Frustrated in Manassas

I am so frustrated. More than frustrated, I am angry.

Grieving has become less about my mother and more about me.

I have been told that in order to process my grief, I need to talk about it. But with whom?

Friends are uncomfortable around me. They don't want to listen. They don't know what to say.  I haven't heard from one of my closest friends since my mom died. Another said she would be available to talk Christmas Day. I haven't talked to her since the funeral. People just hope that I am OK. I think that makes them feel better.

My husband doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know what to do. He has lost a parent, but he grieved before his father's death. His father's death was a relief, an end to his father's suffering. My husband doesn't talk about his father much.

Talking about my mother makes my father sad. As one well meaning co-worker told me, "Don't rely on him. He'll be gone, too."

Grief counseling? It took me nearly two months to get an appointment. My counselor can only see me twice a month because she doesn't have many "late appointments."

Grief support groups? Groups have already started or are scheduled during the work day. The next sessions begin in April. I was matched up with a volunteer from a support group, but I never received an email from her. We talked once on the phone, but our plans fell through.

It has been suggested that I take time off of work to process my grief. How do I do this? By talking? Tried that. (See above.) By crying? I've done that too. I could use the time to attend to things I have neglected, like my laundry, my health.

Grief doesn't realize that I have students to teach and SMARTR goals to reach, meetings to attend, beliefs that I need to shrug off so I can teach standards instead of children. Watching literacy take a backseat to technology, testing and gifted education. Teaching the way I am told to teach rather than teaching the way I should teach is so much harder when you are grieving.

So here I sit. Typing. Not talking to anyone except a counselor. Twice a month. It's not enough.

The only person I could talk to is gone. And I need her more than ever.

Sorry For My What?

During the past month, I have heard the phrase "Sorry for your loss" more times than I care to count. It's a wonderful phrase, don't get me wrong. Sometimes, I just find it kind of unusual. My mother isn't lost. I know exactly where she is. 

She's sitting on the dining room table.

Well, that's where she was at first. She was in her little plastic box in a paper bag. (Coach should really make tote bags for such occasions.) Dad started going through Mom's belongings and began to lay various Goodwill donations on the dining room table. In order to avoid an awkward call from the good people at Goodwill, I encouraged Dad to put her someplace else. She sat in her bedroom for a while before finally settling in her sitting room.

Occasionally, I will walk into her sitting room and grab a People magazine. I will casually say, "Hi" to Mom, as if the box will talk back. Apparently, talking to boxes runs in the family. My mother would tell me often about talking to her father-in-law, my grandfather, as they drove up to Marblehead Lighthouse to scatter his ashes.

This summer, I will make the same journey to Marblehead Lighthouse to scatter my mother's ashes. And we will have a little chat, just the two of us.

Mom at Marblehead Lighthouse after scattering my grandmother's ashes. The bench is a memorial to my grandparents. We're going to look into putting her name on it as well. This means she is technically sitting on her own gravestone. Which is kinda creepy.