Grief that Comes out Sideways

My stepmom, Cheryl, died last week. We said our final goodbyes far in advance, about 18 months ago. I had the foresight to know it would be our last visit. I have been blessed with many known final visits with loved ones. This might sound morbid, but my mom always taught me how special it is to be with people who are close to “leaving their earthly bodies," as actress Dedee Pfeiffer said on my podcast. 

I had the chance to say good-bye to my Aunt Joan and Aunt Mary. When I left Mary, we huddled around and sang “Leaving on a jet plane” through tears before my early morning departure. I said goodbye to my Grandma on the phone when we thought it was the end and then she lived for a few more years and I had a few more sleepover visits. Every time I left my friend Tracy, I thought it might be the last. One time it was. I was drunk when I said goodbye to my buddy Shooty. I didn’t know that I was saying goodbye to my dad on the phone the last time I talked to him but ironically, my last words to him were, “I forgive you, dad. Love you. Bye.” If I had known it was the last time, I would have said the exact same thing. I am always really grateful for that.

When I was just 13 years old, I was sitting next to my grandpa when he took his final breath. The last words he ever spoke were “I love you, Heddie. (my childhood nickname). He had taken himself off oxygen and made the decision to go. 

I am no stranger to death and goodbyes. When I left Cheryl months ago, we didn’t cry. We smiled. We beamed at each other, actually. Our eyes twinkling in love and knowing. We didn’t get to see each other often and at the time, we felt just plain lucky to be looking into each other's eyes again. 

With her passing, I think back to a lifetime of memories between us. It was often just me and her waiting for my dad to get home. We had a mutual understanding of what it was like to wait for him. We were both there for him, but he was usually not there, so we became there for each other.

Cheryl and my dad divorced years ago, but her and I never did. I never stopped calling her my stepmom. She included me in her small list of survivors in the obituary that she never wanted to write. My sister made her write one because people want to pay their respects. I respect that she chose a  glamour shot photo from 1997 to add as the picture. I remember this as her “Stella gets her groove back era”. She would never call it that, but this was a time when she was determined to make it on her own as a single mom. Spoiler alert. She did.

My dad was so extraordinarily easy to like and almost impossible to love. Some of us did it anyway. He has three daughters and two ex-wives. A sacred inner circle of women. The five of us have linked arms from the start. My mom demanded Cheryl be seated at the family table alongside my sisters at my wedding reception. My mom and Cheryl were the only non-blood-related guests at my dad’s burial—the two ex-wives. Cheryl never stopped loving my dad. She was one of his greatest supporters in sickness and in health, till death due them part, divorce or not. I always loved her for that too.

I don’t know why I have to say that her death “was not a surprise." She was not ripped from me in the night without warning. I have had that with other loved ones, and it never felt fair. This is not that. That is something entirely different. I was prepared for this in all the ways that I could be. 

Cheryl was 70 years old. A lifelong smoker who was forced to quit eventually, begrudgingly. She’d had major heart surgery and serious kidney issues for a while. Her health had been declining. Her daughters, my baby half sisters, 10 and 12 years younger than me, did an excellent job of keeping me informed every step of the way. 

They told me when she was in and out of the hospital. 

On hospice. 

"She continues to decline as expected in the disease process."

 “The nurse informed us we are in our last couple of days.” 

And finally, “Mom passed this morning.”

This communication was really generous of them and really helpful to me. I got the news, connected with my sisters, had an emotional outburst, made a plan to visit, cancelled one call with my mentor and colleague, then set grief on a shelf to gather dust and deal with later.

Meanwhile, last week my car broke. My refrigerator broke. I was overscheduled for coaching calls and also attending a conference. I was sick with a cold and flu. I felt absolutely miserable. I am navigating some minor health issues with both of my daughters. In the midst of death, life was being lifey, as they say. 

Perimenopausal symptoms are amping up and include all sorts of things like insomnia, nighttime hot flashes, and vivid and wild dreams (I like these to be honest). Of course, there’s also the most common emotion associated with perimenopause: feeling cranky and sad. Not to mention confronting the aging process and an inability to focus and concentrate. These are not great feelings to endure when you are trying to grow a business and navigate the loss of a stepparent.

In sobriety, I have become much better at paying attention to myself. I recognized that I was overwhelmed, unfocused, and irritable. It took me another minute to realize I was actually angry as hell, especially at the refrigerator situation that was not covered under my current warranty. It was deamed cosmetic as shards of glass were falling on my kitchen floor. I took my anger out by complaining to customer service, writing bad reviews, and threatening to take to social media with my message, “Do NOT buy a Samsung refrigerator!”  Seriously though, don’t do it. I give it zero stars.

The end of the year is typically a slower season for me at Ditched the Drink. For the first time ever, this year, I decided to stop pounding the pavement and go with the flow in the final quarter. I wanted to appreciate my enoughness and what I have already built in the past 5 years. I wanted to pause on the whip to go faster around the track. I wanted to let things be and as an entrepreneur, this is a wild decision that takes a lot of effort, when my habit is to keep my foot on the gas at all times. I personally felt the pull toward hibernation and decided to allow myself that. Now that my podcast season has wrapped, I am ready for less social media, less hustle. Less outward energy and more introspection.

With the unexpected expenses of my broken things and the passing of Cheryl, my internal anxiety started to build. I felt my old, familiar drill sergeant report to duty. Anger replaced by desperation to drum up business when I suddenly wanted to quit my job for the first time ever. When I told my friend that, she laughed. “Well, I don’t think you’ll be doing that since it’s your life’s work,” she teased. She was right. I didn’t want to quit; I just wasn’t feeling very good at it in the past few days. I couldn’t seem to get anything done.

Why couldn't I get anything accomplished with all this time alone in a hotel room while at that conference? I had 2 hours on a plane the other week and produced some of my best work in the short yet uninterrupted time. I had planned on this being the same. I have lofty goals and I am falling behind. 

I didn’t take into account that my stepmom would die. I didn’t realize the sadness that would come over me when my baby sisters became adult orphans. I have never felt more big sisterly than I did in the moments following Cheryl’s death. How could I scoop up these women and pull them under my wing forever? I felt the weight of the world. How could I forgive my dad for everything all over again? 

I had no idea that a picture would surface in my visit with my sisters from my dad and Cheryl’s wedding day that would make me so sad. Bride and groom, arms entwined, feeding each other a sip of champagne, standing by their multi-tiered cake, a tissue paper wedding bell hanging from the ceiling, and me 6 years old in the background, having no idea what was happening.  

My dad was drinking and getting married and I was just trying to get close to him. My little eyes were observant, fixated on him. He is not looking back at me. I am not supposed to be in this picture. If it were taken today, I would have been cropped out. Someone should have actually moved me out of the way. It was not my moment; it was theirs. But there I am looking adorable in my cousin’s Christie’s beautiful hand-me-down dress, my hair braided and curled extra special by my mom for this celebratory occasion and still I have no idea what is happening. 

Cheryl does not look like a bride in her blue dress. I do not recall knowing this is a wedding. I am clueless and I only know one thing. I know my dad is back in Wisconsin from Arizona, where he had been living and I want to be with him. I am trying not to be a bother, but I want to be with my dad.

What I did not know when I got the call that Cheryl passed away was that even being prepared and well practiced at grief, I was not prepared to feel everything I am feeling. Even when death is expected and in the right order and understood as the circle of life, even when it is simple, it feels complex. 

It does not show up at your door and announce itself as grief. It just interrupts you when you are trying to grow your business. It leaves you tired when you’ve been laying in bed for hours. It makes that situation with the refrigerator and the warranty feel even more unjust. 

The thing done differently than when my dad died, however, is to pull that little confused girl in the picture close to me. Scoop her up in my arms. I do not push her away; I do not tell her not to feel what she is feeling. I do not drown her out with alcohol. I notice her now. I see her. I hold her. I love her. She is not a bother and she is allowed to take up space. 

I do not ask my husband or my children to understand what I am going through. I do not expect anything from anyone else. I am not full of resentment like I have been in the past. I give myself permission for whatever I need in each moment ahead. I lower the bar for my own expectations. I understand that I am carrying the fresh 1,000-ton weight of grief alongside me and it is exhausting. It is not the same as it was before Cheryl passed. I allow myself to rest. I move slowly. I scratch anything that I can off my list of things to do. I tell the truth about how I am feeling to my friends. I do not pretend that everything is fine or that I am handling it in any sort of way.

I get on my client calls so grateful for diversion from my own headspace and ready to dive into supporting someone else. I give myself extra journaling and reflection time each morning. I connect with my husband a little closer. I pour myself into petting my dog like it’s my most important job of the day. 

If grief is part of your story, consider joining us for a workshop next week on Honoring Grief During the Holiday Season. You can join for free with a 7-day trial of my Insider Community with App.