THE WIND PHONE

I’ve Felt Guilty for Not Crying Enough Since My Beloved Mother Died

Coping with grief since July 2023

In Season 2, Episode 4, of the British comedy-drama Fleabag, there’s a flashback to Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s character greeting mourners before her mother’s funeral. Guests, in turn, praise her for looking beautiful. One says, “I’m so sorry … You look glorious!” And another remarks, “Gosh! Grief clearly agrees with you.”

While nobody at my mother’s funeral commented inappropriately on my physical appearance, I was lauded for “being strong” and “coping well.” Indeed, I felt happy that I was able to deliver the eulogy (alongside my older sister) without crying or my voice faltering.

Before my mother’s coffin was lowered into her grave, I read an English translation of the Bengali poem The Last Curtain by Rabindranath Tagore, the Indian Nobel Laureate. I thought I would shed a few tears when reciting the following lines: “and life will take its leave in silence, drawing the last curtain over my eyes.” But I recited the poem with dry eyes and without hesitation.

I had been labeled “the weak daughter” by one of my mother’s brothers. My uncle probably expected me to be a sobbing mess, barely held together by my two sisters. Although I don’t regard crying as a sign of weakness, I must confess that I was pleased not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me in a so-called fragile state.

However, as the days and weeks passed, it felt very odd that I had only cried three times in total for my mother, whom I absolutely adored.

I’ve always found crying immensely cathartic. I’m one of those people who never fail to be moved to tears when seeing suffering and death on TV or at the movies. I even sob every time I watch E.T. telling Elliot to “be good,” when they say farewell to each other.

Therefore, I was really puzzled by how I was handling my mother’s death. I figured that I was in denial and that the floodgates would eventually open.

But eight months on, at the time of drafting this story, I’m still waiting for that to happen. I’ve cried four times in total. And now, I’m feeling guilty that I’m not mourning my mother in the manner I’d like to.

Guilt is a very common reaction to the loss of a loved one. People can feel guilty for having done something wrong or for not having done enough for the deceased. Those missed opportunities, the things that should have been said but weren’t, can haunt us and cause deep distress.

Much of the advice I’ve read about grieving and guilt emphasizes the importance of analyzing the nature of your guilt, and then forgiving yourself because you can’t alter the past.

I was lucky to have enjoyed a strong relationship with my mother, who was the kindest person I have ever met. I don’t have any regrets about what I said/didn’t say to her or what I did/didn’t do with her during her lifetime. But perhaps I’m suppressing regret?

By crying so little, I feel as if my body isn’t outwardly displaying how much my mother meant to me. People have continued to remark on how well I’m doing and that I’ve come through my grief admirably.

In private, I’ve felt numb and depressed many times. But I must admit that I’m getting on with life better than I’d expected. To make such a statement fills me with guilt!

While I recognize that fretting about how much I’ve cried is an irrational thing to do, I reckon that there’s more to this than unresolved guilt.

My mother, a retired doctor, suffered a rare and catastrophic bilateral thalamic stroke in March 2022. My sisters and I, having lost our father to bowel cancer in September 2021, were devastated.

I cried profusely as my mother lay in a minimally conscious state for nine weeks. My sisters and I spent hours beside her bedside, trying an improvised form of coma arousal therapy. And we battled with hospital staff to get her referred for specialist rehabilitation.

My mother emerged from her minimally conscious state in May 2022. She slowly recovered her speech and began walking very short distances with the aid of a Zimmer frame.

She made further progress physically at a rehabilitation center, but the stroke had left her with substantial cognitive impairments. A previously intelligent and mentally sharp 75-year-old now struggled to remember what year it was, what she had eaten for breakfast, and even that she was a widow. She was apathetic and was generally only interested in sleeping.

Efforts to stimulate her memory through conversations, photos, music, and TV in order to “rewire” her brain proved largely unsuccessful. But my sisters and I never gave up trying; celebrating every little detail she managed to remember, even if only for a short time.

However, I felt as if I had lost the mother I had known for the first thirty-nine years of my life. I was caring for a woman who looked like my elderly mother, but one who had a considerably different mind and personality. Every few days, I cried until my eye sockets throbbed. Crying was an essential coping mechanism.

And so, this is where my grief really began. What I was experiencing was anticipatory grief, whereby the grieving process starts before the actual loss. This is common when a loved one declines due to a terminal illness or acquired injury.

The thoughts and feelings associated with anticipatory grief are complicated just like grief after death. A person can be pushed between giving up hope for their loved one’s recovery and struggling to accept that death might be imminent.

When my mother returned home in November 2022, I became her primary caregiver. Instead of getting better at home, as health professionals had insisted, my mother’s behavior became more challenging. She experienced distressing hallucinations and would try to get out of bed unaided. She refused to eat and rapidly lost weight. Sapped of energy and hope, I was at the end of my tether.

My difficulties were compounded by the daily struggle to get local health and social services to provide the funding and appropriate support for my mother. I feared that I could no longer keep her safe at home.

After many intense and often fraught discussions, my sisters and I decided it was best for our mother to enter a nursing home. When she left for the care facility on July 3, 2023, she told my older sister not to cry and said, “If I die, would it be so bad?”

In the early hours of the following morning, I received a phone call to say that my mother had passed away. I cried for a minute or two before ringing my sisters. Tears were shed when I went to see my mother’s body in the nursing home and felt the warmth dissipating from her cheeks.

But then, I entered an eerily calm state. I rang the funeral director and went into organization mode for the next few weeks to ensure that my mother received a fitting send-off.

I recall having a conversation with my mother many years ago, in which she hoped that I wouldn’t cry too much after she died. Her wish has come true, but only because the grieving process began while she was still alive.

I shall continue to wait for my lacrimal ducts to reactivate. But if they don’t open again in sorrow at my mother’s passing, I shall try my best to accept that you can never plan for grief and that confusion is one of its many torments.

Thank you for reading!

You might be interested in another story I’ve written about the anticipatory grief I experienced while caring for my elderly parents and how I’m dealing with their deaths: