Rounded Corners on This Grief Journey
My mom had some one-liners that are deeply embedded in who I am today. All of them having some significant impact.
“You can’t see around corners,” she would say kindly. And even though it was the farthest thing away from what I was thinking in that moment, I found relief every time her words gently hit the air. In general, she had a sweet and loving mama voice, but I was most aware of it when she said something simple and thought-provoking. Something I needed to hear.
Make it stand out
Even with Stage 4 Pancreatic Cancer diagnosis, she was filled with life…
You can’t see around corners arrived when I was worried about a current situation or something that wasn’t even here yet. Always over things I could not control.
Since I’ve always been a visual learner, I would do my best to picture what she was saying so I could remember it later. This one, I pictured as some sharp-edged corner, obstructing the view of all things I was desperately trying to see. In this instance the obstruction didn’t make the matter worse, it made it easier to accept, because I understood she wanted me to see the good in not being able to see what was next…allowing me to imagine the next as something that shouldn’t be feared.
That gave me hope.
Having said that, after a lifetime of living under this one, I have begun to think that the corners constricting my view aren’t sharp edged at all. Instead, perhaps they are rounded. Softly carving out the path of what is just ahead, with a gentle sense that if I am patient in my mindset, I can walk lightly in that direction and begin to envision what is just around the curve. Helping me think calmly and positively about next even if I am completely unsure.
Because of this rounded corner way of thinking, I’m amazed at what I see. Not shocked. Just totally amazed.
This year, for the first time in decades, we have been enjoying beach life in Brant Beach, NJ. And while we are not new to Long Beach Island, in fact living here every summer for decades on end, this was the first time living in this town. I wondered when we arrived if there would be some kind of missing. If I would be acutely aware that this was not mom’s kitchen. That her scent did not linger in the air. That her antique favorite beach chair would not be dangling from the hook. I worried my brain would incessantly look for her missing.
So I kept busy. Very. Every morning, jumping out of bed to hit Ocean Blvd, where people came in droves to walk and exercise and cars kept their distance. It was the perfect way to stay out of the weeds in my head.
One morning, though, after a dream about my son’s upcoming wedding and a subconscious search for my mama, I resisted the urge to put myself back to sleep. Instead, I grabbed the dog and headed for the beach. Not the boulevard where we had walked every morning.
I glanced at the no dogs allowed sign, lifted my toy poodle and headed up the sandy dune. Just ahead I could see a woman sitting on the bench that appeared to be on the phone. At that moment I hit the video button on my phone and began my search. Unaware of what I was looking for, or what I might find, I prayed the woman on the phone would not interrupt my video or secret search party.
Recording moments on my grief journey…searching quietly for my mama.
As I got to the top of the hill, I paused, inhaling the sight, then turned off the video. And there it was. A new day. I couldn’t see my mama, feel her nor hear her, but I got the message she would have wanted to give. A new day…yours for the taking.
It was then that I realized the women on the bench was not on the phone anymore, but trying to talk to me. I heard something about a dog and prepared for the no dogs allowed speech. Which was not what she was saying at all. Instead, she was sharing about her own little dog she had when she was younger…I could hear her, but the sound of her voice fell faintly on my ears as my eyes fixated on a little open book she held in her lap. It looked like a daily reader that had a familiar look. A look that quietly begged for anonymity.
I looked back at the sky, overwhelmed by its’ beauty.
“Quite a morning,” she said changing the topic.
“Perfectly filled with serenity,” I offered back.
It was in that moment. That one split second, with that simple word, like a sudden crack in the universe, that urgently connected us.
“It sure is,” she said . And within minutes she was sharing deep gem-like stories about herself and her mother. The one that gave her the little book waiting patiently in her lap.
“My mom gave me a book just like that as well,” I said. “Actually, she left it for me in my closet right before she passed away…”
As my words fell, I felt suddenly safe revealing my grief. Why I had come to see the sunrise. The endless empty I felt. The deep challenge I had in comprehending how 6 years had felt like one day and simultaneously like a life-time. My feelings of being trapped in some unconventional and unreasonable time warp. One that often made me wonder if it was am or pm?
She just kept listening. I thought she might have lost her mother too…the way she listened with such compassion. And then realized I was probably sharing too much. Finally I looked back into her eyes.
“I just came from a meeting down on the beach,” she said. “It’s been my serenity for 26 summers.”
My eyes became glued to her finger pointing towards the direction of the town we used to live in and I began to feel like I was floating. Not exactly floating, but definitely no longer grounded on the sandy floor.
“Huh,” I whispered. “My mom used to go to a meeting down there as well. Maybe you went to one together and didn’t even know it.”
The words fell out of me like it wasn’t unusual at all that I thought a complete stranger, whom I hadn’t even met yet, might have possibly known my mom. The person I was currently looking for.
“What was her name?” she asked, as if she were going to help search for her.
“Elinor,” I said. “Friends called her Ellie.”
I’m not certain if our eyes met again in that moment, or if we had been looking at each other the whole time, but she seemed frozen in time as she continued.
“She was a runner. With beautiful matching outfits,” the stranger said, then looked straight into my soul. She wasn’t waiting for an answer. She wasn’t asking me a question.
And then, as two strangers would never do, we collapsed in each others’ arms, sobbing.
“Everyone knew her,” she said. “She made a difference for everyone that ever met her…and I am so sorry to hear that she lost her fight with cancer. She was so so special.”
She was. She still is.
My body felt numb as we began to walk together down the hill. My heart settling into an unrecognizable pattern.
“I can’t believe I just met you,” I said wiping my tears.
And out came my mama’s words again. “There are no accidents,” she stated matter-of-factly…”but you already know that.”
I felt weightless. Like the man on the moon perhaps…gently lulling about in space. Dizzy. But not really. Grounded. But not really.
“Where are you staying?” I asked her, not wanting to let her go.
“Right there,” she said, pointing at the red house on the corner of our street.
The red house. The one I had been using as a landmark for everyone visiting us these past few weeks. The red house. The point of reference. The guiding light.
“I am so glad I met you,” I said, trying to cover up my fear of her leaving…
“Maybe I’ll see you again…”
She gave me one more hug and said, “I’ll see you again. I’ll be right here.”
As she walked off, I put the dog down and cried the rest of the way home. Grief. Relief. Wonderment of what in fact just happened. As I walked back into the house, I wondered if it even had occurred at all, but then opened my phone and saw the video.
There she was. Just waiting for me.
Message received, mama. Rounded corners. Keep your eyes open for the rounded corners.