#1: Grief math
A dispatch on the strange comfort of counting after loss.
Yesterday was my first Mother’s Day without my mom. Well, not exactly. The thing with Alzheimer’s is that you’re often stuck in a holding pattern, usually for years, where the person you once knew is no longer here, and you’re constantly learning to love and accept each new version of them. So, in a sense, it feels like you’ve already lost so much of them, even when they’re still physically here.
But this Mother’s Day was the first year that I couldn’t call or see my mom. All last week, I tried to mentally prepare myself. I was worried about how I’d feel on the day. I made plans to hang out with friends Saturday night, and K. and I planned to have a nice brunch at home on Sunday, followed by a trip to IKEA to look for a new kitchen.
I figured if I was busy, it might sting a little less. However, my Saturday afternoon was wide open, so I stopped at our local plant-and-flower shop and bought yellow orchids, which I had planted in an ombre-green ceramic pot (my mom always kept a few orchid plants on the windowsill in the kitchen of her last home). I brought it home. Sat it on the round wooden eating table in our living room, pulled out some pens and colored pencils, and made her a card while listening to a Spotify playlist titled Mom, which consists of a handful of songs she loved. The same songs she used to play at my childhood home when we had company, and the ones she’d softly sing along to in the car. I used to play them for her when I’d visit her in assisted living and then in memory care. She could no longer speak, but I knew I was getting through to her somehow because she’d raise her eyebrows and sing a few words, hum, or raise one hand like a music conductor.
Since my mom was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s in September 2021, I’ve been keeping track of the big milestones (or rather losses). Like when she began calling me non-stop because she had forgotten that she had already called, when she lost her job, then her driver’s license, the first time I noticed that she could no longer cook a meal, when we moved her to assisted living, the last birthday card she ever sent to me because she couldn’t keep track of dates anymore, and so on. There are too many things to list here.
But keeping track in this way is oddly comforting (at least for me), and not as morbid as you might think. The day after she died, I jotted down in my journal the number of days she lived (26,444) and the number of days that I had with her/how many days I’ve lived so far (14,711), and since then, I’ve also noted how many days it has been since she died—today is day 130.
I’ve wondered if this is strange behavior. Like, am I dwelling too much on all this? On losing her. I even asked about it in a therapy session. But I’ve realized and accepted that it’s not weird at all. Grief math is a way for us to wrap our heads around the permanency of death. It’s a way for us to maintain some type of connection with the people we’ve lost. Similar to how objects (which I could write a whole separate post about) help us feel a tangible connection to those we have lost.
These days, time has either felt like it’s moving at a snail’s pace or like I’m spinning around in teacups at an amusement park. It’s hard to explain, but keeping track of the numbers is grounding, and it also makes you realize how short life is, so you’re better off living it to the fullest—whatever that means for you.
From the Memoir Margins
In case you missed it, I’m working on my first memoir… On the surface, it’s about how the experience of losing my mom to Alzheimer’s in my 30s has shaped me, and it sometimes feels like a crazy idea to write a book, but if all this has taught me anything, it’s YOLO and go for it! (Whatever “it” is.)
Anyway, I think it’d be fun to share brief updates with you. I’ve set a deadline for this Thursday to work out a loose outline of the book. I’m sure it will change a gazillion times, but at least I’m heading in the right direction. Looking back through photos and messages with my siblings from the last five years (to figure out what I want to include in the book) has brought up all sorts of feelings. I even sometimes find myself giggling at the way we handled some situations. For example, there was a period around the summer to fall of 2024 when our mom began to fall quite often. Awful, I know. It was especially hard getting photos and messages of her with bruises on her arms and face, but she was unsteady, and even with great care, it was inevitable. She had become a “high fall risk”. In one reply, my brother sent me a photo of a hockey helmet that we joked we should buy for her safety. It’s morbid. But it’s funny, and sometimes humor can feel like the only way to survive.
See you soon,
Alexis
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Mera Magazine features weekly dispatches, essays, interviews, book recs, and more from Amsterdam-based writer Alexis Mera Damen. Subscribe to show your love and stay in the know!
Your yellow orchids and playlist sounds like the perfect way to honor her. And as for the math- grief is weird! As long as it brings you some comfort, that’s all that matters.
The humor is only morbid to those on the outside. When our brother died and was cremated, we joked with our sister-in-law that if she shook the urn could she hear any of the metal parts he had in his body from a decades old car accident. We laughed and enjoyed our inside family joke!