Crying through the Airport

When grief hits at the little moments

The text read “Landed”.

I received nothing back.

Then I burst into tears.

I had landed in the Denver airport at 11:30pm. It was 1:30am in Detroit where everyone who received that message was likely sleeping. So there wasn’t going to be an immediate response.

I know my mom would have responded.

She always responded. Even if it was early in the morning or late at night.

She would have sent an upside down smiley face. 🙃

Then she would have turned over and gone back to sleep. Or at least that’s what I assume. It’s possible she also would have laid there, eyes wide open, worrying about me.

For years, no matter where I traveled, where I landed, and the time difference, I would text to let her know I’d arrived.

This Denver trip was the first trip where she didn’t reply.

It was two months after she had died. I had only just started to feel like I was getting the whole grieving thing down.

Okay, that’s a lie. No one has grieving down, and that little sucker sneaks up on you at the most inconvenient times. Even though I had felt positive going to Denver, I think my body knew that I had this moment coming. This deep hole that you start to live with would at some point open itself right back up in the right moment. Or my case I guess the terminal of the Denver airport.

With tears running down my face, I moved through the airport, the shuttle to the rental car place, the counter. The agent asked me “long flight? You look tired.” First of all, thanks - that’s pretty much agent speak for “you look like complete crap”.

I said yes. “I’m very tired.” My body is tired from crying, I’m sad, my body is fully exhausted from the rollercoaster of hospice, death, grief, saying a mourner’s prayer every day at 6am services, of thinking about my mom, and newly this week, of learning that my sister was diagnosed with breast cancer, and no my mom still isn’t here to process any of it together. Oh, and I’m alone. Like physically, mentally, and relationshipwise, I’m just processing alone. Always. And most of this just hit me 20 minutes ago when I stepped off the plane, when I had no one to reply to a very simple “hey I’m alive” text.

So yes, kind ma’am at the desk, I’m tired. Can I have my car please?

There is a chance I said some of that out loud.

Then, I got a pretty decent rental car, and continued on my way.

I arrived at my friend’s house to a big hug, and had a healing few days in Colorado, spending time with cousins who worked their calming magic in Boulder, hiking, mountains, being with people who knew and loved my mom as well. When in doubt find nature. Mountains for me. They bring me the calm. They wake me up. They allow me to be me. They remind us there is more to the world than what is just in front of us. Than this moment. They were bigger than anything happening in my life that year and I needed to see that.

I’ve learned that deep grief is not the moments you think you’ll have a response, but the moments that somehow gut punch you. Joyous moments turn dark because you miss that person, because it’s only them who would laugh at the less funny joke. It’s the inside joke that you are the only two people who could meet eyes and just know. It’s not on mother’s day when everyone checks in, or on their birthday, when it’s obvious, it’s those small moments. Those moments nearly know one knows about because it’s this passing dark personal cloud. A smile, a moment, a thought, or sometimes that big response which means crying as you walk through an airport.

We prep ourselves for those big moments, put up our defenses, build our shields and put on the protective gear to prep. But those small little passing moments. Ooof. There is no shield for them. You can’t outrun them - they will find you.

I tried in the moment to stop, to hold it together. I smiled at the family staring at my tears on the bus. But I couldn’t stop, the bus moved along and so did my tears. It’s funny too, because I think I needed my family not to respond in that moment. Maybe it was actually the right thing - because they won’t fill my mom’s place, we all just adjust to the moment.

To this day, I need my family to just be who each of them is when I land and text to let them know I’ve arrived. Usually each of them has some wisecracking comment about my delay, lack of delay, or a simple thumbs up. Including my sister, who is cancer free now, and fully herself.

Secretly, each time I land, I think of my mom. Okay, not so secretly now, but I do and I may not burst into tears, but I smile, maybe a quick tear of remembrance, and then the upside down smiling face emoji pops into my head and we keep on moving. 🙃