The Good Fight of Grief
A story of finding restoration through the flames.
“You lose nothing when fighting for a cause. In my mind the losers are those who don’t have a cause they care about.” Muhammad Ali
I am not a loser. Defending others and speaking on behalf of anyone without an ally is natural as breathing to me. So when my mother passed, she became the one I needed to defend. The trauma of losing her was brutal, expedited, and riddle with questions.
Doctors diagnosed my mother with cancer all over her body far too late. After months of antibiotics and a minor heart attack, she now only had a few months to live. When she broke the news to me and my sister, we responded the same way we always responded. My sister cried, leaned in, and tried not to pull away. I became stoic, demanding pure information. There was no need for emotional displays, in my mind. We needed clear heads to uncover the reason her illness went unnoticed for so long. And a solution. I did not want to feel powerless, vulnerable, or controlled. Yet this moment carried all three like spears.
But mom responded the way she always did: I’m the mother, Mandy. I get to take care of it and you get to trust me.
Fast forward four months. My mom laid in a hospital bed unable to greet my husband or daughter up close (sounds familiar). As it turns out, that moment in the hallway would be the last time they would see her at all. After two rounds of chemo, a virus destroyed her immune system. After moving between two separate hospice facilities, she passed a few weeks later. I trusted her; that she could handle it like she said, and lost her anyway. This was not justice. In my grieving heart, I wanted someone to pay.
Although living far away, it was my distinct pleasure to visit the trash heap of her first facility. When someone tells you that Medicare is paying, pay attention. I am grateful for the insurance coverage at the end of her life. But, I spent more time yelling at the staff and case manager than in conversation with my mom. And before dismissing me as a rage-addicted abuser of the nursing staff, let me clarify the level of neglect. Her broken bed hurt her back and would not adjust, but we could not receive extra pillows. Cold food showed up, dismissive of her allergies. Her sheets were holey and worn thin, with one pathetic blanket. If she called for help, she waited up to 90 minutes for a cup of juice. One time, I left the room to understand why no one responded to the call button. I found four staff members giggling at the nurses station over YouTube videos. Their scolding meant nothing as I found their fridge on my own. I spent the next few hours of my short stay shopping for protein shakes, blankets, pillows, and art for the walls. Anything to make it feel normal.
Weeks later, she passed in a different facility with private pay that no one could afford. But my last interactions with her existed in the wall-stained shithole two miles away. I may be incorrectly conflating Medicare with neglectful facilities. But I had no idea how to comprehend that this woman who cared for others every day of her life ended up in a place so devoid of empathy. At one point, the CNA refused to call her by her first name. I was dumbstruck. The woman stood on the opposite side of the room, covered in protective gear and shouting, “Okay, Mrs. Smith” with condescension. I was beyond angry. I was a woman on fire.
This accusatory battle cry defined my life. I would find the doctors who let her die and I would destroy their lives as well. Dark thoughts. But at the time, I also believed that without a way or a cause for justice, I was a loser. I needed to regain control of the spiraling loss.
Shortly after she passed, I was sorting through some of her belongings. She didn’t have much, but I couldn’t locate her small, black velvet bag of rings and jewelry. It never left her side, but it was with her in the hospital over Christmas. But no one could find it. I don’t remember how often I called the hospital. I accused the staff of stealing and demanded they watch the security tapes again. Someone had to be lying.
I doubt this was the first time hospital staff encountered belligerent and grieving family members. But my head was alight with a crown of flames. I would not be dismissed. My victory required closure. Indeed, I thought both were attainable through action or anger.
I also began crusading against the hospital system and trying to find the name of her primary care doctor. My mom lived an private life; so much so, that she did not want us to publish her passing in the newspaper. But her doctor was my grail — the solution to heal my loss. I believed suing him for malpractice would have restored my heart. My cause was now to protect future patients from a similar fate. It was only recently that I realized my lust for revenge is what kept my loss festering. It was only recently that I recognized my actions as lust, or revenge, in the first place.
Admitting I could not fix any part of her cancer or her treatment was the beginning of losing my mom. But recognizing my rage as the real problem was the beginning of finding her and myself again.
There were few times growing up that I remember my mom becoming angry. The usual teenage stuff with me or my sister; personal issues she never shared. But in her illness, her temper became pronounced and defensive. She did not feel well and did not yet know why. I see now that as she became less healthy, she too was grieving the injustice of cancer. She mourned the loss of her future, her granddaughter, and the stories they would tell.
It all hurt too much. I hid in my anger. There, I had protection against my impending loss. But even after she left, I remained hidden from myself and any chance of healing. My anger stood in defense like a military tank on the front lawn.
There is a fire deep inside me that burns like napalm: unending, white hot, and wildly destructive. It is my life’s goal to tame said fire and use the heat for those left in the cold. But when distracted, my fire leaves scorched earth in my wake. I am not unscathed.
Turning my fire on the doctors, the hospital, and others did nothing to heal my heart or resurrect my loss. It’s funny; I knew God was not to blame for my lack of a mom. Others might turn their back on faith or accuse God for his failure to intervene. I accept death as part of life. But even as I wrestled impermanence, death itself took less from me than those I perceived had failed in their duties.
How is it possible that so many medical professionals overlooked a cancer diagnosis for so long? 32 appointments. The cancer was all over her lymph nodes, spine, and lungs. What kind of doctor does not find that sooner? How did they miss it for so long?
Where Muhammad and I went wrong was believing the lie that either you are a loser or you are a winner. The justice mindset in his quote matters. But it also dismisses those in process of finding what they can influence. I had my torch and saw my village to burn. But carrying a torch only matters if you wield it with loving intention and a gentle hand. Seeking justice on behalf of my mom did not make me a winner. It did not light the way for healing, but kept me circling a mindset of death. It did not resolve any of my grief. It did not offer closure. It was the scalpel scraping at the very place my wound wanted to heal.
Even now, I must remember I will receive no answers. This bargaining with death offers no salve for my burns, but deepens them. Rather than continue this tirade, I must find a way to extinguish the embers of rage before they consume me.
Anger is always just under the surface in my life. As an enneagram eight, I have fuel to burn all hours of the day. Whatever way I influence the world, then, is completely up to me. And in the aftermath of my mom’s passing, I finally found myself when I saw my torch as a lamp, not a weapon.
I would not resurrect my loss, nor protect my family from our shared pain of not knowing why. It’s funny how the common questions in each new loss masquerade as something unfamiliar. I would never have believed I was asking the big “WHY” question until recently. Now I can see the little girl inside me, burning alive with sadness and loss. Wanting clarity.
Compassion for that little girl inside saved me from burning it all to the ground. I spent time with myself; with my loss. Quietly observing the hurts; letting the tears fall. Learning to trust my heart and my emotions as real. As important; as worthy of being heard. Learning to trust my gut meant believing I would not find the answer the “WHY.” I carried the wrong belief that the “WHY” would save me.
My identity was wrapped in the rescue of my ideas about death; in the duality of a victory or a loss. As if I could connect enough dots to save all sides. Like any action taken could reverse my pain. I had to stop calling the hospital, stop focusing on the externals, and sit with my flames. And in the stillness, my fire became my lighthouse. Once contained and directed, my line of passage through the tumult became clear. I showed my fire to those I could trust; the few who understood and survived loss before me. I practiced forgiveness toward those who said the wrong thing. To those who offered blankets to someone not shivering from the cold, but from rage. I found my victory in remaining warm to others. I sat still and quiet in the ashes of my loss and waited.
In the waiting, I felt the kindness of my mother’s story take root in the ground around me. The love of my mom started my fire on day one; the love for her story and the way she lived helped me rise again. Our stories of life intertwined, restoring breath to an arena I thought long dead. Grieving her loss and allowing myself to feel, without accusation, taught me how to show up for the fight. This was the right fight — the fight for me, wholeness, and restoration. In the flames, I found my way home.
Mandy Capehart is a certified grief and life coach, and creator of The Restorative Grief Project. The Restorative Grief Project is an online community focusing on one another’s stories and new methodologies for grief, creating a safe environment for our souls to heal and our spirits to be revived. Learn more at MandyCapehart.com/grief or follow along with weekly columns on Ask A Grief Coach!
