Category Archives: mom

Paris

Last summer I took Mom to the beach. She lived about an hour from one of the US’s major beaches, and all her life, she loved the ocean, the beach and the sun. Her mobility had gotten to the point that although she could drive herself there just fine, it was not possible for her to get onto the beach by herself, so one day I drove down, picked her up and off we went. We spent about three hours lying in the sun and sitting in the water. We talked and laughed and had so much fun. We planned to do it again, but the weather didn’t cooperate. So. That was the last time Mom went to the beach.

Mom had traveled a lot in her life; she had lived in Germany, Colorado, California, and all over the Southeast US. She had seen parts of Germany from the back of a Harley Davidson. There were so many places she had not seen, though; and everywhere I have traveled, I have thought of taking Mom.

The first time I saw Times Square, I thought, “Oh, Mom, I wish you could see this!” When I saw “Les Miserables,” “Gypsy,” and “Wicked” on Broadway, Mom was there, in my thoughts; she would’ve loved those shows. Every time I went to Spain, I thought about how wonderful it would be to take her there; she would’ve been fascinated by Las Ramblas. A couple of years ago I made it to Paris for the first time. Mom had always wanted to go there. When I gave her the earrings I bought for her, she said with unashamed delight, “Oh, my goodness! Whenever anyone complements me on them, I’ll say, ‘Thank you so much. My daughter bought them in PARIS.'” I have friends in Wisconsin and Chicago, and some of them are Mom’s friends now, too. One of them, in particular, wanted me to bring her to Wisconsin to visit, and I wanted to do that so much. She would’ve loved the farm, the countryside, the depth of the conversations about life and faith. She loved Southern Gospel music, and I have thought for years of taking her to a Gaither Homecoming show, but for one reason or another, I never did.

I can’t help but think of all the things she won’t ever get to do now. And as a consequence, there are lots of things we won’t do together. Yes, the memories we made together are still there, and they will last as long as my mind does, but it isn’t enough; it just isn’t enough at all, not for me, nor for her. The places she didn’t see, the things she didn’t do, the people she didn’t meet…she won’t. 

It makes me so sad that she never saw Paris.

Finality

Yesterday a friend and I drove down to Mom’s and cleaned out her bedroom and bath. It was a bittersweet day: physically demanding and emotionally volatile, filled with memories. Obviously, it had to be done, and the whole house eventually will have to be cleaned out, but her bedroom and bath are so intensely personal. I was glad to have my friend with me; it would’ve been impossible without her because the memories were profound and the sadness overwhelming.
Many of her favorite garments were items I had bought for her when I had taken her shopping from time to time over the past five or six years. They were fun memories. Mom loved Belk and we would start there, looking for red dot clearance items.  One piece, an aqua colored top with sparkles around the neckline, made me take in my breath—she loved that top so much. It was flowy, filmy and on top of that, sparkly – all of her favorite things in one. She didn’t have many opportunities to wear it because she very rarely went anywhere over the last couple of years, but she did manage to enjoy that blouse a few times. When I removed from a drawer a pair of turquoise Capri pants that she wore often, I paused and held them to my face; memories of her rushed into my mind and for a moment, I could barely breathe. Suddenly I was holding the pants against my cheek and weeping into their softness.
This particular act, the cleaning out her bedroom, bathroom and closet, is an act of finality that beggars comparison. The most personal of items, taken from chests of drawers and bathroom cabinets, tossed into huge bags of black plastic, and given to others to use, or worse, thrown into the garbage bin, puts a period on the end of the sentence in a way even the interment service did not. Finality. She won’t need any of those things anymore.

Getting Used to It

I laughed yesterday. One of my students said something funny, and I laughed. I was so surprised that I went over and hugged him. As the day wore on, I was sad and aware of the pain, but I was not stricken, not the way I have been. I worked. I went to the bank. I came home and met the HVAC technician.  I got to the end of the day, and I realized I hadn’t cried. I thought, “Okay, I’m getting used to it. Maybe it’s starting to get easier now.”  So I took a sleeping pill and went to bed, and for the first time in nearly two weeks, I slept almost until the alarm went off.
And then today.
As one might expect, while I was working, I was okay: students, papers to grade, progress reports… perhaps I was a little less cheerful with the students than I normally would be, but I was maintaining. After teaching my classes, I remembered that I needed to make a phone call about one of mom’s bills. The practicalities of it all demanded, and so I picked up my cellphone and dialed. I had to speak with two different people, and they both were so kind, and each independent of the other said how sorry they were, that she seemed like such a sweet lady, was so nice to talk with on the phone.  I gratefully acknowledged that she was, indeed, a lovely woman. It was bittersweet. A little later in the afternoon, while I was helping students do make up work, it was as if a truck hit me, and I found myself putting my head down and taking huge breaths, trying not to be too obvious in front of my students. By the time I got home, nothing was going right. I was short-tempered and bitchy. I found myself sitting on the back porch watching my little dog and trembling.  All it took to finally finish me off was a phone call from my dad; I mostly held it together until I hung up and then I was standing in the kitchen and crying like a baby, wanting nothing more than to talk with my mommy, to hear her voice, to know she’s there.
I am not getting used to it after all.
Here are the tears again, and I suppose I can be alright with them. Mom should be here and she isn’t, so It somehow feels correct, not “good,” but “right” to just want to cry, to not to want to laugh or smile or be anywhere near happy. Life is not as it should be, and the tears help me prove it to myself and to the world.  I think that someday I will want to be happy, but right now, I don’t. 

The Unbelief

The hardest thing to handle is the unbelief. It simply can’t be real. This. Can. Not. Be. Real.

This thought invades my brain: “It hurts so bad. I’m going to call Mom….” And then I am forced to say to myself, “No, Stupid, you can’t call her. That is WHY you are feeling this way.” Suddenly the realization, anew and fresh, hits me and the pain surges like it did the first day.

When I was told the horrifying news, I kept saying, “No, you’re lying to me. You’re lying to me.” It took me several minutes to believe it. I remember thinking, if I can just keep saying this, if I can just keep from admitting it, then it won’t be true. I could deny it into non-existence. When I finally realized that it wasn’t some cruel joke, I collapsed on the floor. Two coworkers came to my side, thank God, or I guess I’d have still been lying there when the kids came teeming down the hall from lunch.

I don’t know why I didn’t think it could be real; I guess there are some people in your life that you think are immortal, that they will always be there. Your mom probably tops that list. Unfortunately, the truth, no matter how hateful, how painful, how unthinkable, is still the truth; but how loathe we are to say yes to such a terrible reality. It is too much for our temporal perspective. If your experience is like mine, even though you admit the horrific truth, it still startles you from time to time, and you deny, deny, deny. Several times a day you are forced to come to terms with a truth whose implausibility, whose complete inconceivability towers over you, overwhelms you. And yet…it is.

A teenage friend who lost his dad four years ago put it into words most eloquently: you dream about them, then you wake up and remember they are dead, and the dream out of which you’ve just stepped feels more real than the wakeful truth.

She really is dead, isn’t she?

Ten Days

It has been ten days since my mother died. Ten days of tears. Ten days of thinking too much. Ten days of disbelief. Sometimes I feel as if someone has taken my heart out of my chest and replaced it with a ten-pound rock. Sometimes I feel as if I’m someone else, living in my house, doing my job, but not thinking my thoughts or feeling my emotions. Sometimes I feel like my everyday, normal self, then all of a sudden, it’s as if I’ve just heard the news, and I am paralyzed with grief and incredulity.

I have been surprised by the tears. There are so many. I knew I was emotional, that I could cry easily, but I didn’t know I could cry this much. A friend’s comforting words or a hug bring them on, of course. So does the sudden remembrance. Then they fall as if from a spigot, cups-full at a time. And this is not a quiet cry, mind you; on the contrary, the grief pours out of me in loud sobs and cries that I hardly recognize as my own. My broken hearts, my grandmother’s death, the betrayal of friends, even the passing of my beloved feline companion of seventeen years can’t compare to this. At middle age, the loss of my mother feels like the loss of the biggest parts of my soul, body and spirit.

I just miss her so much.