It happens at least once each year around this time: someone asks me whether I'm going to see my Mom for Mother's Day, and I have to come up with a tactful way to tell them that I won't be seeing her because she died eight years ago (nine years in August -- yikes!). This year it was the cashier at Rite-Aid who asked me what I was doing to celebrate the day. "Well, my Mama's in heaven, so I'll look up and wave," I said. She was a little sheepish and said, "Oh, I'm sorry," the way people always do. "That's okay," I said, the way I always do. Then I added, "I'd better remember to call my mother-in-law, though – I'm glad you mentioned it!" That made her smile, and I was glad, because I hate to leave people feeling guilty for bringing up my dead mother.
Because I actually really like talking about her. During the first year or so after she died, one thing I found really painful was the way people tip-toed around the subject, pointedly Not Bringing It Up. It became the 800-pound gorilla in the room – the 800-pound dead gorilla. I was in grad school at the time, and I had yet to appreciate fully the extent to which academia can be a profoundly emotionally stunted place, so I was shocked by the wincing standoffishness I observed in my fellow students and professors. It was as if grief were contagious, or at least in very poor taste.
I now realize that it was nothing personal, of course. And I was walking around looking so shell-shocked and fragile, I can't blame people for being a bit awkward with me. But that only compounded the hard time I was about to have, because I had gone into a sort of numb state immediately after Mom died; the grief really hit about 6 months later. I've since learned that a delayed reaction like that is very common. Problem is, by that point those around me had pretty much forgotten about it and moved on.
Fast-forward to today, because I no longer care to dwell so much on the pain of the past. I've learned that the grieving process is very individual, and can be terribly lonely at times. That's ironic when you think about it, because everyone goes through the process at some point, right? I suppose it's like dying itself: everyone has to do it eventually, and we can talk about it all we want, but it's ultimately a pretty darn solitary event. The big difference, of course, is that grievers have to go on living.
On this day, I feel moved to try to assess where I am in my grieving process. I still miss my Mom terribly; we were very close, and I've often felt that she was the only person who really "got" me. Every now and then I wish I could call her up and talk to her, to vent, ask advice, or just shoot the breeze. But it's not like it was eight years ago, where I would get the urge to call her and then have to stop myself as the realization hit, with a sickening thud in the pit of my stomach, that she wasn't there to call. Of course it was hard not having her at my wedding two years ago, and I so, so wish that she and my husband could have met, because I know they would have loved each other. If and when we have a kid, I will grieve that he or she won't get to know one of their Grandmas.
But I must say – and oh, how I would have puked at this notion when my grief was still raw – the grieving process has benefits. It spurred me to grow up in ways that I hadn't had to before. And while I can't say that I don't fear my own death, watching how Mom was able to be at peace with it – she was pissed off, mind you, but I don't think she was afraid – helps me feel confident that it's possible to have, as a friend of mine put it, a "strong death." So I can add that to the many ways in which Mom was a role model for me!
Grieving has taught me compassion: when I talk to someone going through it, I make an effort not to be awkward about it in the alienating way I experienced. I don't always succeed, and then I have to remember to have compassion for myself. Losing my Mom instilled me with a certain fearlessness; when the worst thing you can imagine happening, happens, and you survive it, everything after that seems like no big deal. Of course, I haven't been able to maintain that attitude in every situation, so when I fail at that, I get to remember that Mom would want me to be happy – that's the best way to honor her memory. Losing her taught me that all relationships end eventually, and that's okay.
The most absurd part, but coincidentally my favorite part, is that my sense of humor is much, much better since Mom died. I think it relates to that worst-case-scenario thing I mentioned above. Losing her also changed my perspective on what's really important in life; it took having something truly awful happen to me to make me realize how dreadfully over-serious I had been. How I wish I could laugh with her now!
I could go on and on about this, but I think now I'll leave you with a remembrance I wrote about Mom a couple years ago, when I first started to truly appreciate the silver lining in grief's dark cloud (Ugh, that's a terrible cliché – sorry!). Thanks for reading!
July 6, 2007
Yesterday would've been VirgoMom's 71st birthday. I like to think she's swingin' from the chandeliers up in heaven, so I try not to be too sad, but I sure would like to talk to her again. If you have a spare moment today, look up and wave for me. Here she is at age 25 or so:
She was a tough broad. Her dad died when she was 4, leaving her mom with 2 kids to raise and very little money. Then her mom turned out to be schizophrenic, so Mom was mostly raised by her older sister and her grandparents. She spent summers on their farm in Illinois, bored out of her mind and thinking, "As soon as I’m old enough, I’m getting the hell outta here!" And boy, did she. She joined the Foreign Service and worked as a secretary at the American Embassy in Paris. In the embassy cafeteria one day, she spotted my Dad with his fellow embassy guard buddies and said "I’ll take that one." And voilà, the rest, as they say, is history.
And here's a song for Mom -- The version I know is by Dolly Parton; I don’t know if she wrote it or not. But I know Mom would like it.
I am ready
Oh, my children
When Jesus knocks at my door
I’ll be there come morning
Don’t weep for me
I’ll be with my Lord
There’s my Bible on the table
Read it to me once more
I can hear God’s heavenly angels
Singing me on through heaven's door
Hallelujah Lord
I am ready
No more sorrow
Hallelujah, yes
I am ready, I am ready
I am ready to go
Oh, hosanna
Take my hand now
Lead me to the promised land now
I am ready, I am ready
Hallelujah, I am ready to go
Oh, hosanna
I am ready to go
I can hear God’s heavenly angels
Singing me on through heaven's door
Singing me on through heaven's door
And I am ready