Guest Blog by Ms. Dale Linder-Sessock - My Eulogy to Grief by

Dale Linder-Sessock

Dear Readers;

We are gathered for this occasion so that I may say goodbye to my friend Grief.

While Grief has lived a full and meaningful life inside of me for the past few years, the time has come to bid it farewell.

It has brought out some of my worst and best behavior.

It has stayed loyal by my side, whether I wanted it there or not.

If I could count on anything, I knew that grief would be there to greet me each day - like a sock without a match; a car that won't start; a penny tails side up; like a mother without their child.

Grief has embarrassed me, robbed me of time, smacked me in the face, made me laugh until I cried, and hugged me like it was family.

Grief beat me down and helped build me back up.

Grief, in summary, has done its job - in the end, it protected my heart and escorted me to my future. I just didn't know that at the time.

Like most people, I am no stranger to loss and Grief.  My mother, father, stepfather, sister, and brother all passed away over the course of 8 years.  However, when my 30-year-old daughter, Samantha Brown, died of colon cancer in 2021, the Grief was vastly different.

Sam was diagnosed at age 9 with Crohn's disease, so the possibility of colon cancer was on the radar, but we never thought it truly would happen.

The "Diagnosis Day" meeting with her new doctor is burned in my memory forever. On July 17, 2019, the doctor - a local and national expert treating young adults with colon cancer - said lots of words, but the ones that stood out were: terminal, inoperable, stage 4 colon cancer, aggressive mutations. She could live 6 months without treatment or up to 2 years with treatment. We were stunned!

Sam was 29 at the time and pleaded with the doctor for 20 more years of life.  She sobbed and said, "I just want to live until I'm 50, is that too much to ask?"

Samantha Brown

I stood silently, steadying myself with one hand on the wall, and watched as my daughter begged for her life. Flashes of her existence and vibrant personality passed through my mind:  her birth, playing softball, her love of lipstick and loud clacking Mary Jane shoes, Disney movies on repeat, swimming, singing in the car, swearing, curiosity and love of birds, butterflies and critters, self-deprecating spunkiness, sarcastic quick wit, playing with her dogs, squishing her face into a hundred different goofy looks, drinking a Dr. Pepper, smiling big.  And now this memory of her terrified face and tortured soul is also part of her story.

Sam’s doctor is an expert and was incredibly wonderful with her through her battle with cancer. But she had 14+ mutations in her tumor, with 3 aggressive mutations that did not play nicely with each other or with treatment. With less than 10% of cases having her mutation mix, this was yet more proof that her case was rare.

Sam brought out every weapon she had within her soul and fought a courageous 2-year battle, trying new treatments when old ones no longer worked, entering clinical trials when she qualified, putting on a brave face, and sharing video recordings of her journey, emotions, and life lessons from this disease. The battle was, of course, too much to ask of her body. Her poor, tired body had been sick most of her life, and this disease beat her down to the core. After being cared for by in-home hospice for a month, Sam died peacefully in her bed.

Before she passed away, we were holding hands, watching "The Parent Trap" starring Lindsay Lohan (one of her faves), as she sipped a blue raspberry Slurpee and nibbled mint-chip ice cream.  We had talked about everything in the preceding weeks, and we left nothing unsaid - no regrets.

After Sam died, the force of Grief embodied me completely - mind, body, and soul. I remember sitting in my chair at home and thinking I was going to go insane. I could not get control of my "being" - of myself and who I had always been. I just sat in the chair, or on the floor, and cried - constantly replaying in my head all the precious moments that would not be: no wedding, no grandchildren, no growing old, no new memories with her, etc.

I wanted my old self back so badly, and kept berating myself and saying, "You need to get a grip" - "You need to get yourself back - be your old self" - "You can't live like this.”

However, before I understood that I would have a new me waiting on the other side of life, I somehow felt compelled to be an ugly, mean, heartless person who hit bottom. I didn't just sort of act this way part-time; I went full throttle into the abyss.

I had lost compassion, empathy, and patience. If someone's family member (not a child) or pet died, or they had some other emergency, I scoffed (internally!) and barely pretended to care.

I had no tolerance for excuses from co-workers who were not getting things done. No reason was good enough because I had suffered the greatest loss, and I was still working - right?!?

Ha!

I was full of myself.

I was the worst version of me I’d ever been.  Yet, in full contrast, there were people, especially my husband, whom I still felt deep love and compassion for during this time. They were kind to me, showed me a reserved, gentle respect, and simply let me express myself without fear of losing their love.

In return, I shared my shattered heart with them, and we talked of life's meaning, love and loss, and sacred, intimate details of my daughter's final moments. It was truly a conflicted period.

Grief stayed with me like a loyal friend, but on the face of things, it wasn't a friend that I had recognized or sought out.  It was a deep, dark sadness that I thought would take over.  A weighted shadow on my soul that traveled with my body wherever I went.

I didn't want any part of Grief, yet it kept on keeping on.  I was a childless mother.  A mother without a child.  A mother whose only child died.

Who was I?  Was I still a mother?

I did not want Grief as my bestie, but Grief was pushing hard to be part of my inner circle forever.

Grief was the "gift" that kept on giving.

Grief provided me with embarrassment in the form of sudden, unprovoked, ugly face crying spurts. It robbed me of time spent with loved ones when I had steel walls built around my heart.

Grief accompanied me as I let anger rule me.  It simply would not leave.

Then, one day, I was reading posts in an online grief group, and one of the participants said, "Try and look at it like this:  Your child lived their full life. It may not be the life YOU wanted for them, but it was still their full life. So, try to find meaning in that, and you will find your way forward".

His answer resonated with me. I was going to try to move forward with a "new" internal sense of what her "full" life was and a new sense of self for me.

At about the same time that I read the grief group post, I came to the realization that I could use Grief to my advantage. And that I was in control to make decisions about how I wanted to move forward with my life without Sam.

I decided to turn Grief to be a friend, an ally, and it turned out to be a friend indeed. I let Grief be a self-reflection to my soul. Grief was bold enough to smack me in the face when I was sinking hard and getting comfy with being an unlikeable person. It woke me up.

Grief helped me break down the steel walls that had encased my heart and allowed me to laugh again until I cried - at some truly inappropriate moments.

Grief encompassed me in a warm embrace when nothing else would bring comfort - it let me rest my head on its shoulder and whispered, "just do you".

While Grief, at times, knocked me down on my knees, praying for the world to end, it was simultaneously leading the way to my future. It showed me that I have a life to live after tragedy.

Grief never said no. It carried me through and out of the darkness, it caressed and protected my heart, and for that I will be forever thankful.

I will miss some of the unhinged boldness that Grief allowed me to display, but I am also thankful that our time together is winding down.  Grief and all the associated emotions can be exhausting. Yet even in its' waning days, I believe that my friend Grief will always be there for me - allowing me to bend its ear or just lean in for a quick hug. Certainly, no fair-weather friend, but a friend that brought balance back to my life - in my own way, on my own schedule, on my terms.

So, thank you, Grief, for sharing my heartbreak and helping me find my way. I will miss you, but only a little. Wink, wink!

Fondly,

Dale