published in Animals, Change, Confrontation, Environment, Fear, Grief, Motherhood, Mothering Matters, Relationships by Maryanne | June 18, 2014

When a Fear Demands to be Faced

 By Maryanne Pope

Tiger roaring photo

My friend Alan once said to me that perhaps not all our fears are meant to be faced. Some fears, he suggested, are best left alone – for they’re probably in place for good reason.

Some fears, on the other hand, demand to be faced. These are the ones that find their way to the surface and, like a tiger, make their presence known.

For while we can pretend, for a time, not to see an elephant in the living room; when a tiger waltzes in, we don’t get the luxury of ignoring it…if we want to survive, that is.

Such was my experience the day after my Mom passed away in early March.

She died quite suddenly on a Monday morning. It was my brother Doug who phoned to tell me the news. By Monday evening, I was back in my hometown of Calgary with my family. Tuesday morning, we went to the funeral home to get the logistics sorted. After that, some of us piled into Doug’s truck and we went to the grocery store to pick up the makings for lunch.

And that, strangely enough, is when things fell apart.

When Doug and Pat returned to the truck from the store, they were carrying the food in plastic bags. And for some reason, I ignored the voice of reason in my head that said, “Don’t say anything. Don’t say anything. This is not the time to mention they should have taken re-usable bags.”

But of course, what did I say?

“You shouldn’t be using plastic bags.”

This, not surprisingly, was akin to poking a wounded and already pissed-off tiger – my brother Doug – in the bottom with a nice sharp stick.

KABOOM!

Now prior to this, I had never fought with my brother, Doug, in my life. And trust me, I never will again. Doug is one of my greatest fans. He gets me like no one else. I can do no wrong. This time, however, I did do wrong – and he let me know it. Let’s just say the drive back to my Mom’s apartment was a very loud and fast one, with Doug and I screaming at each other the entire way about who has the worst environmental footprint. Thankfully, the rest of the family members in the truck had the wisdom to know not to intervene but rather just let this play out – and hope to God they lived to see another day.

Now, I would like to say that by the time Doug and I got back to my Mom’s apartment, we had cooled down. But no. In fact, I think we were even angrier at each other by that point. So I jumped out of the truck, stomped over to the building entrance and yanked open the door, smashing it against a bench. Then I ran up the stairs and into my Mom’s apartment, past the concerned faces of my other family members who didn’t know yet what had happened, and into the guest bedroom…my room. And then I did what I always do when I don’t know how to handle my feelings: I wrote.

Ten minutes later, I emerged from the guest bedroom – at the same time Doug was coming out of the bathroom directly across the hall. And before I even had to time to think, I threw my arms around him.

“I am SO sorry!!” I wailed. “This isn’t about the plastic bags! I WANT MY MOM!”

And then the oddest thing happened…something that has never happened to me before. I began to sob uncontrollably on Doug’s shoulder. It was ugly. It was messy. It was embarrassing. And it turned out to be the smartest thing I could have done.

We moved into the guest bedroom and sat, side by side, on the bed. And the best way to describe what happened next was that it felt like there was an alien inside me, trying to get out. By this point, I wasn’t just sobbing, I was heaving.

Doug wasn’t mad at me anymore; I think he thought I was possessed.

“Googie,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“I can’t do this!” I cried.

“Do what?”

I turned to him and heard myself say, “Live the rest of my life without a Mom.”

And there it was: my fear of being motherless. That’s the alien that had been trying to get out. That was the tiger.

“You don’t have our Mom anymore,” he said. “But you still have all of us. And we will always be there for you.”

I managed a smile. “I know.”

“And for the record,” he continued, “I usually do use re-useable bags. I just didn’t happen to have any in my truck today…and it was the last thing on my mind.”

I nodded. “It was completely inappropriate of me to say something, today of all days.”

“Actually,” he said, “knowing you, it kind of makes sense. Because our Mom was just like Mother Nature…tough as they come and in the end, she was going to do what she was going to do. Just like Mom, Mother Nature always wins in the end. Don’t you forget that, Maryanne. We are pushing Mother Nature to her limits and it’s just a matter of time before she really starts to bite back.”

As it turned out, my meltdown on Doug’s shoulder turned out to be very therapeutic, partly because it was such a physical release of the hurt, and partly because it brought to the surface a deeply rooted fear of abandonment. I cried after my Mom’s death like I never could after my husband, John’s – probably because I was absolutely terrified of facing the fact that I had been left behind.

But if I could turn back the clock and go back to John’s death, I would say to hell with the stoicism bullshit – and proceed to have the most spectacular meltdown imaginable. Because now I know that the sooner the hurt and fears are out, the sooner you can heal.

Although I can’t turn back time, I can handle the future better. And I am pleased to report I did just that when the day came, six weeks after my Mom’s death, to put Soda down.

It was around 11 a.m. on a Thursday when I could tell where things were headed with Soda. So I said to the vet, who looked to be about half my age, if that: “I am emotionally ready to let her go.”

The vet nodded slowly and gave me a funny look.

Half an hour later, whether I was ready or not, it was Soda’s time to go – and as I watched as the light went out in her beautiful eyes, I didn’t hold back. I was a wreck!

Right there on the floor in the back room of the vet clinic, I cried and cried and cried. And then I gave Soda one last kiss on the head and then, just like my Mom had after putting down so many of our family pets over the years, I put on the dark glasses and sobbed my way out the door, bawling like a baby.

“Maryanne,” said a staff member, “we can’t let you drive home in this condition.”

“I WON’T DRIVE!” I cried. “I’M JUST GOING TO SIT IN MY CAR AND CRY AND DRINK WATER AND CALL MY FAMILY AND FRIENDS.”

I can still see the young vet with the old soul, peeking around the corner of the door to the back room, watching me with huge eyes.

“Emotionally-ready, my ass,” she was probably thinking. “Nobody is ever ready for that moment, sweetheart. But at least you had the smarts to let it out.”

When I get in the car, who’s the first person I call? Well, it would’ve been my Mom, of course – but since that was no longer possible, I called Doug. For another thing I’ve learned is that although we do, eventually, get left behind by those we love, we are never left alone.

Maryanne Pope is the author of A Widow’s Awakening and the upcoming book, Barrier Removed; A Tough Love Guide to Achieving Your Dreams. Maryanne also writes screenplays and play scripts, including the play, Saviour. She is the CEO of Pink Gazelle Productions and the Chair of the John Petropoulos Memorial Fund. To receive Maryanne’s Mothering Matters blog series, please subscribe here.

6 Comments

  1. Marjorie Deyell on June 18th, 2014 at 12:47 pm:

    What wonderful advice Maryanne. So many of us are too afraid to “just let go” of our hurts.

    Have been thinking about you the last few weeks as the 3 RCMP officers were laid to rest in New Brunswick. May their families and friends be able to “let go”.

    Marj

  2. Jennifer Dickey on June 19th, 2014 at 7:50 pm:

    I love reading your blogs. I also understand what a loss a parent and a pet can be. I remember before Hanni passed
    thinking how I looked forward to being retired from nursing.
    When I realized by that time, Hanni would be gone, it put a real damper on my dreams.

    With my dad, I never sleep as well when I work nights and after he passed, it was torture as I would lie awake thinking
    about it.

    I guess everyone deals with grief in their own way.

  3. Maryanne on June 21st, 2014 at 10:03 am:

    This comment came in via e-mail:

    Oh this is a powerful piece of writing Maryanne! I read it on the bus to my downtown meeting and found myself thinking about it the entire way. Loved it and found so much strength in your honesty.
    SH, Calgary, AB

  4. Maryanne on June 25th, 2014 at 11:07 am:

    This comment came in via e-mail:

    I read this blog and wanted to let you know I know almost exactly how you feel.

    As I have not lost a parent and do not ever care to, I have lost a pet. Boy that sucks. I can’t even imagine how you feel losing your mom when it feels so awful losing your best furry friend. I still cry for my dog and its been a month. I too was a disaster at the vet (and still am at times). It’s always good to know that we are not alone in our actions and feelings. Thanks for sharing.
    BK, Calgary, AB

  5. Nataya on April 5th, 2017 at 11:03 am:

    Thank you for sharing. It’s been two and a half years and I still want my mum. My brother doesn’t speak to me and I miss horribly what you have with your brother that I never had with mine even when we were littles. Treasure him…

  6. Maryanne on April 5th, 2017 at 3:39 pm:

    Hi Nataya,

    Oh…I’m so sorry to hear that your brother doesn’t speak to you. Sigh…that is very tough, I bet. I will treasure the wonderful relationship I have with my brothers. I am very blessed – thank you for reminding me of that 🙂

    Take care,
    Maryanne

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