OPINION

Dillon Davis: Learning to live with the loss of a parent

Dillon Davis
Battle Creek Enquirer

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.

Battle Creek resident Teresa Davis, the mother of Enquirer reporter Dillon Davis.

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.

Battle Creek resident Dillon Davis and his mother, Teresa Davis, in this 1992 family photo.

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 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.