Today is the eight year anniversary of our mother’s death. We decided to co-author our experience to share with those we love. Our purpose in writing this blog post is not to make you feel sad for us or focus on the negative. Rather we want this to be for those of you who find yourselves in the trenches, fighting against the darkness of losing a loved one. To those of you who have not, life promises you will fight this someday. You’ll notice that even though we are speaking from the same experience, we have very different perspectives. Things affected us differently and we’ve had varying experiences while learning to deal with our loss. We will be speaking together at times and from our own perspectives throughout this post. The perspective of the passing years has led us both to want to open the vault of our story in hopes that it can be a light to you in your experience.
Liz: I was 16 years old. A junior in high school. Everyone told me that this was the year where my grades would matter the most to colleges. Looking back, I worried about semi-pointless things like if any boys liked me and if I was going to be able to have a car over the weekend. After getting home from spending time with friends, I watched movies with my mom. She was my late night accomplice in anything and everything. She was my best friend.
Matt: I was 14 years old. I was in eighth grade at the local middle school. Life seemed pretty simple back then consisting mainly of growth spurts, seeking out merit badge counselors, and the stress of finding whose parents could drive my friends and I to the local rec center to play basketball. I had just finished the work for my eagle scout mainly because I knew how important it was to my parents, especially my mom.
Our mom, Trishelle Hawkins Dicou, was 39-years-old when she went in for an outbound surgery early in the morning on January 29, 2007. The surgery was one that would help her live a healthier life.
Mom and Dad had been preparing us for a few weeks about how this surgery could be dangerous as some people had died in the past. But we brushed it off and said, “That isn’t going to happen to us.”
When we got home from school that day, our dad was on the phone with the surgeon and our grandpa had just arrived. Our mom had no control over her body and was not coherent. The surgeon told our dad and grandpa to take our mom to the emergency room. He said it was probably just a reaction to medication. We had to call an ambulance. Several minutes later, the medics ran in and yelled at us to find all of her prescriptions. They said we needed to find them to save her life. Meanwhile, our neighbors streamed out of their houses wondering what was happening. We had no answers.
The hospital told us that our mom was in a medically-induced coma because she was sensitive to medication. We went to school the next day.
Liz: It felt weird all day. I felt like I shouldn’t smile. After school, my grandma picked us up and brought us to the hospital. They told us to sit in the hall for awhile and that we could see her later. When they finally let us into her room, I walked up to my mom and almost collapsed to the ground. She was on a breathing tube and I could tell that she wouldn’t be alive without it. My stomach dropped and I couldn’t look at her. The nurse came in and sensing my discomfort, told me I could talk to her and she would hear me. Uncomfortably, I whispered, “You need to wake up. I need you.”
Matt: Due to the varying prognoses and the doctors’ uncertainty in giving them, I didn’t really know what to expect anymore. Some told me that she would be fine and others spoke of the worst. I didn’t like when they spoke of the worst. It was a weird feeling that I couldn’t deal with as reality began not to align with the perfect scenario in my heart. The medical equipment and the silence made her seem different, but I knew somewhere deep that she still was the same. A nurse told us to tell her we loved her. It was hard for me to express the words properly, not knowing if she would even be able to hear them.
After that the hospital told us they didn’t know what was wrong with her and they were going to LifeFlight her to University Medical Center in Salt Lake City. We went home to eat dinner while they moved her into her new room.
Liz: After dinner, my family headed to the new hospital. Matt and Max stayed home with a neighbor. My grandpa and I arrived last. When we arrived, my grandma yelled, “Come here, come here! The doctor is about to tell us what’s going on.” I ran up and was placed right in front of the doctor. She told us with sad eyes that my mom had suffered a massive stroke in her brain stem. She told us that this meant that mom would be non-responsive and would need help with everything she did. She would sit in a wheelchair for the rest of her life. But she promised that her mind would understand everything we said; she just wouldn’t ever respond again. Or, as another option, we could take her off of the machine and let her slip peacefully away. I just stood there looking at the doctor with my mouth open. NOT MY MOM. We told the doctors that we needed to go home and tell my brothers what was going on before we made a decision. They told us they’d call us if anything changed. I cried the whole way home. When we finally arrived, I couldn’t cry anymore. I felt numb. When we went inside, we told our neighbor the news and sent her on her way with our gratitude.
Matt: When my family returned home, I could tell something was different. They asked if they could speak to me--a formality that notified me of the gravity of what they were to tell me. For most of my life, I have had an inability to show emotion through tears. However, as soon as the ultimatum left my father’s lips, I cried unrestrained, bitter tears. It couldn’t be true. These emotions weren’t meant for me, a boy of fourteen years. The future seemed unsure, confusing, and difficult.
Liz: After they told Matt the situation, I had to watch my sensitive, loving brother realize that his mother was going to die. It was the worst experience. I wanted to shake him, tell him to STOP, because seeing his anguish was more than I could bear.
Max was already asleep and we decided to tell him in the morning after we all got some sleep and could possibly think more clearly. We decided to all sleep in the same room. The hospital unexpectedly called us around 3:00 A.M. After a brief conversation, our dad relayed the life-changing news: the awful decision was made for us. She was passing away on her own. We needed to hurry to the hospital if we wanted to be there when she passed away.
We all silently sobbed on the way to the hospital. When we arrived, we put Max in a wheelchair and told him that mom was really sick and was going to go to Heaven. His 6-year-old self proclaimed, “If she is going to Heaven then I don’t want to see her being sick. I want to remember her happy.” We took shifts being with Max in the hall and being in the room with our mom. After a while her breathing started to slow. Together we all watched her take her last breath.
Liz: I sat on the floor outside of the room that my mom had just died in wishing that I wasn’t alive to feel this pain. I knew that I couldn’t live my life without her.
Matt: It seemed like I should feel something that was more fitting to the situation, but I just felt empty. At her funeral a few days later I pinned the “eagle scout mom” pin to her before we closed the casket. Then the fourteen year old version of myself spoke the following words from the pulpit: “My mom was really a great person. We all knew her in different ways. For some people she was a friend. For some people she was a person you could rely on to get a call on your birthday. For some she was the one who could always remember somebody’s phone number if you forgot. But for me she was many things. She was a friend, she was a role model, she was a person I could talk to, she was a great chauffeur, a great mom, someone to help with school work and a great many other things. I know many of us will remember her often and that is what she would want us to do.”
Going forward, I was scared to talk to my teachers about not being able to finish my homework. I always, always did my homework. I didn’t know what to say to my friends. I didn’t want them to treat me differently. I couldn’t figure out what to say when people told me they were sorry for my loss. I disliked the reminder of it all every day as I came home to an empty house.
Liz: I can’t remember much about the 6 months that followed. I’ve recognized that I’ve repressed those painful months. I remember a few really sad things and a select few moments of joy. But I don’t remember anything else. I was numb. I told myself that I couldn’t laugh--my mom was gone! Smiling felt wrong. School dances and dating felt silly and trivial. Nothing brought me joy. I realized one day that I was in charge of my own happiness. I could wake up each morning and say, “Today is going to be great!” or, “Today is going to be the absolute worst.” Either way, that would be my day. Both types of days are needed for your mental health. Sometimes you just aren’t ok. But you can’t let those days take over your life. I was exhausted with feeling awful so I started telling myself that more days in a week were going to be great rather than bad. And eventually I started believing it. Once I believed it, I lived it. This has made all the difference in the life that I live now. I allow myself to feel sad some days, but I do not allow it to take over my life.
Matt: Being more of a private person, I never really let on how much it affected me. But it had very profoundly. I didn’t know how to effectively express my love for others. Life has taught me to tell those we care about that we do indeed care about them while they are still within our sphere of influence. Reach out to those you love. And do just that: love them without condition. For as the writer of Mitchell’s Journey highlighted: “When medicine fails us, all we have left is love.”
Liz: When someone you love dies, you start to blame yourself for things. I blamed myself for not hugging her that morning when she went in for surgery. I blamed myself for being a moody teenager to her at times. I blamed myself for not spending every waking minute with her for the past 16 years of my life. Illogical, right? I realized one day that it was all illogical. We will always have regrets but they absolutely should not keep us down. I realized that if I could ask my mom face-to-face if any of those regrets that I was beating myself up with were valid and actually mattered to her, she would say NO. So I trusted that. And I moved on. Do you have regrets that you torture yourself with? Even if they are valid, let them go. Your loved one wants you to be happy and you need to allow yourself to be.
The seasons of life provide a full spectrum of experiences. Some spark inside us hope and joy and others simply do not. Nevertheless, it is important to capture each moment you are in. Be grateful and rejoice with those you love in the highs and turn outward and hold your family close during the lows. God places other “travelers” in our path who can be a light to us in our situation. Then sometimes we have the humbling experience of helping another weary “traveler” with our own. Through our experience of dealing with loss, we’ve found that people have been placed in our lives that have made us feel loved. Relationships have been developed that have made things a little bit easier. Our relationships with grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, neighbors, and friends were fortified because we had to rely on each other to get through the darkness. We were blessed with a wonderful stepmother who loves us as if we were her own. We were given five awesome step-siblings who lost their father to cancer. We can relate to loss and strengthen each other on our journeys through life. Even though this is not the life we would have planned for ourselves, we will conquer it together.
Liz: I also found that I had a lot of pent-up rage toward my mom for missing important events in my life. She missed me getting into college. She missed my prom. She missed my graduation. She missed my engagement. She missed my wedding. She will miss my graduation from college. She will miss being a grandma to my children. She’s missing all of my moments when I still feel like she should be there! Even though it is not her fault, it makes me sad and mad. I have to deal with this every time something important comes up. I realized that this anger is normal as long as I give myself some time to deal with it. On my most important days, I write my mom a letter. In those letters, I tell her why I want her there and how it makes me feel that she isn’t. And even though it doesn’t feel like the hole that was caused by her death is filled, I feel better because I’ve acknowledged it and tried to deal with it.
Sometimes our problems in life grow beyond the scope of what we can handle ourselves. We need an expert, an outside source, to give us direction. If your car breaks down, you should seek the help of an auto mechanic. Likewise, you must choose for yourself to seek out help and support. We chose to put our faith in God’s eternal plan and through time we’ve found great peace. Yes, this grieving process will look different for each person, but as you face the details of your darkness HAVE HOPE. It takes time. It takes honesty. It takes courage and renewal. But it is possible. The darkest moments of the darkest chapters of our lives can be modified by light, healing, and hope. We are living witnesses of it.
“We know not what lies ahead of us. We know not what the coming days will bring. We live in a world of uncertainty. For some, there will be great accomplishment. For others, disappointment. For some, much of rejoicing and gladness, good health, and gracious living. For others, perhaps sickness and a measure of sorrow. We do not know. But one thing we do know. Like the polar star in the heavens, regardless of what the future holds, there stands the Redeemer of the world, the Son of God, certain and sure as the anchor of our immortal lives. He is the rock of our salvation, our strength, our comfort, the very focus of our faith.” (President Gordon B. Hinckley, We Look to Christ, April 2002)
Remember that it is perfectly okay to grieve. But never, ever forget to have hope.
All the best,
Liz and Matt
PS We’re off to write our annual letter to our mom and to send it up with balloons.
PPS DIET COKES ALL AROUND IN HONOR OF MOM!!
PPPS We aren’t twins. Liz is older even though Matt is taller.
