I attended a memorial this week at the hospital where mom passed away. It was the first time that I’d been back there since that day in May and it was the last place I wanted to be. My dad wanted to go, out of respect for mom’s memory and I too wanted that, however being at the last place I saw her alive was extremely difficult. As I approached the doors to enter the building a flood of memories of those two weeks came rushing back. It’s not how I want to remember her. I could remember the day she was admitted, the fear in her voice when she asked me if she was going to be ok, the day the doctor told us that she was dying and approached me to decide what actions to take as she neared the end. I could remember the day she started slipping away and most of all, the day she died. Still, I maintained my composure and took a seat. I busied myself by reading the program, texting and checking emails until the service started. The Chaplain’s words were just that, words, to me with very little affect. It wasn’t until the social worker with whom I’d dealt with during the final days took the floor and began to speak. I felt myself growing angry. I was already angry with the hospital and I guess I directed my anger toward him. He became the face to which I could affix to the “problem.” He spoke of grief and grieving and everything he said from beginning to end resonated with me. It made me cry. He said that you may begin to feel like you’re finally “ok” then one day, a song, a colour, a scent, something, will trigger that grief again, reminding you of the loss of your loved one. Causing you to experience that pain again as if it had happened that very day. That’s how I felt being there for the memorial. It has shadowed me since. I believe feeling this way is a testament to how close I was to her and illustrates how much I miss her. While I didn’t want to relate to what the social worker said, I could and it reassured me in some ways to hear it from someone I didn’t know.