I Lost My Mom When My Grandma Died

On Good Friday of this year, my grandma died. She was in her 90s and it was expected, but it was still hard. She had been in hospice care, and my mom and my aunt were there by her side until the end. My dad, brother, and I headed out that weekend for support and the funeral.

I can’t imagine how hard it was for my mom to deal with that. Knowing that the end was coming but having no idea when. How much stress was she under thinking that every breath my grandma took could be her last? How many questions and doubts ran through her mind? How often did she wonder if they had made the right choice? How much guilt coursed through her thinking that there was something more they could do but weren’t doing it?

Not only is that type of situation emotional, it’s traumatic. It’s something that stays with you for a long time. Having to make those decisions and going through the heartache and pain day in and day is life changing.

Before my grandma went into hospice, I had been facing some of my own challenges. I would talk to my mom every day, sometimes multiple times a day, looking for support, advice, and empathy. She was always there to provide.

When she headed back to be with my grandma, I reduced my contact. I didn’t cut it off completely; I sent her inspirational quotes and let her know that I was there if she needed anything. I stopped talking about my problems. The last thing she needed was that on top of everything else.

It was at the moment that I realized I had been depending on my mom too much. Part of me wanted—and hoped—that she would do or say something that would make all of my troubles and issues go away. It was unfair to expect that of her—and unrealistic. I realized then that I had to figure things out on my own. I had to learn to depend on myself.

Coming to this realization was difficult. It didn’t mean I had to cut my mom out of my life completely, and it certainly didn’t negate all of the wonderful things she had done for me. But it changed her role, how I viewed her. I knew I could still talk to her and that she would still support me, but it changed how I depended on her. That was my decision. One I came to on my own. I never said a word to her.

When I went back to be with my family for the funeral, emotions were high. There was sadness, but there was also joy. Pain, but also relief. If you’ve ever experienced a death, you know that all emotions often get mixed into the moment.

I had a hard time dealing with it. I didn’t know what to do or what to say. I had no idea how to support my mom or be there for her. I felt out of place. That’s a strange thing to feel around your own family, but I don’t know how else to describe it. I did what I could, but I never felt like my actions were right or enough. I was trying to find my place after the decision I had made and working through the issues that had existed before and never went away.

A few months after the funeral, things changed again. My life spiraled further into despair. I was back to texting and talking to my mom pretty much every day. Then, she had to deal with more tragedy. So, once again, I reduced my contact and refrained from heaping my issues on top of hers.

My mom and I have always had a good relationship. She has always been my support, my inspiration, my idol. She is an absolutely amazing woman, and she has always been so strong. It was hard for me to see her hurting. I wanted to help, but I didn’t know how. I did what I could, but it never felt like it was enough.

Again, on top of all of that, I was dealing with my own trauma. Not having my mom be there like she had always been in the past was hard for me to handle. It left me feeling alone and isolated. I felt abandoned.

As unfair and awful as that sounds, I can’t deny my feelings. It made me angry—both at her and at the universe. I did the only thing I could: I withdrew into myself. I cut everyone off, including my mom. I shut out the world.

When my grandma died, I lost my mom. I lost her to tragedy, grief, and stress—both hers and my own. All of those things have changed me, and they have changed her.

I don’t think either of us know how to be there for each other right now. There are hurt feelings on both sides, and we are reeling from loss.

It’s hard to lose your mom. Mine is still around physically, but there has been an emotional disconnect.

It’s probably unfair for me to be upset and angry, but I don’t know how to let it go. She is also entitled to have those feelings, and to feel lonely, isolated, and abandoned. If she feels these things, I don’t know. But I wouldn’t be surprised if she did.

Logically, I understand how terrible it is for me to feel the way I do. But at the same time, dealing with change is hard. No one is going to come out of this loss being the same person they were before. How do you negotiate that?

I want to get to know my new mom once things have calmed down. I’m sure that we can once again have a relationship and talk. But that is going to take time—for both of us.

Well, Frick!

Last week was supposed to get better.  I wanted it to.  I hoped it would.  It wasn't supposed to end with my 7-month-old puppy dying.  But that's exactly what happened.

Friday morning, right before lunch, my husband called me to let me know that Rolo was sick.  He had thrown up several times and was being incredibly lethargic.  I called the vet to get him in, but they had no appointments, so they asked if I could drop him off and they would get to him when they could.  That worked for me.

It wasn't hard to tell the little guy was having a rough time.  I put him in his kennel and put him in the back of the Jeep.  The vet is about 10 minutes from my house, and while I was driving, I heard his claws scratching on the plastic of his kennel and wondered what he was doing.  When I got to the vet, I realized he was having a seizure.

I became hysterical.  I ran him inside, and they immediately took him to the back.  I grabbed my phone and called my husband to tell him what happened, but he could barely understand me.  I was freaking out.  I had sunk down to the floor and was holding onto the counter to keep from falling over.  The world around me was spinning out of control.

I don't handle emergency situations very well.  I have a tendency to go straight into panic mode.  I've done it with my boys, and this pushed me into it as well.  That's part of the reason I was so proud of myself for remaining calm when my youngest cut himself.  That wasn't a typical response.

After taking a few deep breaths, I was able to make myself comprehensible, but I was far from calm.  I took a seat on the bench and fretted.  What had happened?  Why did he have a seizure?

The vet was able to get him stabilized, but with how the long the seizure lasted and how long it took him to come out of it, they were worried.  I got to hold him for a little while after he was administered the medication, and he seemed better.  He definitely wasn't in as rough of shape as he had been when I picked him up.  While cradling him, he started twitching and they were worried he was overstimulated and might have another seizure, so he went back into his kennel.

He never had another seizure, but he never got better.  His eyes started twitching involuntarily, then Saturday morning, he passed.  The boys and I went to see him, and it tore all of us up.  He was only 7 months old.  What could have happened?

At the top of the vet's list was that he got into something, but we have no idea what.  I have kids, so it's not like I keep cleaning supplies laying around.  We wondered if he found something in the yard, but we didn't see anything.

It wasn't a secret that he was my favorite.  I doted on that dog.  I loved everything about him from his gigantic ears to his stubby little legs to his amazing personality.  As strange as it seems, I loved his smell--even when he stunk.

Whenever he was scared or unsure of himself, he would stand in between my legs, having me there to protect him.  When the alarm went off in the morning, he would jump at the side of the bed and whine until I got up.  He cuddled with me.  He was my boy.

I know he was just a dog.  I am fully aware that I didn't lose a child (thank goodness!), but he was my fur baby, and it hurts.  We had him for such a short amount of time, but he was my shadow, my buddy, my angel.  I miss him terribly.

I have started a GoFundMe campaign to raise funds so that I can have tests done on Rolo to figure out what happened.

While I'm aware I may not get answers, I have to try.  If he got into something, I need to know what it was and hopefully keep the other pets in our house safe and prevent others in the community that may be exposed to the same thing from getting hurt.  Anything you contribute helps, and I appreciate you helping me find answers.  Thank you.