Try to find some joy and peace.
Your mom wanted you to be happy and to continue to pursue a beautiful life.
– Cindy Kerwick
Three days ago, I celebrated my 36th birthday in my favorite place in the world. A month ago, I documented a team of international scientists conducting research in Germany. Tonight, I will give a presentation for the Morehead Planetarium Science Center about my work in the deep ocean. A few weeks from now, I will fly across the country to spend time with friends and colleagues in Oregon and California. A few months from now, I will go to sea with a team of volcanologists in the North Pacific Ocean.
By just about every measure, I have a full and vibrant life. The people I engage with and the activities I pursue regularly challenge my body, stimulate my mind, and nourish my soul.
But there is one fundamental thing missing – my dear mother, who loved me beyond measure, is gone.
This Friday will mark two months since Mom died. A few days before Christmas, she suffered a massive hemorrhagic stroke. While she survived the initial cerebral bleed, the subsequent swelling in her brain proved to be fatal. With the help of Lower Cape Fear Life Care, she passed away in our family’s home on January 8th.
Right after she died, I methodically completed each task set before me. Reaching out to countless family members, friends, and colleagues to share the heartbreaking news. Writing her obituary and planning her memorial service. Collecting her ashes from the crematorium and obtaining copies of her death certificate. Gathering stories to include in her eulogy.
Mom died on a Monday. For the rest of that week, I woke up before sunrise each day and spent the early morning hours writing. As I wrote the eulogy for her service, I experienced a profound sense of peace and solace. People often say writing is a good “tool” for processing grief. For me, it’s a bit more. Writing generates a reliable rhythm that gives me comfort and connection. It provides an anchor to steady me during these surreal, disorientating days.
At peace: On the morning Mom passed, a vibrant sunrise lit up the sky over Masonboro Sound.
Over the past two months, the perpetual question posed by family and friends has been: “how are you doing?”
It’s a loaded question, and one that I don’t always know how to answer – so I decided to write about it.
I debated whether or not I would publish any of these thoughts. Grief is such a personal and singular experience. Even though we are all mourning the loss of the same person, my grief is different and distinct from that of my brother, my dad, or my mom’s best friends.
But I figured sharing a little bit about how I am navigating this time might help someone else. Empathy can be powerful medicine.
I believe this particular period includes some of the toughest days. Her memorial service has come and gone. The beautiful flowers have wilted and been tossed into the compost. The casseroles and sympathy cards have stopped coming.
And yet, she just died a few weeks ago. Her absence still feels painful and raw. While I will always be grateful that we were able to fill her final days with love and comfort, there is no denying her death was sudden and unexpected. It is still difficult to accept she is gone.
Lilies and love: In the days surrounding her death, our friends and family filled our mother’s beautiful home with hundreds of lilies, her favorite flowers.
My brave brother: Austin says goodbye to Mom on the morning of January 8th. Shortly before she died, I told Mom, “the best gift you ever gave me was my brother.”
In the hardest moments, I take a deep breath and remember I am my mother’s daughter. I can channel her strength and courage. By the time she was 25-years-old, Mom had lost both of her parents. Just two weeks after her mother passed away, my mom started her first semester of veterinary school.
Over the years, I had many conversations with Mom about that period of her life. She was so young and so heartbroken — and yet she persevered. When I asked her how she took on the seemingly impossible task of starting veterinary school so soon after her mother’s death, Mom’s response was forthright and unequivocle.
“I had to,” she said. “It was my life and my career — and it’s what my mom would have wanted me to do.”
With that simple wisdom, my path forward is clear. Keep going. A few days after her memorial service, I finished editing a couple video projects. The following week, I flew to Europe to spend two weeks working in Germany.
In the midst of working and staying busy, I am also giving myself time and space to grieve. I am examining the sadness and sense of loss from every angle. I am finding that grief (at least my grief for this particular person) contains a fundamental duality: light and dark.
I listened to a podcast recently during which the host said, “it may not feel like it now, but the darkness will pass. You will laugh again…”
While the sudden loss of my mom is devastating, her death has not plunged my life into darkness. On the contrary, it has magnified my appreciation of the light.
I take lots of long walks. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes I focus on my breath. Sometimes I turn my face towards the sky. No matter what emotions are coursing through me, the simple act of walking and breathing and feeling the sun on my skin bolsters my sense of vitality.
It’s not just the exercise or the fresh air. Walking reminds me that as I move through the world, I carry the wisdom and strength Mom instilled in me throughout my life. I picture that knowledge in my mind’s eye as bright, shining light.
And laugh again? Laughter is perhaps the most soothing balm for an aching heart. I was laughing (and making other people laugh) as I delivered her eulogy. Mom was funny and she loved comedy. I have no doubt she would want us to find joy and levity in the midst of our grief.
The morning before she passed, Dad, Austin, and I gathered around Mom’s bedside. I read poetry to her. Through tears, Dad and Austin sang to her. We cried harder than we have ever cried.
A few hours later, exhausted and starving, we trooped into the kitchen. While I made sandwiches and Austin poured coffee, Dad told a funny story. And we laughed harder than we have ever laughed.
Our days still feel weighed down by grief, but I don’t find it difficult to laugh or smile. I am grateful for the ability to hold both – a deep sadness for the loss of my mom, and a luminous joy for being alive.
BFF Time: Having a blast with my dear friends Lena and Navarre in Zurich, Switzerland.
Sibling Time: Nothing beats hiking my favorite trail with my brother on my birthday.
Death, especially a sudden death, often sparks a flame that highlights our own mortality – and my experience has been no exception. If I have the same lifespan as my mother, then I am currently sitting at the halfway point of my life. Hopefully I will live a bit longer, but who knows. Our time is never guaranteed.
I don’t think a heightened sense of mortality should ignite fear or anxiety though. Instead, I want to use it to kindle intention.
When I was working in Germany, I had a great discussion with two of my shipmates about this idea. Marisa Rydzy posed the following question:
“If you knew you didn’t have much longer to live – say a few more years – what would you change about your life?”
I told Marisa and Nancy there is not much I would change. There are still places I want to experience, locations where I want to work, and goals I want to accomplish. Trekking in Nepal. Joining an expedition team in the Arctic. Writing a book.
However, I view those bucket list items as icing on the delectable cake that is my life. I’m grateful that I have been able to build such a meaningful, adventurous, and fun existence – and I’m especially grateful my mom lived long enough to see me do lots of incredible things.
Radiating joy: Mom smiles and waves as she and Dad drive away from their wedding reception in 1985.
Radiating joy: I smile at the Hawaiian sunset during one of my expeditions aboard E/V Nautilus in 2022 | Photo by Nova West
While our mother’s life came to an end sooner and more abruptly than any of us expected, the 70 years she spent on this planet were full and vibrant. She was a fiery, passionate, adventurous person who always spoke her mind (like mother, like daughter.) If she could speak to me now, I know exactly what she would say:
I love you and I am so proud of you. Now go climb a mountain! Sail across the ocean! I’ll be cheering for you the whole way.
Epic adventures will always be on the horizon, but for right now, my days revolve around North Carolina. One of my biggest priorities is carving out quality time with my dad and my brother. At dinner the other night, Dad said, “I feel like this experience has welded the three of us together.” I couldn’t agree more. While our family dynamic has been permanently altered, the bonds between Dad, Austin, and me couldn’t be stronger.
Over the next year, I will help Dad with cleaning out the house and settling Mom’s affairs. I will write letters to her best friends and her beloved cousins. I will plan some special trips for our family. We will spread Meda Lide’s ashes in the waves off Ocracoke Island and in the rapids of the Nantahala River.
I will also do all the things I love. I will fly across the world, go to sea, and run the little business I have built. I will climb big mountains, dance with my friends, and smile at the sun.
I will think of my mom often. Her fierce love will fortify my spirit. Her bright light will illuminate my path.
And with those, I will continue to build a beautiful life.