Navigating the Unimaginable: One Mother’s Journey Through Radical Acceptance and the "New Normal" of Grief
MONTREAL — Long before she understood the crushing weight of profound personal loss, Rachel Abugov sat in a developmental psychology classroom as a young adult, learning about the theoretical milestones of human life. Back then, standard academic curriculums suggested that one of the final psychological tasks assigned to seniors was accepting and learning to live with loss. To a mind firmly rooted in her mid-thirties, the concept felt entirely alien—a distant, incomprehensible abstraction that seemed to belong to an alternate reality she could never truly picture experiencing.
Today, that academic theory has been violently replaced by lived reality. Abugov finds herself in the early, jagged stages of navigating an overwhelming double tragedy: the loss of her son, Kevin, in January of this year, followed just ten weeks later by the death of her only brother, Ian.
While she had previously learned how to process the deaths of her parents years prior—an eventuality she understood as part of the natural and expected order of things—nothing could prepare her for the disruption of losing a child. Before cancer upended their lives, Abugov and her son shared a lighthearted rapport, often joking about her eventual evolution into a crotchety old lady. In jest, Kevin had even purchased a t-shirt featuring Sophia from The Golden Girls and frequently sent her internet memes of the famous "Where’s the beef?" commercial lady.
That playful banter was abruptly silenced by the arrival of cancer, a relentless internal assailant that slowly dismantled her son’s health. Overnight, Abugov became fluent in the harrowing vocabulary of oncology: chemotherapy regimens, rare and common side effects, and the exhausting administrative hunt for promising clinical trials.
The battle culminated in a stark, unshielded moment in the emergency room, when a doctor delivered the blunt verdict that Kevin’s life was slipping away. That realization forced Abugov to perform one of the most agonizing duties imaginable: breaking the news to her extended family and, worst of all, informing her daughter-in-law—who was at home with Abugov’s sleeping grandson—that she was only hours away from becoming a widow.
Acceptance of the disease never came. Abugov spent the duration of her son’s illness fervently praying for a miraculous recovery that would pull him out of the overcast realm of medical treatments and back into the brilliant sunshine. Though the physical sun continues to shine, Kevin is no longer here to share in it. The tragic symmetry of the timing remains etched in her memory: the exact day Kevin learned his remaining time on Earth was severely limited coincided with a major solar eclipse. Though they had purchased special viewing glasses, they ultimately went unused; the family’s entire world simply went pitch-dark and stayed that way.
Yet, amid the shadow of the diagnosis, pockets of joy managed to break through. There were moments of profound connection, such as when Kevin played his final two live gigs with his punk rock band, and when her grandson celebrated his first birthday. Just two weeks before Kevin’s passing, he, his wife, and Abugov gathered for lunch at one of their favorite local Vietnamese restaurants.
Over bowls of pho, they engaged in the familiar rituals of everyday life, discussing plans to see the new Superman movie and swapping recommendations for television shows worth binge-watching. It felt entirely like old times, provided one chose to ignore the clinical realities: the restaurant had been specifically chosen because it was wheelchair-accessible, and Kevin was eating lightly because chemotherapy had severely compromised his digestive system. They masked their raw emotions behind polite smiles, pretending everything was stable, and casually discussed where they might meet for lunch next. There would, of course, be no next time.
In the wake of these compounding losses, Abugov has sought out various lifelines to steady herself. She participates in both in-person and online support groups, finding particular solace in her local chapter of The Compassionate Friends. Meeting with fellow bereaved parents for an hour and a half each month has provided her with a band of trusted "foxhole buddies" who instinctively understand the isolated terrain of grief without requiring any explanation.
Along the way, Abugov has also developed a metaphorical companion: Grief itself. Rather than a comforting presence in the traditional sense, Grief shadows her persistently, much like a household pet waiting by the treat cabinet. In Abugov’s mind’s eye, Grief resembles an eccentric elderly woman who overcompensates for lost youth by wearing purple cat-eye glasses and loud leopard-print clothing—outfits designed to ensure she is instantly recognized.
This personified grief makes her presence known in ordinary spaces, such as when Abugov experiences a sudden emotional collapse in the potato chip aisle of a Walmart, blindsided by the sudden, painful realization that she can no longer pick up Sriracha chips for Kevin. Grief attempts to guide her toward a "New Normal," offering the perspective that everyone walks through life carrying an invisible, unyielding stone in their shoe that refuses to be shaken out. Initially met with disbelief, this metaphor became increasingly validated as Abugov began opening up to others, discovering just how widely shared this hidden burden is among the people around her.
Her early instinct was fierce resistance. "Look, Grief. I don’t wanna hang out with you! Leave me alone," she recalls thinking, accompanied by a heavy garnish of frustration and profanity. But she quickly realized that the intense energy required to actively fight Grief was completely draining her remaining emotional reserves.
Faced with this exhaustion, she chose a different path: radical acceptance.
She wondered what might happen if she symbolically sat down on the couch next to Grief, allowing the companion to hand her tissue after tissue while she wept openly for her son and her brother. Given that her pain could scarcely grow any worse, the experiment felt worth trying.
To her surprise, the approach yielded results. Much like a culinary trick where a chef soaks raw onions in cold water to strip away their harsh pungency, Grief began to lose her sharpest edges through non-resistance. While Abugov could not claim to welcome the presence of sorrow, she stopped pushing back against it. Whether this shift marked the beginning of true acceptance or simply the natural transition of pain from acute to chronic, the daily experience changed. The suffering remained, but its texture was different.
The endless days spent in bed doomscrolling began to decrease. Abugov still rises early, but she now identifies as a "mourning person" as much as a morning person. Honoring her loved ones no longer requires lying in a darkened room; instead, it can look like boarding a plane with her niece to attend a music festival because Kevin’s and Ian’s favorite bands are performing, wearing their old t-shirts so they remain present in spirit.
Ultimately, Abugov has come to understand that Grief is a permanent resident, woven permanently into the fabric of her remaining days. It is a demanding, unyielding role, but one she approaches with clear-eyed resilience—recognizing that carrying the memory of those we love is simply a responsibility that must be borne.
