Compounding Grief Comes in 3s…or Maybe 4s

There is a palpable pressure surrounding college and the expectation that it should be the “best” time of your life. It is a period when young adults begin to discover who they are apart from their hometowns and families. College is reminisced about and glorified in society. Yet, my college experience felt atypical as it was coated with grief in all facets of my life. I felt alone in having to navigate the emotions that flowed while attempting to be a “normal” young adult.

My mom, Laura, was diagnosed with glioblastoma, a rare and terminal brain cancer, in the summer of 2015. At the time, I had only been home from my freshman year of college for a few weeks. I remember being told by her medical team and her second opinion medical team that she was going to die from this, but I do not remember anyone prognosticating her timeline well. I googled stories of others affected by glioblastoma and found miraculous stories of people living years and even returning to work or exercise. How could this disease look so different for others? I had so much anger and confusion surrounding the questions of why me and why my mom?

The anticipation of when this big life changing death would occur was always on my mind. In hindsight, the anticipatory grief had a grip on me, but I could not articulate what it was.  I believed grief was supposed to start at the time of death and I felt wrong to share my feelings before my mom died. How could I casually bring up my mom’s mortality when everyone around me was talking about dating, dining hall food, and weekend events? Nevertheless, I stayed in school to pursue an exercise science degree with dreams of medical school. Between classes, friends, swimming and my first relationship, I found brief escapes from my mom’s illness. Then, in a single week, my grief became impossible to escape when all aspects of my identity were challenged at once. In the span of one week: my first ever boyfriend broke up with me, I medically retired from division one swimming, my mom died, and I missed my organic chemistry midterm to attend my mom’s funeral and had to fight for the opportunity to make it up.

When one section of your life changes, it is common to pour more energy into your other identities. But what do you do when all your pillars crumble simultaneously? I remember an immense feeling of guilt as my initial grief journey weighed heavily on my breakup. I did not want the relationship to end. I had envisioned this relationship being instrumental in helping me navigate my mom’s death, and now my mom was dead, and all I could think about was “why doesn’t he want to be with me?” Even now, nearly ten years later, I’m frustrated that my mind fixated on the breakup, but in hindsight, it makes perfect sense. I had spent 16 months preparing for my mom’s death and 20 months pushing through injuries as an athlete, but I hadn’t even begun to prepare for a breakup. The breakup felt like a choice against me, where the death was not decisional and all parties were on the same page about not wanting it.

In this time, I connected with friends and family who supported me unconditionally. I snapped at people. I had constant tears in my eyes. I felt a sense of relief that the day I had been dreading was finally over. I stayed in bed. I felt angry that college looked differently for me. And I felt a fire in me to regain control. There was so much I couldn’t control, but I poured my energy into my education to control something.

My mom’s funeral was on a Tuesday evening in my hometown nearly three hours from my college campus. This Tuesday fell during midterm week, where I was scheduled to sit for an organic chemistry exam which accounted for 50% of my final grade and determined my eligibility to sit for the MCAT (Medical College Admission Test). To me this test equaled getting into medical school. Upon my arrival back to campus (7 days after mom’s death), I was informed that make up organic chemistry tests were not permitted. This was due to a lack of a student bereavement policy, which created a reality where all professors were given autonomy over how to address bereavement in their syllabus. And I had somehow been placed in the class with a syllabus that stated no makeup exams for any reason. There was an option to sit for my midterm exam immediately following my final exam in that same class. That was the worst idea I had ever heard. Two back-to-back tests on the last day of the semester all because my mom died. No way. I spent the next week of my life escalating my concern of wanting to take my organic chemistry midterm. I sent emails. I complained. I could not talk about anything else. After numerous rejections, I found myself in the President of the University’s office. I advocated for myself, and he granted me the ability to sit for my exam. Later that week, I scored a 58% on my midterm and it is the proudest I have ever been about “failing.” But hey, it was enough points to ultimately pass the class and keep moving forward.

As I sit down to write about this grief heavy time in my life, I reflect on how all-consuming these emotions were in 2016 and how they have evolved nearly 10 years later. All the same emotions persist, but they feel more distant. They do not surface daily, but rather monthly or yearly. Now there is space for more emotions alongside my grief. I can sit with emotions and acknowledge them. I have the power to share my emotions or keep them for me.

Compound grief is a natural part of the human experience, and all the life changes you encounter deserve to be acknowledged, even when some feel less significant than others.