Two Sides of the Coin

I’ve been thinking a lot about the intersection of joy and grief—mostly because it’s been staring me straight in the face.

My recent trip to Vegas marked my first major travel since my mom died. I was looking forward to spending time with my friends but was wholly unprepared for the ways my grief would show up along the way.

It started with a scramble to get some of my higher-level ducks in a row, should something bad happen while I was away. I’ve been in the process of completing things like my will, POA, etcetera, now that my emergency contact…my beneficiary…my person…my mom…is gone. The night before my flight, I was hit by a massive wave of grief and sobbed in bed for hours. I realized that this would be my first trip where my “text or call me when you land” person is gone. It was an incredibly sad and lonely feeling, and I felt it on a deeper level than I’d felt my grief in a few months. I wouldn’t call my mom to kill time on my layover. I wouldn’t text her when I landed and get a reply telling me to have fun. I’ll never have that again.

Being with my friends was wonderful. We laughed a lot. We ate a lot. We let Vegas tell us what our weekend would look like, and it ended up being pretty great. I enjoyed being in the moment. I managed to hold it together when my friend Mark handed me a wrapped gift for my birthday and I said I’d keep it until the 19th to open since it would likely be my only present to unwrap this year. There will be no “happy birthday sweetie” from my mom on Saturday. No two cards—one from her, and one from the dogs, ever again. Needless to say, I’m not in a very “birthday” mood this year.

After the gang all headed back to LA, I had an afternoon and evening in Vegas alone in front of me. I rode the elevator down with Gail and Mark—them going to their car, and me going to the pool. I managed to stay out there for about an hour without bursting into flames. Another solo traveler parked at a lounge chair next to mine, and we ended up talking for most of the time I was down there. If I’d had it in me, I likely could have turned that conversation into a happy hour or dinner companion, but I just didn’t. I already knew my grief was creeping in. 

I went up to the room and got in my feelings again—thinking about the fact that I was existing in a normal, mundane moment where I previously would’ve called my mom to chat and kill some time. She was always my first phone call and my favorite person to talk to.

I’d purchased a day pass to the spa, so I changed clothes and went down in an attempt to relax. A few more quiet tears were shed in the privacy of saunas, herbal steams, and wave rooms. I’m realizing how hard it is for me to be alone right now with nothing to do and no dogs for comfort. I’m fine if I’m alone, but working. I’m fine if I’m at home by myself but with the dogs. I’m fine if I’m alone, and running errands. But alone with nothing to do but quiet my mind? I’m crawling out of my skin and trying to hold back tears every second (sometimes failing miserably). I know I need to relearn how to be bored and alone, without having my mom a phone call away. It’s been one of the hardest things about losing her.

So now, I’m watching MSNBC after finishing the takeout I got and ate in my hotel room, putting my thoughts down between tears—sad after a weekend full of happy and trying to be at peace with it all.

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