Dillon Davis wrote about grieving the loss of his mother Teresa, who passed away suddenly at age 48. He describes breaking down crying alone in his apartment bathroom on a weekly basis since her death months ago. The mourning process has been wretched with restless nights and tearful days as he misses calling and messaging his mother. However, Dillon has learned to fully experience his grieving moments through talking, crying, or listening to music, and to appreciate the friends who have supported him through this difficult time. While the loss still hurts, Dillon is slowly settling into his new reality without his mother, whose memory and love he keeps close.

1. Dillon Davis: Learning to live with the loss of a parent
DillonDavis, Battle Creek Enquirer 7:04 a.m. ESTJanuary 1, 2016
Battle Creek resident Dillon
Davis and his mother, Teresa
I sobbed uncontrollably the other night. It’s been a
weekly occurrence for months now. First my eyes
well up, then my head starts throbbing and soon I’m
hunched over half-dressed and alone on the dirty
floor of my pitch black apartment bathroom.
It’s cold and bitter and incredibly raw. This isn’t
where I want to be, but it’s where I am right now.
This year, I lost my mom. I found out the news at the office in late July. My dad felt I
should hear it from him, his puffy eyes and flushed complexion breaking the silence
moments before his mouth did.
“Buddy, they found Mom dead this morning,” he said before collapsing into a somber
embrace.
She was found unconscious on the couch where she often slept, first by her
chihuahua, Buddy, and then by her longtime boyfriend. She had stopped breathing
overnight, a side-effect to some medication she had ingested. Gone at 48. I’m told the
dog didn’t move from that couch for weeks after the coroner hauled her body away.
That misery.
The days that followed were full of planning and fake smiles and “thoughts and
prayers” and long hugs and short breath and moments forever lost to time. I’m
frequently haunted by the memory of stroking her stringy, light-brown hair and kissing
her icy forehead while sharing my final thoughts with her.
The mourning process is a wretched one, often complete with restless nights and
tearful days.
I’ve felt it on my commutes home from work, the time where I’d often call her; I’ve felt it
scrolling down her Facebook page, seeing all of the times she was cheering me on;
I’ve felt it laying next to her burial plot, sometimes pounding the ground and asking for
relief I’m not likely to find there.
Throughout the ordeal, I’ve kept trying to convince myself I was OK. “You can get
through this,” I’ve whispered a few times too many. Will it, really, though? The answer
is unclear.
But what I’ve found in grieving the most important woman I’ve ever known is that it has
helped me recalibrate the relationships in my life. One person has stayed up with me
through every one of these painful nights, hearing the same stories about it over and
over ad nauseam; another drove two hours and stayed with me for several days to
help with whatever my family needed; another group sent flowers and a Kanye West
sweatshirt they thought would brighten my day — it did.
On the other end, a person texted me days after the funeral service he couldn’t
attend to say, “I don’t do very well with these types of things.” Yeah, me either.
These are things you remember, even if it’s difficult to do so. You always remember
how people made you feel in the darkest hour.
I’ve also learned to drink in these moments of grieving, making as much time for them
as it requires. If I need to talk about it, talk; if I need to cry about it, cry; if I need a few
hours driving in circles with The Verve Pipe playing on repeat, do nothing less than
that.
As the days go by, I’m slowly settling into the loss, even if I can’t yet accept it.
The dried out roses from Mom’s funeral sit on a desk
in my bedroom, her license tucked away in my wallet,
her voice preserved on a handful of messages on my
phone. I don’t need the voicemails to remember,
though.
I can always hear her voice, and it only gets louder
when I’m alone on the dirty floor of a pitch-black
bathroom.
I can hear her yell my name —​ “DILLON WESLEY!” —
from the living room of my childhood home; I can hear
her giving her two cents to my tyrant middle school
science teacher, Mrs. Wentzel, whom couldn’t
580
CONNECT TWEET LINKEDIN
10
COMMENT EMAIL MORE
Letter: What will it take to
resurface 10 Mile Road?
Feb. 12, 2016, 9:30a.m.
Letter: Democrats unite
against Snyder
administration
Feb. 12, 2016, 9:07a.m.
Catherine Rampell: Liberal
militancy rises on campus
Feb. 12, 2016, 9:03a.m.
MORESTORIES
(Photo: Courtesyof theDavis
family)
580580
1010
SUBSCRIBENOW
toget fullaccess
Search
converted by Web2PDFConvert.com

2. Davis, in this 1992family
photo. (Photo: Courtesyof the
Davis family)
possibly have seen that coming; and I can hear her
whispering into my ear the day I graduated college.
She looked at me long and adoringly in my green
robe and black tie.
“I’m so proud of the man you’ve become, and Grams would be, too,” she said. That
love.
Someday, it won’t hurt so much, but it’s where I am right now. And for now, that’s just
fine.
—
Dillon Davis is the Battle Creek Enquirer's income and opportunity reporter. Contact
him at 269-966-0698 or dwdavis@battlecreekenquirer.com. Follow him on
Twitter: @DillonDavis.
580
CONNECT TWEET LINKEDIN
10
COMMENT EMAIL MORE
converted by Web2PDFConvert.com