I file invoices or make my budgets. I miss my mom as I grow as an adult.

Something I really think about these days are the “never’s”. I’ll never get to become closer friends with my mom. She’ll never attend my wedding or meet my future spouse.

She’ll never get to say “I told you so,” because each day that I grow older is another day where I understand why she did things the way she did.

I’ll never get to show her my appreciation for all the sacrifices she’s made for me and my brother’s sake.

I’ll never get to say how much I love her ever again.

My mom is gone and I miss her so damn much.

And she will never know that.