THE SERVANT OF GRIEF

Wilhelmina Martinez

No one is ever really prepared to lose someone they love. First you have them in your life and in an instant moment, a split second even, and they could be gone. I never thought about death or what comes after. Nor, did I ever think about anyone really close to me eventually leaving? I always found death very uncomfortable; I never know what to say or how to react to it.

Growing up, there was always someone that we were losing in my family. “Everyone eventually meets their time, it’s the circle of life,” my mom often told me when I was smaller. I never thought that was comforting or sympathetic. My mom and I had always been very close. But I am not gonna lie, there were big problems between us. But who doesn’t have problems? I remember it always being about money. My mom was self-employed, a pottery maker and designer. As far back as I could remember, my mother was always beside me like any mother would be for their children. My dad passed away when I was five years old, and I can barely remember him being around—just little clips of memories that I will always cherish forever. So, that meant my mom had to be twice the parent she already was. It’s not easy being a single mother of four.

I remember the day it happened, when everything turned to total crap. I find it hilarious in movies when someone dies and it’s dark and gloomy, with rain pouring down. But that just isn’t the reality. This was a bright sunny day, and in the beginning of May. May 11th to be exact. On Mother’s Day, can you believe that? I just remember it being just my mom and I at home. In our little pink house, the lights turned off, the air being nice and cool with faint sounds of the television in the back-

ground coming from her room. I was in the bathroom getting ready.

My mom had gotten sick a few days before. We thought it was a cold. I offered and practically begged her to get checked at the hospital but she insisted that she would get better soon and refused to go to the doctor for some medication to help her recover. I previously checked on my mother and noticed some- thing odd about her. I walked out only just for a minute.

When I went back into the room to sit and watch a

movie with her, she was still and stiff as a board. She was wear- ing her pastel pink tank top, her hair curly, and the comforter covered the rest of her body but still slightly revealing her rose tattoo on her chest. I saw her lying lifeless in her bed, my eyes wandered frantically to the bedside to look for telephone. She was in her big bed with a fluffy grey comforter wrapped around her as I dialed 911. I then went back to my mom where I looked at her chest not moving. I was frozen and speechless. I could feel every hair jump up on my body. And I could not move until my eyes filled up with big fat tears and I managed to mutter, “Mom?... mom?” But she didn’t answer me. The operator had to snap me back into the moment and told me to get her onto the floor to perform CPR. But when my hands touched her soft skin that was when I was doubting that my best friend could be dead because in that moment was the last time I felt her warmth.

Everything was a big blur after that. In a flash, there I was in the hospital waiting room still petrified from the previous events. Going back, I hate the fact that I was the only one there. My brothers and sisters were elsewhere being with my nephew through his surgery. I hate that I did not know how to react to this situation. I couldn’t even cry because I was just so heartbro- ken yet confused.

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There was no one there for her but me, but I thought to myself was I really there for her if I let that happen? I allowed negative thoughts to cloud my mind, not knowing that I uncontrollably started crying into my hands. By then the doctor came out, “I’m sorry we could not revive your mother, we did what we could...” He paused noticing I was alone. “Err.. uhm did you want to see your mother?” he asked sympathetically but with concern and with his big scruffy eyebrows scrunched up in the middle of his brow. “No, thank you. I don’t want to see her like that.” I tried to push out the words from my mouth without breaking down again. “Are you sure? Are you here alone?” he asked, trying to be as nice as he could. I could not do it. I could not see her like that, and I knew that it would definitely crush me. So, without having to carry on with this awkward conversation that I was dreading every moment whenever I spoke to him, I got up and left the lobby to be alone. Then finally, I met with my sister at the front door. I noticed her eyes were puffy and red, she had her glasses in her pocket, she probably needed to keep wiping her eyes, and she seemed like she was running. I knew my brothers were not that far behind. As soon as I saw her, we hugged and I cried and cried until I felt an extra two pairs of arms wrapping around me. I knew they felt terrible that I went through this alone. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry...” My oldest brother wept as he pulled each of us closer to him. He was crying the most. As I mentioned before, my family never had any good luck when it came to longevity. I have been to many funerals and been prepared by my mother on what it was going to be like and how my family members, whom I could never really remember, were gonna look in their caskets, and how sadness was going to cloud the atmosphere around us. But my mother never prepared me for her funeral and how to take it in. She never mentioned how sorrow will suffocate you once you enter the viewing room and how it will shove itself down your throat until your words could never reach the surface again—or how it will grab all your emotions by its neck and suppress it in a bottle and bury it deep down until you can’t ever retrieve it anymore. Going to her funeral was the most annoying event I have ever been to. I hated seeing everyone act the way they did towards the loss. When my mother asked them for help or tried to talk to them they would always turn her away and never bothered to check in on her. But then mention how they would try their best to talk to her and how they wish they could spend one last moment with her. Fake, fake, fake! I thought. I don’t think I have ever been so annoyed in my life. But in the end I know that funerals are for the living and their way to cope. To cope with how they wish to remember things in their favor but try and make it known to everyone else, even if it was a lie. A year later, I made the decision to live with my brother. “Keep doing good in school, just know that you can call me anytime that you want and I know it’s going to be hard to adjust to being away from me but I will try and visit you. I love you my little willy bean.” My sister said this to me with so much love in her voice as she grabbed me and gave the biggest hug ever. At that moment I knew moving away from her was a big regret. He was tall, athletic, and had this stern look on his face all the time that made him look so serious and mad.

He stayed in a modern, beige carpet, wooden tiled, apartment with his girlfriend. My brother seemed to be handling things very well—a bit too well maybe—as he never talked about his feelings. He was the oldest and was now the one with the most responsibilities. I felt like a burden that was casted upon him and I never thought that I would have to live here with them. “Make yourself feel comfortable and if you need anything just let me know.” He said awkwardly as we entered his apartment for the first time.

I ignored their help and kindness. All I wanted to do was stay home and curl up in a ball. Going to school did not matter to me at all. I stopped caring about my education and did not try as much as I used to. I always wondered how it would be if I still lived with my mom and things would turn out. I missed my old friends and my old school. Being separated from my sister was a stake to my heart. We have never been separated so far from one anoth- er. She lived in my dad’s house which was two hours away from me. I knew that I had a serious problem and needed help but nothing motivated me. I wanted to stay hidden from everyone and be alone all the time. I barely moved; I was like molasses. black, and slow to move. However, after the weeks turned into months, and months into years. I still felt guilt each day for nev- er taking her to the hospital. Everyone told me that it was not my fault, but I always felt guilty. It took me back to when I was nine years old, and I remember sitting in my grandma’s living room as she was talking to somebody about the death of my father. All I remember about that conversation was her saying, “Yeah... This one here was in the car accident with my son. She survived by kicking out the window of the car to get help from someone on the road. I think if she woke up faster or got out of the window faster then maybe my son would have still been alive,” she said with tears building up in the corner of her eyes. I don’t think I had ever been so hurt in my entire life. What’s even worse is I couldn’t get myself to speak up and hit her back with something I could defend myself with but nothing came out. It was like someone instantly grabbed my vocal cords and ran off with them.

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After hearing that, I remember just running up to my sister and crying in her embrace and I didn’t want to let go. I wanted to stay in her comfort forever. The fact that my grandma blamed me for my father’s death was unexpected, especially when you’re only nine years old. I could never forget that nor could I ever forgive my grandma for saying that to me. But then thinking about my mother it always brought me back to that memory. So I took it that it was my fault that my siblings and I were now orphans. I remember watching “P.S I Love You” once, and I sure did feel like her when she just stays reclusive in her apartment all day long and never comes out until her family has to come in and save her. Only difference is that reclusiveness was only going on mentally and no one could save me but myself. That’s if I even wanted to be saved. But I knew that I had to quit sitting on the sidelines and seeing everyone else play the game and winning. I needed to do is find something that will help me get out of this dark hole and be unleashed from grief’s tight grip.

I remember reading this novel in my sophomore year, May We Be Forgiven, The main character Harold witnesses his lover Jane get brutally murdered but ends up handling his grief in a healthy manner like nothing happened. I remember thinking, “Man, I wish I could recover like that.” But no, I was more like Mike from Bag of Bones, a writer, loses his wife which he did not witness and handles it very bad. He becomes very reclusive and does not enjoy being around people anymore. I could relate more to Mike than Harold.

Once realizing the amount of pain that I was allowing myself to suffer, I started changing my situation. By that I mean I started focusing on my current mental stability at the time and dealing with depression in a more healthy way. I started picking up my grades in school and by entered the sport of track, allowing me to release any tension I was feeling. I truly believe that running helped get my confidence back and become more positive. It wasn’t just track that helped me, it was also reading and spending quality time with my family. Although, I never talked about my feelings to anyone or the hurt that I had, I never mentioned it. Finding all these outlets really helped me become someone better than that girl who just locked herself in her room thinking that no one cared about her. When in reality everyone did, it was just her who didn’t care about herself enough.

This one night I just could not do it anymore. I needed to move on. I called my brother in my room and when he sat down on my bed I grew confident in what I was about to say. “I think I need help... I miss home, I miss mom. Sometimes I wish I could just leave and I want to stop thinking that the world is ending. I wanna be my old self.” This stunned him, it was unex- pected but he agreed to help me. All he did was smile, nod, and hugged me. That was the first step to me helping myself, and it felt so good. The following week, I started counseling. I discovered help guided by counseling. I learned that grief comes in many different ways. I think that people should be more aware of. Grief is not just dealing with a loved one who has passed. It can be dealing with divorce, parting from something personal, retirement, and even loss of health. I found this really important. I never thought about how many ways grief can affect people, but more importantly how people don’t understand it. It’s important to have self-awareness and be on the alert for those around you. Losing a pet can impact a person really bad, and I am glad that I had my family there for me when I was ready, and they came and helped. Some people don’t understand that losing the things you cherish and have the most meaning in your life hurts. It’s not always losing people that can cause depression. One day waiting for my counseling session, I came across a pamphlet about the Mayo Clinic. Its website described complicated grief. There was something on the website that was mentioned about grief that I could never forget, “Adjusting to a new reality in which the deceased is no longer present.” I thought wow that is straightforward but it reminded me of a poem. I found that weird yet comforting. The poem, “Nothing Gold Can Stay” by Robert Frost was one of the most amazing poems I have ever read. This poem to me described everything that I felt toward my situation. That even in the most perfect, beautiful thing that nature or the world has to offer it will not last forever.

My mother was the good thing I had in my life, and I knew that she couldn’t be around forever. But I’m glad that I made so many memories with her. Her death made me learn, and I experienced tragedy when I did not want but had to go through eventually. With this new information, I can go forward and notice those who suffer like me, and I will be able to help them by relating to them. But mainly learning more about myself, and how to help myself when I need it and not be scared to ask others for help, too. With this traumatic experience, I am grateful that I learned from it, and I now will no longer be a servant to grief.