The last time I set foot in the Cleveland Clinic was for my worst nightmare, when called to join my brother to say our final goodbyes after our Mom’s unexpected passing on a late weekday evening, a few years prior to now. What we saw is not something that I try to think about often as it’s too painful, so I keep that night and the days that followed bottled up deep down inside to forget how what happened actually happened, if that makes sense.

Near the end of my Mom’s life, it wasn’t unusual that she would be at Cleveland Clinic for an extended stay, or a day here and there where we’d hike out there for one of her frequent tests or check ups. We ended up spending a lot of time there as a family over quite some time, so once she had passed I had a hard time dealing with not going back, or if I did decide to go back, knowing that she wouldn’t be there. I’m not quite sure how to describe it, but it’s like I had unfinished business or something about the place where she died.

Not only was I not ready to say goodbye to her, but I wasn’t ready to say goodbye to the place that we happened to share a lot of memories near the end of her life, with a lot of tears and also a lot of laughs (she was always making someone laugh). It all just got swept out from underneath us one day, and I didn’t know how to deal with it.

They say sights and sounds can trigger memories of a person, time or place. The only connection I had after her passing to our time at Cleveland was this little baggy that she had kept with things in it like hospital samples and knitting pattern notes. When I unfolded the opening, it smelled something along the lines of hand lotion and spearmint gum, and for a moment I could close my eyes, breath in deeply, and it was like she was right there with me, alive, laughing, trying to make the best of her unfortunate fate. From time to time I would open up the baggy to smell it, to sort-of re-live an experience with her there in my mind, however weird that may sound. Though a plastic baggy only lasts so long, and eventually faded away was my olfactory connection to some of our last memories.

Once in awhile I would think about driving out to the Cleveland Clinic, not to visit anyone that I new that was there, but to just take it all in and maybe try to find some peace in what happened, where it happened and retrace my steps, to try to let go. That thought eventually altered from must-do to maybe someday.

After a pretty rough day crying last week (anybody that has lost a parent will tell you that the grief doesn’t disappear no matter how much time has passed), my Uncle called me and asked me for a favor. Saying yes before telling me what he needed, my heart sank when he asked if I could take him to the Cleveland Clinic for an appointment the following day. He also has Cancer, unfortunately it’s something that has taken it’s course through our family. I put my mixed feelings aside, and did my best to prepare for the next day, but I was nervous.

When we arrived on the campus, I dropped him off outside of his assigned building as I headed for the parking garage. It came back to me like riding a bike, a place that I used to find confusing, I now knew where I was going and where I needed to be. After parking my heart began racing as I walked the same path that I had walked so many times before for my Mom. It was a beautiful day, the sun was shinning, there was a light chill in the air, and as I walked passed the front of the building I began to tear up, so I took a deep breath and kept going.

A bit fortunately for my circumstances, my Uncle’s appointment was located in an unchartered territory that forced me to go in through a different entrance and area that I had been to before, where I had no directly connected memories. So for the first part of the day, I was able to detach a little, though on our way out when he was done (several hours later), I asked him if I could walk through the main lobby and take some time that I knew I would regret not taking.

On my brief walk through part of the main floor, I could see where my brother and I tried to make my Mom laugh as we pushed her wheel chair like a race car, I could see the sitting areas where we’d gather together as a family passing the time until the Doctors were ready, and I could see the hallway which I buried my head in my knees as I cried before I got the courage to leave for the last time. After a final stop by the Au Bon Pain where I had always went to grab a snack during our visits, I took a long quiet look around my surroundings, and felt a feeling of acceptance rather than sadness and a feeling of closure instead of uncertainty.

I was so afraid to go there, so afraid of what I might feel and what being there could conjure up for me, and I’m so proud that I was able to confront these feelings and let them go at almost the same time, which I wasn’t sure I would ever be able to do.

Because of timing I wasn’t able to retrace steps up to the Leukemia unit, to the final area that I said my goodbyes, or to the calming blue underground walkway that we walked through so many times, but I did get a little of what I needed to out of it not be afraid next time I have to be there for someone I care about.

Though this post may not be directly relatable, perhaps there could be some thing or some place that you’re afraid to confront, because you feel it could be too painful or it would bring back sad memories. If you choose to confront whatever it may be for you, maybe it can prove to be therapeutic and give you some peace where before there was pain.

It did for me, and I’m glad I was able to put on my big-girl pants and be there for someone that needed me. I healed a little that day, not a lot, but a little. And hell, I’ll take a little.

Song of the blog:
Letting Go by Saint Raymond | circa 2013