The role of memory in Grief

Recalling and Forgetting

Joan Didion writes at length about the death of her daughter in Blue Nights. One of the parts that caught my attention was:

“Time passes.

Memory fades, memory adjusts, memory confirms to what we think we remember.”

I’ve read other authors who comment on the role of memory/remembering as integral to grief.

The paradox being that—on the one hand—our memories of our departed loves ones, fading over time, is indeed what makes it easier to cope.

And yet, it is also the forgetting, all of the memories getting hazier, which is exactly what causes many of us great grief during the earlier stages of bereavement. The fear of forgetting, the pain of the stark reality that now all you have left are memories to rely on. And the knowledge that they will, inevitably and to varying degrees—become less sharp over time.

A friend of mine just lost her mother to cancer and she noted on social media the pain she feels of no longer being able to call her up to discuss dinner plans and other everyday mundane details of life.

My heart hurt for her and the journey with this new stage of adulthood life of a motherless daughter, as it is just beginning. And because I remember this experience that I also had, so acutely.

My mother and I undoubtedly had a co-dependent relationship at most points throughout my life. Within the last few years of her life, since my father passed, she called me…a lot. Often times several times throughout the day. Anywhere from 4-8 times a day.

All of that to say, when you talk to someone that often, everyday, the day to day details are of course what you discuss, mostly. Like dinner. Like how did you sleep. Like how was work.

So, when my mother passed that became a stark contrast from what my day to day life had been. It was a painful void, an every day reminder of the loss for a while.

My mother died a little over two years ago. And though I still feel the gut reaction to call her sometimes, mostly now, I remember that I can’t, that she’s gone. But I still feel this ache, when I want to ask her for a recipe, to check to see if she ever made a dish, or knowing some random bit of information about her…The pain of knowing that that stuff about her is forever lost to me because I never asked. And now I never can. I will never know.

I still miss my mother terribly. She was always my confidant, biggest supporter, always providing me with unconditional love. Some days the grief is still heavy. The hole she left in my life still gaping. I remember someone once told me—about 11 years ago—after she’s gone, you realize that no one will ever love you like your mother. For me, this certainly rings true.

And yet, we humans do quickly adjust to new habits. Do I forget about my mother or not miss her? Of course not. But I also no longer feel strange every day at not being able to talk to her.

In many ways, the memory of talking to her multiple times every day has faded and that, is…grace. It helps. It makes the acute pain of mourning the loss, that deep feeling of this void in your life, over time, bearable. It definitely feels like less of a gaping wound.

Memories fading indeed form this scab…they help us to cope. And yet, there is also a pain in that. When you know it will happen and when it starts. There is a relief; it helps us to move forward and to adjust to this new stage, and yet, it is painful to know that that will happen.

And when it does, this happens, the memories of their voices not being so sharp, a new habit established that you don’t talk every day and can’t converse with them anymore, it’s a complicated sense of relief and a heightened sense of loss and sadness.

It’s a paradox. It’s both/and.

Grief is so complicated. It’s tricky.