I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. It always does. So far, my grieving has been primarily relief, and even joy, that Mom is whole again. Her suffering is over and that makes me glad, not sad. Yet, I know grief comes in stages, and I have been expecting the sadness to show up once the initial blow of her death set in.

Of course, there have been some tears, mostly fond memories that stir up nostalgic feelings. But even the tears which have come, haven’t been the gut-wrenching kind…the heavy ones that make my shoulders slump. Those are the kind I have had over the past 7 years, but they seem to have left me now. Despite the fact I am waiting on them to arrive again, they are not here, yet.

I know not all grief is the same. That is why we all try to avoid it to some degree. It is mysterious. It is the unknown of all the deep feelings I like to avoid. A concoction of past experiences, current relationships, feelings of sadness, anger, disappointment, and sorrow. I’d rather not sort through all that messy emotion. So, most of the time, I stuff it. Hold it inside. Or let it spill onto the page. However, I am discovering not every part of grief is tears and heart ache.

In my current experience, I have found a feeling of being untethered. Mom was always my anchor. As an adult I have my own life, but still, when the storms came, her number was on speed dial. Need wisdom? Speed dial. House on fire? Speed dial. Cancer? Speed dial. Not every call was a surprise disaster. In everyday events she was still the first one I would call. Family recipe? Speed dial. Buying furniture? Speed dial. What color paint? Speed dial. Even in her diminished state, I felt grounded in her presence. She couldn’t offer her wisdom, but I could still feel it in there. I might even be able to guess what she would say.

However, now I feel adrift. It isn’t sadness exactly, it is more like lostness. What to do now? How to respond to the fact her physical presence is gone? I haven’t been able to call her in years. Those gut-wrenching tears showed up when I needed her voice to know me and it didn’t. I needed her insight, but it was gone. Now I can talk to her again, though I am not sure exactly how that works, I feel like she’s back, but not. I am discombobulated. Disoriented. It feels like I am in unfamiliar territory.

When I travel to a different country, I am unacquainted with how things work. How to get from place to place is a challenge. Understanding the culture is difficult. It requires all my senses. I have to be alert. I might miss something important if I am not tuned in. Reading the signs in another language is impossible, so I watch the people around me. I try to figure out what to do based on what is happening. I listen more intently to try to hear something I can understand. If I hear English, I rush to the sound, hoping to find someone who can direct me, or at least understand me. That feeling of shared language is a relief, a spark of hope that I am not alone in my confused state. That somehow, if I can find another English speaker, we can work out what is unfamiliar together.

That is what grief feels like to me now. I am wandering, looking and listening for the familiar voice that can direct me, but there isn’t one. I am on my own. I am vigilant. My feelings are heightened. My ears are straining. My eyes darting around. It is a new kind of exhausting. Everything feels unfamiliar, and most of all the unfamiliar feelings are right in the middle of the familiar surroundings of my life. It is an odd sensation to be in a place where I know the environment like the back of my hand, but feel like a stranger. I’ve lost my bearings. I’ve lost my mother.

I join so many others who understand what I am describing. I have seen them in their lostness, though I don’t think I would have understood what to call it until now. I have watched them struggle and keep moving forward, slowly, one step at a time. I know it can be done. In the absence of the familiar language of love, spoken by Mom, I will find my bearings by watching those who have gone before me. In time, I will make my way back to my own country. Until then, I still wait for the other shoe to drop, while hoping it does not.