The Good Fight of Grief. A story of finding restoration through…
By: Mandy Capehart
Tags: Personal Essay, Reflections, Healing, Grief And Loss, Authenticity

The Good Fight of Grief

“You lose nothing when fighting for a cause. In my mind the losers are those who don’t have a cause they care about.” Muhammad Ali

I am not a loser. Defending others and speaking on behalf of anyone without an ally is natural as breathing to me. So when my mother passed, she became the one I needed to defend. The trauma of losing her was brutal, expedited, and riddle with questions.

Doctors diagnosed my mother with cancer all over her body far too late. After months of antibiotics and a minor heart attack, she now only had a few months to live. When she broke the news to me and my sister, we responded the same way we always responded. My sister cried, leaned in, and tried not to pull away. I became stoic, demanding pure information. There was no need for emotional displays, in my mind. We needed clear heads to uncover the reason her illness went unnoticed for so long. And a solution. I did not want to feel powerless, vulnerable, or controlled. Yet this moment carried all three like spears.

Photo by Max on Unsplash

But mom responded the way she always did: I’m the mother, Mandy. I get to take care of it and you get to trust me.

Fast forward four months. My mom laid in a hospital bed unable to greet my husband or daughter up close (sounds familiar). As it turns out, that moment in the hallway would be the last time they would see her at all. After two rounds of chemo, a virus destroyed her immune system. After moving between two separate hospice facilities, she passed a few weeks later. I trusted her; that she could handle it like she said, and lost her anyway. This was not justice. In my grieving heart, I wanted someone to pay.

Although living far away, it was my distinct pleasure to visit the trash heap of her first facility. When someone tells you that Medicare is paying, pay attention. I am grateful for the insurance coverage at the end of her life. But, I spent more time yelling at the staff and case manager than in conversation with my mom. And before dismissing me as a rage-addicted abuser of the nursing staff, let me clarify the level of neglect. Her broken bed hurt her back and would not adjust, but we could not receive extra pillows. Cold food showed up, dismissive of her allergies. Her sheets were holey and worn thin, with one pathetic blanket. If she called for help, she waited up to 90 minutes for a cup of juice. One time, I left the room to understand why no one responded to the call button. I found four staff members giggling at the nurses station over YouTube videos. Their scolding meant nothing as I found their fridge on my own. I spent the next few hours of my short stay shopping for protein shakes, blankets, pillows, and art for the walls. Anything to make it feel normal.

Weeks later, she passed in a different facility with private pay that no one could afford. But my last interactions with her existed in the wall-stained shithole two miles away. I may be incorrectly conflating Medicare with neglectful facilities. But I had no idea how to comprehend that this woman who cared for others every day of her life ended up in a place so devoid of empathy. At one point, the CNA refused to call her by her first name. I was dumbstruck. The woman stood on the opposite side of the room, covered in protective gear and shouting, “Okay, Mrs. Smith” with condescension. I was beyond angry. I was a woman on fire.

This accusatory battle cry defined my life. I would find the doctors who let her die and I would destroy their lives as well. Dark thoughts. But at the time, I also believed that without a way or a cause for justice, I was a loser. I needed to regain control of the spiraling loss.

Shortly after she passed, I was sorting through some of her belongings. She didn’t have much, but I couldn’t locate her small, black velvet bag of rings and jewelry. It never left her side, but it was with her in the hospital over Christmas. But no one could find it. I don’t remember how often I called the hospital. I accused the staff of stealing and demanded they watch the security tapes again. Someone had to be lying.

I doubt this was the first time hospital staff encountered belligerent and grieving family members. But my head was alight with a crown of flames. I would not be dismissed. My victory required closure. Indeed, I thought both were attainable through action or anger.

I also began crusading against the hospital system and trying to find the name of her primary care doctor. My mom lived an private life; so much so, that she did not want us to publish her passing in the newspaper. But her doctor was my grail — the solution to heal my loss. I believed suing him for malpractice would have restored my heart. My cause was now to protect future patients from a similar fate. It was only recently that I realized my lust for revenge is what kept my loss festering. It was only recently that I recognized my actions as lust, or revenge, in the first place.

Admitting I could not fix any part of her cancer or her treatment was the beginning of losing my mom. But recognizing my rage as the real problem was the beginning of finding her and myself again.