The Final Stage of Grief

So for many of you that have been following my journey with the loss of my step mother Mary, I had to go to the Island today.  For those of you that follow me but do not know me, that is my home away from home.  I have been visiting almost my whole life, Whiskey Island, located in the 1000 Islands on the Saint Lawrence River.

I knew at some point I was going to have to go the island.  I have been dreading this visit for so long and in all honesty if I never stepped foot on the island again, I would be okay not doing so. Everything in the cottage is her.  Every piece of furniture, plate and doorway is her.  All the linens, the towels, the random things in random spots are her.  every painted room, every stripped room, everything about that place is her.

The warm welcoming spirit that was there is no longer there.  the island is truly solitude.  It does not smell like dinner,  like cigarettes or box wine.  The love that filled every ounce of the place has vanished.  Its just a place with a few personal items.

I have grieved the loss of her pretty hard over the last 9 months.  Since her passing  I have cried my little heart out.  But the cry that happened in this place, in the last room she was in, painting. My chest was tighter than it has ever been before in my life and my sobs were harder than they had ever experienced before and I literately thought my chest would explode, I had finally known it… heart break.

Every turn, into every room was heart breaking.  I didn’t even make it too her room.  My chest was growing tighter with each passing moment.  My dad discovered me in the that bright yellow room and all I could do was just fall into his arms and sob.  Even though I was mad at him for as long as I have been, he was still my daddy and let me cry with out judgement.

I wander back into the kitchen and turn the radio off.  I sit in silence staring at her chair at the kitchen table.  How strange it had been to sit at that the table and the smoke coming from the ash tray was no more.  Her chair sat empty.  My heart felt empty.  The kitchen conversations have ceased to exist.  Every thing that she worked hard for to make it home is now empty.  Just feels like a place that is unfamiliar.

Stuff that should be there is gone.  Stuff that once sat in the same place has been moved and its too hard to be in this space. I am frustrated because there are cob webs in spots that would never be.  There are not the usual cleaning products used to keep the spider poop away (yes they poop) and the bugs are not vacuumed from the window seals.  The little things Mary taught me to keep  care of the cottage are not used.  Not remembered as if all her reason and logic has been thrown out, not thought of.

The one person that knows best, is not accepted… “I am too sad to deal” too “distraught” too “attached”…. “Too Broken.”  Well I am not!!!! I want to scream at all these people who have moved things and I want to yell at my Dad and make him ask me about all the trinkets and where everyting came from!!!!!   I KNOW!!!!!!! SHE TOLD ME EVERYTHING!!!

I cannot see the smoke, rising from the tray, I don’t see the devotionals sitting where you sat, I don’t see you at all.  Not your smile, not your pain, not your shade of red hair that was you.  This place is now a place, a memory, a place where you once were.

Anger, sadness all of it pent up in my heart bursting every time something is not there.  Not even sodas in the fridge (no one understands).  Key kitchen utensils, gone.  Fruit bowls, gone.  Tupperware, gone.  Nice antique stoneware we never used, being used.  It was never meant to be used.  It was on the top shelf for a reason!!!! To be looked at as decoration.  ON DISPLAY!!!  Little night lights moved.  Back porch is even diffrent.  ( I couldn’t part with the old set furniture that I took it off the rock and I will restore it if it kills me).

I am here and I cannot relax, I cannot enjoy.  The love is gone.  the memories are whispers on the wind.  Even the mysticism and ghost like feelings are gone.  I take that last statement back…the north wind is blowing cold this morning and the dogs are edgy and my nerves are on the fritz.

I miss her lists everywhere and the rugs are missing in the kitchen.  I gaze out the window and my steam is rolling off my coffee cup and it trails me to the sights out side.  I see the orange Lilly’s blooming everywhere.  The trees are blowing in the wind the birds are singing with joy.

When I think back moving forward.  I will know what it has been like to have slept on an island.  Play hide and seek in the dark.  Create wild stories by taking time and playing dictionary games all night along with the bugs.  I will have know what it was like to have loved on an island, to have missed on an island. To take the best hot baths in the best tub in my favorite bathroom in the whole house.  I will have known that and exprienced that in such a way you only see in movies or read in books.

With Mary’s passing the love that resided here is gone.

It’s Just a place, just a cottage, just a kitchen, with a few chairs around a table and one chair in particular that sits empty.   I have come to know the final stage of grief.

***** I have combined two separate times together but the feelings remain the same.  I did end up staying at the island for a couple of days and returning to clean to help with renters.  Sweeping and scrubbing the porches was always my job and as hard as it was, that feeling in my chest did lighten and I took pride in my work and felt that Mary would be proud and that I honored her.  The only thing missing was the Ammonia we used to clean with… That shit is the only thing that cleans spider poop off walls and gets grime off the painted wood floors, just a side note.