My name is Kiki, or Keeks for short.  I came into this world as a quiet and shy girl.  Today I am a lawyer, wife, mother, sister and friend.  I would say daughter too but both my parents have died.  Oh boy, how strange it is to say that out loud.  My Dad died first.  My brother and I were with him during his last couple of weeks.  The experience we had changed us forever.  While I know that we – my Dad, me and my brother – are all so lucky to have shared this time, it was crippling in many ways.  Then just as I was getting used to life without my Dad anchor, about a year later my Mom died.  Again we were lucky enough to be together for that time.  Another gift and another crippling event.  So, I have found myself back at the start of grieving.

One of my epiphanies through this time has been acknowledging that the loss of my parents is a loss of my anchors.  This now is exactly how I would describe my parents.  Maybe it’s something everyone feels and clearly understands throughout their life.  But it hasn’t been so for me.  I know that over the years I have asked my Mom and Dad for help, advice, sympathy, confidence, etc.  Of course I have.  But it never resonated with me in the way that the term anchor does now.  I feel like I’m floating around the world without a lifeline.  Without something to ground me and keep me safe.

It really became clear right after my Dad died.  All I could think about is how safe and protected I have always felt knowing that he was somewhere.  Knowing that I could get a hug or hold his hand if I wanted or needed to.  Knowing that I could reach him somehow if I had too.  Even if I hadn’t spoken to or seen him for a while, he was still somewhere grounding me. I never articulated this or acknowledged it before his passing.   It is crippling and boundlessly sad to acknowledge it now.

It was a bit different with my Mom.  She had Alzheimer’s – the worst, most devastating disease that will inflict so many of us.  Because of the nature of this disease, I guess I have been silently grieving her loss for the past few years.  Still I am now faced with the reality that she will never look into my eyes again.  Even in the face of her memory loss, I always felt that when she really looked at me she knew me and that most certainly kept me anchored.

Friends who I’ve explained this to have said,”you are still anchored, through your children”.  But it is a very different kind of grounding.   In fact, it is almost more upsetting since I am now their anchor and I understand how they will feel when I’m gone.

Grief and all this new information and emotion is so exhausting.   I just can’t feel energetic or excited about anything.  I am tired all the time and really just want to crawl back into bed.  Of course, I absolutely know what side of grief this is.  It’s depression.  I have many friends and family members who support me.  If I wanted to I could be busy with someone doing something most of the time.  But I just can’t make myself move out of my cocoon.  I know that “time is a healer” and with it I will undoubtedly feel better.  I know that it’s ok to be in this cocoon, even expected.  I know that I won’t lose any friends because of my inability to activate.  I know all these things in my rational head but not in my heart.  So as I sit and wonder what to do next, I worry and feel anxious.

This in itself is not a new feeling for me.  I’ve always been prone to worrying about almost everything.  I’ve learned a lot about this part of me over the years thanks to a fabulous therapist who is, sadly for me, now retired.  But during my years with her, she taught me to understand why I worry and how to deal with it.  So it is manageable almost always.  Even now I can rationalize the situation and adjust myself to move forward out of the “anxiety hole”.   Nonetheless, this new experience reflected within grief is difficult.  There was a time when I could call my Mom for help with this.  For now, I will write about it and hope that she and Dad are listening somewhere – and that will have to be enough.