Grief and the passage of time

This blog was intended to help me reflect on professional growth and learning through Covid as I was teaching and learning during the pandemic. What I did not realize was that it also was a placeholder for personal reflection whenever I was ready to do that. I think I am ready to do that now. As I was growing, crying, stretching, and learning with all of my fellow educators out there, grieving the loss of how things were teaching “in the before times”, I also was grieving the loss of my mom — Beth Howell, who passed away in August 2020, after a very quick downward turn in her battle with ocular melanoma.

She had been diagnosed (though not officially, without the biopsy) with ocular melanoma at the end of 2016. She and dad went to a series of doctors and specialists trying to diagnose exactly what this tiny tumor or growth was in the back of her eye. There was disagreement from some of the specialists, but eventually mom went forward with treatment with targeted proton therapy, treating it as if it was ocular melanoma. Under the expert care of Dr. Ivana K. Kim and her team (to whom I will always be grateful) at the Massachusetts Eye and Ear center in Boston, MA, the tumor shrunk and mom’s body was free of metastasis for a few years at least until fall of 2019. When Covid hit, and the stay at home orders went into effect, mom was hesitant to attend her appointments, and thus missed a screening in April 2020. Whether or not someone would have caught something then is unknown and will never be known.

She and my dad were able to be at home together for an extended period of time last spring and summer, in a way I am not sure they ever have. I know that it was a special time for both of them. My mom also was able to visit with and see my sister and brother in law, learning first hand on her birthday, that my sister was expecting another child. My mom was so excited and proud of my sister as she was becoming an incredible mother. Though mom was never able to meet the little Audrey Beth who arrived later in November of 2020, I know she is so proud to see her grow up. She has my mom’s eyes and smile.

Now I am here at our home, writing from the porch in Maine. This place, the view, the smells of the salt marsh as the tide goes out, will forever be ingrained in my memory and heart. I know she is here and with me. Though it doesn’t make it any easier. Yesterday was the end to the year of “firsts” as we came upon the anniversary of mom’s death. And in this passage of time, I have appreciated the stillness, the slowness that the pandemic brought. The opportunity to sift through the business of the typical day and be still with myself, my thoughts and memories. This year, I have reflected not necessarily on the “things” or goals that I have for myself and for my life, but for the quality of life I want to have. What emotions and moments do I want to feel or share with those I love? Who do I want to host around a crowded dinner table, sharing laughter and love or friends and family? How do I want to make my community, my neighbors, better, kinder, more resilient, more sustainable, more loving to others and the world we live in? How can I live my values out in my daily actions, living more in alignment with that which I care about.

Time does not heal grief, but it helps to evolve grief. Time provides the opportunity for reflection on the love and loss we experience, that we will always carry with us. Loss does not become easier to tolerate with time. It continues to ebb and flow, like the tide, and I have evolved to adapt to its current.