Shortly after my Mom died, I started having the most intense attacks of pain since I ruptured my discs in my spine three years prior. The pain was central to my pelvic floor. It was a deep, heavy and so incredibly intense that would bring me to my knees.

{Let me pause here. I need to warn you that this will get a little bit graphic and is incredibly personal. I am sharing this in hopes that if you are currently grieving, know of someone who is grieving, or have experienced pain during grief that hopefully you won’t feel as alone and crazy as I did.}

I would wake up most mornings feeling fine. I wouldn’t feel any pain, other than that of a broken heart. But as the day progressed the pain would intensify. It seemed like I was holding a lead weight inside of me that was slowly ripping me open. There was cramping. A lot of it. I felt kind of like I had a full bladder but was afraid to pee. And when I did pee, it never seemed to match the amount I imagined being in my bladder. I tried to remain active. But as time progressed, my daily walks became more and more painful. I would often head home before I was even a quarter of the way through, only to lie on the couch with a heated rice pack between my legs.

I thought I was going crazy.

So many things went through my mind during this time. Was I dying? Or was I having sympathy pain similar to what my Mom experienced during her last month with Ovarian Cancer? There were times that I even thought that maybe this was my Mom trying to communicate with me to show me what her pain was like.

The way that my Mom died was anything but graceful, or peaceful like how its described it in novels and obituaries. She was in an incredible amount of pain from the day she was admitted to the hospital. When she was brought home on hospice, she was already on 120 mg of morphine. At her death, she was on 800 – 1000 mg – enough to “take down an elephant.” (This is what the doctors told me anyways.) I begged for them to give her more in hopes that it would help her transition to death easier. But she was on too much already to even make a difference as her body had built up a tolerance to it.

Watching her be in so much pain. Watching her feet become rigid every time the pain escalated. Watching her eyes go wild with fear when the waves of pain would take over. Watching a nurse try to put a catheter in her and miss several times. Watching her cry out and try to grab ahold of me, even when I was told that she was no longer conscious. These are all memories that I wish I could scrub from my brain.

Her pain.

For the longest time, her pain was the only thing I could remember about her. And that pain manifested itself in my body.

I realized that when I had my pain episodes, I was bearing down like I was trying to go to the bathroom. I discovered this when my body could no longer keep a tampon in place. What was going on? What could be causing this? Of course, I googled it, which I don’t recommend. I saw doctors. My OB. I had a bunch of scans – MRI, ultrasounds and so many different panels of bloodwork. I was sure I had cancer too. But I did not. They had no idea what was going on. There was no physiological reason for my pain.

And that is when my primary sat me down and told me that grief could actually hurt. Like physically HURT. Not just in our minds and hearts, but in our bodies as well. Grief pain is not uncommon. However, NO ONE talks about it. People talk about how grief is complicated, but I had never heard about how it can manifest itself in another way in our lives and bodies. I felt so incredibly alone.

So that is where my journey began with Reiki. I learned how energy could get trapped in our bodies during trauma. And at this point, I was willing to try anything. I found an amazing Reiki practitioner, Christine, who helped me work through a whole LOT of shit. After each session, the pain decreased significantly until eventually it was gone. My experiences with Christine have been nothing short of profound. Things happened on that table that I still struggle to put words to.