I was listening to a podcast earlier this week, and one of the hosts mentioned seeing a hummingbird. This instantly, of course, reminded me of my mom. Maybe you’re like “Of course? Huh?” but long story short, the day my mom passed, I sat outside in her backyard like zombie, in the oven-like heat that is summer in Las Vegas, and suddenly I saw a hummingbird. She flew right at my face, and then stayed there, suspended in air in front of me for what felt like several minutes. Soon, a couple others came to join her, and off they went, but I felt a bit like it was… a sign. Of something. I had never noticed hummingbirds before, at my parents’ house or really anywhere, and from that moment on, I’ve seen them quite a lot. In fact, the tree in my backyard now has hummingbirds stopping by daily.
One could say maybe I’m looking for them now when I wasn’t before (and I mean me — I would have said that, before losing my mom), and that’s why I seem to notice them so often, but still… it flew right at me back in 2020! That felt like *something.*
Anyways, on the podcast I was listening to, they went on to discuss what it means to see a hummingbird. I think I’d Googled this back in 2020 after my first run-in with hummingbirds at my parents’, but I didn’t really remember much beyond them being a symbol of joy. Apparently they can also symbolize resilience, and that challenging times are over and healing can begin.
I heard that and it, I don’t know… hit different. I started thinking about what that might mean, if it was true, in the context of me seeing hummingbirds after my mom had just died. Being reminded of resilience made sense, but the notion that seeing one essentially was a rainbow after a storm felt a little strange. How could my mom passing away mean something good was coming — recovery or healing or anything else positive — or that any sort of challenge was over? My automatic response was to plead for more challenges if it meant my mom was still alive. But then I tried to shift my perspective, like squinting into one of those viewfinders on the Empire State Building’s observatory decks. (Niche reference, I know, but we’re in Nora Ephron rom-com autumn.) And so, if her leaving was — in some weird, f*cked up way — the right thing to happen, I tried to imagine what that actually meant. I’m still trying to sift through that and see if, three years later, I can come up with not so much a good reason, but rather literally anything positive that’s emerged as a result, because there was no other choice. One of them is having a much better understanding of grief and, I hope, more empathy for others. And more than ever, I hope desperately that the more I write about the bizarreness of grieving and missing my mom, that there’s somebody else out there that feels a little less alone, a little more capable of making it through their own struggles. I don’t know that I’d say that makes my mom being gone worth it, but it feels like a decent consolation prize.
I’ve written about this a little bit, but since my mom died, I’ve also experienced some awful health anxiety. I initially figured it was a byproduct of living through the pandemic and surviving 2020, and then last year, I learned that it — along with catastrophic thinking and a fear of being alone/abandonment — is a very common experience for women who lose their mothers. Discovering that, I remember releasing a breath I hadn’t even known I’d been holding in; I still had the anxiety, but I felt seen, and less alone. (Being acknowledged and realizing our struggles are a shared experience is some sort of wonderful.) I mention this all because earlier this week, I received a not-so-great test result after some routine labs were done, and normally I would…. well, spiral. I’d be off in a black hole of anxiety thinking about how much worse things could get and start worrying about what would happen if xyz occurred as a result and what would be next, etc. etc.
But instead of spiraling, I… didn’t.
I had my initial freak-out and then tried to move on. I had this thought this week that it would be so nice to just not have to worry or panic about every outcome (aka be gripped by my health anxiety), and wondered if there was a way I could just say no — just tell my anxiety to leave me be, and try to cultivate some blind faith that things can and will improve. That it may be hard and scary, but it won’t and doesn’t have to stay that way.
I mean, my head’s not in the sand — I’m concerned (and worried, definitely) about that test result — but I have managed not to let the anxiety consume me this time or assume the worst case will happen. Instead, I’m making a concerted effort to remind myself that I’ve had not-so-great news before related to my health, and I’ve gotten through it. I’ve figured out a plan or upped my medicine or whatever and made it back down the mountain. Every piece of bad news or ache and pain does not mean I’m destined to be stuck at the top of Everest without a rope (can you tell I don’t climb literal mountains?) or food or any type of way to successfully get back home, and rather that’s just a story I started telling myself in 2020 — that I am somehow unlucky or not tough enough, that nothing good will last or a happy-ish ending can’t be.
Part of growing up with a chronic illness, at least for me, has been constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop, but I’m not sure why I started to believe my goodness bucket was full and that I couldn’t trust that I’d eventually be okay. I suppose because my mom ultimately wasn’t… but maybe she was. Maybe she is.
Maybe that’s actually what the hummingbirds keep trying to tell me.
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This (slightly unhinged?) post is brought to you by Trader Joe’s tomato and burrata ravioli and this ‘90s playlist that I’m currently obsessed with. Today is my husband’s birthday, and I’ll be baking these cookies — wanna join me?
Happy Friday, friends!
Thanks for reading,
Joelle