The Hardest Part About
A Ten-Year Journey through Grief
by
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The hardest part about anticipatory grief is the undercurrent of ambivalence that affects your actions.
As any good plan goes, it changed. My sister, Mallory, had arrived from college, and my other sister and I were going to be headed to the hospital that night. We packed our bags for an overnight trip, and we were in a hurry to leave. I felt flustered. I was starting to feel as if I had not been given the full story—not just for that day but from the start. Her cancer must have spread further than I’d thought. But when you’re flustered, what a perfect time for yet another gut feeling!
The voice in my head was telling me, “Bring mom’s journal.” I didn’t think twice, and I grabbed her journal from by the computer. I had remembered seeing this book before when her coworker had given it to her to write in during chemo treatments. I admired the three-dimensional design of trees on the front and back cover, as well as the leather string that tied around the knob in the front. I honestly had never seen her write in this thing, but I wasn’t about to ignore another gut feeling.
After an hour-long drive, we made it to the hospital late at night; it was the same hospital that I had visited when I was brave enough to go to that one appointment with my mom. This time, the hospital halls seemed darker than before. Even though it was nighttime on the unit, the atmosphere felt even more uncomfortable than it should have. We walked to my mom’s room with our overnight bags in hand, not knowing what we’d be doing with them.
As we entered the room, there were already many people by her side, including my dad. I forget who was all present that night, but I vividly remember taking a seat by the left side of her bed with my dad right across from me. I noticed the machinery my mom was hooked up to, and I remember the noise each made. Most importantly, I noticed the mask on her face, giving her oxygen to breathe.
I grabbed my mom’s hand and smiled. She turned her head my way, and through labored breaths, she simply said, “You came.” In that moment, I was able to ignore all of the hospital equipment and the uncomfortableness of the room to simply enjoy the time being with my mom. The only conversation I remember hearing after that point was my dad talking about where we kids would be sleeping that night.
I finally looked at the clock to see it was around 1:00 a.m. It was time for the three of us kids to make our way to the connecting hotel. We said our goodbyes to everyone in the room and walked through the halls to our hotel room. As I got in bed, I fell asleep to the surreal moment that we all just experienced.
The next thing I remember was feeling a nudge on my shoulder and the feeling of weight on my bed. I opened my eyes to see the alarm clock read 7:20 a.m. and my mom’s friend, Jana, was waking me up. Both of my sisters were already awake on the other bed. Jana looked at each of us.
“Becki fought hard through the night, but she gained her angel wings this morning,” Jana told the three of us. I felt each word as she said them and knew they were coming; they were tears.
We all started crying, and Jana wrapped me in a hug. We soon were all embracing each other, crying as much as the rain hitting upon our hotel window. I saw in both of my sisters a natural motherly instinct begin to flourish as they took me under their arms. I understood that they were no longer just my sisters anymore; they had become the closest things I had to a mother figure at that moment.
Additionally, I felt an instinctual switch in myself turn on. The tears stopped, and I knew that the day had to proceed whether I wanted it to or not. There was no more anticipation over the uncertainty. No more anticipatory grief. I had entered full-on grief over our bereavement because the worst had already come, and I was sitting at rock bottom.
My gut feelings attempted to soften the blow of hitting bottom by guiding my actions through the weeks leading up to her death. It still hurt. It hurt to know that exactly two weeks before that Thursday morning, I had answered the phone call at school. My mom could no longer be on the other end.
I remember quickly putting on some clothes, and Jana and some family members took the three of us children to the hospital. Walking through the halls back to her unit, I watched the rain fall outside whenever we passed a window. I oddly had not felt uncomfortable or had the gloomy feeling I had the previous night walking through those halls. Instead, I felt a sense of calmness in myself as I walked into my mom’s room. The uncertainty had left.
A priest led us through a final prayer over my mom’s body. The calmness continued through that experience. As we were about to leave, though, I frantically remembered that a gut feeling had made me bring something to the hospital. I pulled out my mom’s journal from my overnight bag. I untied the leather string from the front cover and opened up the journal.
The journal appeared to be blank. I was confused—until a loose page fell out of it, and I recognized her familiar handwriting: “My funeral arrangements…”
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About the Book
Grief may be a natural experience that affects us all, but the process of grieving is different for everyone.
Guided by the journal entries of a beloved mother who died from cancer, The Hardest Part About guides readers on a search for meaning, comfort, and support after the loss of a loved one.
The author, who lost his mom at age fourteen, recalls how family members coped after her death from cancer. He also shares how she’s still making an impact on his life ten years after she died.
More than 1.9 million children in America have to accept the death of a parent, and in writing this book, the author—a music therapist who has helped others cope with grief—seeks to resolve facets of his own grief.
Each chapter follows the author’s journey of learning, starting with a different “hardest-part-about” aspect of grief—from the shock of his mother’s diagnosis, to the anticipation of her death, the immediate aftermath of her death, and beyond.
Whether you’re struggling with losing a loved one or helping someone navigate a journey of their own, you’ll find meaningful insights to help you through the hardest parts of grief with this book.
About the Author
Sawyer Small is a board-certified music therapist who specializes working in mental health, hospice and palliative care, and grief counseling. As a musician and faith-based speaker, he has traveled the United States sharing his story with teens and young adults at church youth groups and schools. He lives in Nashville, Tennessee, where he practices music therapy, writes, and records Christian music.