Category Archives: motherless daughter

Consequences

I’ve been thinking a lot about my mom lately. So many things about where I’m living now, Belgium, remind me of her. We were together in Germany for several years when I was a teenager, so my life and hers were inextricably wrapped up in European scenery, food, art, people. Those who followed this blog from its inception remember that I always wanted to bring her back here, to relive some of our memories and let her see some places she always wanted to see; I never got to do that, unfortunately.
Yesterday I went to Amsterdam to visit the Van Gogh Museum there. It is an interesting city, not one of my favorites by any means, but interesting nonetheless. It is both beautiful and ugly, in both literal and symbolic ways, with its gorgeous canals and dramatic architecture on the one hand, and its red light district and numerous druggies and street people on the other. Fascinating is a better term than interesting, I would have to say.
When you’re in Amsterdam, you can’t help but notice the many people on bicycles. Literally hundreds. They ride because the traffic is terrible and because it’s cheap, I suppose. They are of all ages, from youths to older people. They are evidently ridiculously fit. I saw one lady, probably at least 70, bent over and bundled up in a coat and scarf with sensible, old-lady shoes, riding her bike purposefully and carefully. I was amazed, thinking back to how young Mom was when she died, just 67, and how unfit she was, how feeble, at such a young age.
Later I saw another older woman, this one probably closer to 80 but even more fit looking than the one on the bicycle. She was very thin, with very short, spiky white hair. She was wearing skinny jeans and running shoes, and she was walking with great vigor. I thought, “Mom. How different might your life have been if you had lived here. Or maybe if you hadn’t let your world shrink so much.” From a vital, fun-loving woman who had traveled and lived abroad, my mom became a homebody whose world was confined at best to small regions of two southern US states and at worst, to two tiny counties in the smaller and lesser of those two states.
Both my mom and her mother became unfit at early ages. I suppose it was due to several factors. First, they smoked. That was probably a big part of the problem. Second, they both moved when they were in their early 60’s to places where there were kind of isolated, where they didn’t have a lot of reason to get out of the house much, didn’t have many friends. As a result, they stayed inside, didn’t have much of a social life, and didn’t get exercise. Finally, things happened with their health and personal lives that depressed them and sucked some of the life out of them, and health issues made it harder for them to leave their houses and the rest of their small worlds.
As happy as I am here in Belgium, I still think of Mom so often, and I have so many wishes that she might’ve done things differently, that she might’ve lived longer, better, and more healthily. Makes me think about my own choices, about keeping fit, about not overeating or drinking too much.  But really, how much power do we have over that part of our destiny?  The husband of one of my friends, a health-conscious, fit man, not yet old, died in his sleep a few years ago. The truth is, when it’s time to go, it’s time. Still, I wish Mom had been able to be like that woman with the spiky white hair, walking with strength in her step and a light in her eyes, in spite of her advanced age. We might’ve traveled to Europe again. I would’ve liked that. She would’ve, too.

November Again

It is November. The brisk morning air and falling leaves remind me that summer is long past, and all around me I see evidence that Thanksgiving is just around the corner. I saw, in fact, as I drove home from work tonight, the years’ first stupidly early Christmas tree behind a neighborhood picture window. It is now just two weeks shy of the anniversary of my mother’s death.
On Sunday, I was gladdened to hear a friend tell me how wonderful it has been to have her mom nearby for the last few years. She expressed her disappointment that her mom had just left to visit her sister in another state through the holidays. A few minutes later she asked what I was doing for Thanksgiving, and I hesitated briefly before telling her that I’ll be taking my mom’s brother to her grave that weekend, that it’s been a year since her death and he hasn’t been back since the funeral. My friend commiserated a bit, then said how happy she is that her mom lives nearby now, and how lovely it is to have her here to be a grandmother to her children. She paused, then began, “I don’t know what I’ll do when Mom…” She couldn’t finish the sentence, of course; who can? My heart broke anew when she looked at me as her eyes filled. Finally she said, “I can’t imagine how horrible it must be.”
This month has been and will continue to be, I expect, the most difficult period in weeks. Every reminder of Thanksgiving fills me with regret and anguish. It is not surprising; I was expecting this month to be difficult. How can it not be? One nightmarish, empty year has nearly passed, and nothing fills the void. I continue to be shocked occasionally by the sudden realization that she is gone, to disbelieve it briefly, to think of things I want to tell her. There is nothing I can do except remember her with love, offer profound gratitude to God for giving us the years we had, and remind anyone who will listen, as I did my friend on Sunday, that they must leave nothing unsaid or undone, and that they must take advantage of every fleeting opportunity for sweet communion. 

Mother’s Day

Dear Mom,
Happy Mother’s Day. I know you are not HERE, breathing the air of Earth with me, but you are HERE, in my thoughts, in my soul, in my heart. I could say I miss you, but that would not begin to express the depth of what I’m feeling today, this first Mother’s Day without you.
The world feels darker and colder this year than in Mother’s Days past. The sun shines less brightly and the birds don’t sing as prettily. Music is less soulful and the stars don’t twinkle as they once did. Even the flowers are less colorful and fragrant. But the worst of all is I am more alone than I’ve ever been.
On the other hand, because you were and are my mom, I appreciate the warmth of the sun on my skin and the melody of birdsong; because of you, I know that these are gifts of the Most High and that I must never take them for granted. I adore daisies and black-eyed Susans and the scent of roses, thanks to you. Some of my most treasured memories are of singing along with you and the radio or with you playing guitar; because of you, Mommy, music moves me. And thanks to you, I know that the stars shine brightest when the world is darkest.
It is true that I am more alone than I’ve ever been. But I’ve never been really alone, not even now. I carry you and your legacy in all that I do, think and feel. Thank you, Mom, for everything you did to make me who I am. For better or worse, I’m your daughter and I always will be.
I love you still, Mommy. 

A Whispered Goodnight

I wish I could somehow keep track of how many times a day I think, “I’ll call Mom.” The words don’t have time to completely form in my head before I am jolted back to reality. It has happened time and time again every single day since she left here, bound for Heaven. I know I’ve said it before, probably several times, but it keeps happening, so it remains in the front of my mind.


Mom and I talked about everything. She told me what was happening in her life, and I told her what was happening in mine. Every celebration, every sadness, every success and every sin, we shared with each other. She and I didn’t spend a lot of time in the same zip code, breathing the same air, but we talked every day, with very rare exceptions. Everything of any consequence that I did or said, I saw through her eyes. Honestly, I still do.

So what do I do with those urges to call her? Obviously the telephone is out of the question, but can I talk to her? Some of my sweet and caring friends think I can. They say things like, “You can talk to her anytime, now; you don’t even have to pick up the phone. Just talk to her whenever you think of her; she’s always with you.” Others are of a completely different mind. One of my closest friends, the very well-read wife of a trusted pastor, amidst her encouraging words about Heaven and how we’ll see each other again, reminded me that families as we know them don’t exist there, and so my relationship with my mother has changed forever. Now mind you, she spoke those words amidst her own tears, because she was thinking of having lost her own mother several months earlier. Nevertheless, it was shocking to think about, and it stung.

I don’t want my relationship with my mother to change! Why would I? I never wanted anything other than what she and I had.  We shared something that none of my other friends shared with their mothers: an imperfect but altogether genuine friendship. What a treasure it was! From the time I was just a little girl, Mom talked with me like she talked with a good, close friend, and her demeanor invited me to talk honestly and openly with her, so I did. I always did. And now I can’t.

For the time being, my mom’s and my relationship is only a memory, and whenever it is that we meet again, it will never be the same. No matter how I wish it were true, I can’t agree with my loving, well-meaning friends who believe my mom is nearby. She lives on, it’s true, and I know she’s “at home with the Lord,” as Paul said in chapter 5 of his second letter to the Corinthians, and knowing that gives me great comfort! It means, however, that she is away from here, apart from me.

The pastor who did Mom’s interment service said something that has stayed with me. He said I could ask God, when I pray, to tell Mom I miss her and love her. So just maybe, hopefully, when I whisper goodnight to her every evening, God somehow sees that she gets the message.


Legacy, Part One

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how to properly mourn Mom. That probably sounds strange if you haven’t thought about mourning from a personal perspective, but from this vantage point, it makes a lot of sense. It’s really about honoring her in my mourning, rather than wallowing in the pain of it. The latter would be easy to do because after seven weeks, it still makes me physically wince when I reach for the phone and then remember that she isn’t going to be on the other end if I dial her number, and I still cry easily when I think of certain memories or regrets. But letting the pain lead would neither be best for me nor for anyone who has any day to day dealings with me. The better choice is to learn how to honor Mom and strengthen my character in the process. Just how to do that is the question, and one I’m little by little learning to answer.
One thing I’m learning is that she left her mark on me in a myriad of ways. Like her, I love my pets like they are my children, and I have a soft spot for almost every living thing, except maybe spiders, roaches and snakes. I laugh easily, love to read, like to drive, appreciate a good beer, and am easily distracted by bright, shiny objects (like gaudy jewelry!), all thanks to Mom.
She also gave me a hefty helping of vanity. One of my earliest memories is from when I was about three or four years old. Mom, who was always strikingly beautiful, had gotten a haircut and it was not to her liking. She was looking at herself in my parents’ bedroom mirror and complaining, and I was standing at her feet, absorbing every word. Later, when I was perhaps nine or ten, she taught me an explicit lesson in using my femininity to my own advantage. I distinctly remember her looking directly into my eyes and saying to me, as we stood in a parking lot beside her car with its flat tire, “Watch me.” I watched, and while she stood there looking both helpless and vivacious at the same time, a very nice gentleman stopped and changed the tire. She was charming and flirtatious with him, made him feel like he was a hero, and offered him money, which of course, he didn’t take.
That was my mom. She knew how to be a woman, even when it wasn’t for the noblest purposes. 
Although she was only seventeen years older than I, she truly was from a different era, and partly because she was, I have always felt as if I were born too late. Gary Cooper, Jimmy Stewart, and Marilyn Monroe remain for me as iconic images of dignity, charm and beauty, respectively. Mom loved all kinds of music, and one of her favorites was 40’s and 50’s jazz. The first thing I did when I upgraded my cablevision a year ago was find the 40’s and 50’s jazz channel. That was my soundtrack as I unpacked my moving boxes. It was a subconscious nod to my mom.
It’s important to me, as I pass from the shock of this loss into resignation, to embrace her soul as it manifests in me, and to love the ways she influenced me. That doesn’t mean becoming someone else; that’s the beauty of this mourning. It is effortless. It is being aware of the dozens of times a day that I see her in something I do, of smiling at that because it’s her, and of loving her because of it. 

The Last Goodbye

I’ve been reading a little book by Henri Nouwen. In Memoriam is a tiny volume that he wrote in response to the death and life of his mother. In it, Nouwen describes his mother’s last days, and her death in a hospital bed, with all of her family around her, making her comfortable, talking with her and with each other, and with God. It beautifully expresses his love for her and his gratitude for the life of faith that she shared with him.
As I read it, I have this horrible, selfish sense of having been cheated out of something precious. Mrs. Nouwen and her family knew without doubt that she was dying. She heard and felt their expressions of love for her during her final days and hours. Her family got to say goodbye in word and actions. My mom died suddenly, unexpectedly. While she had not been well for some time, no one, not even her doctor, thought she was so sick she was in imminent danger of dying. So while I had spoken with her on the phone the day before, I hadn’t been with her, and if I had known just how sick she was, I would’ve been.
And yet, I can’t justify complaining too much. Several of my friends have mothers who have recently died or are now struggling with Alzheimer’s. Can anything be more heartbreaking than not being recognized by your own mom? And anyone who has seen someone lie in a hospital bed for months knows that the manner in which my mother went Home was in most ways a blessing. Those who die long, drawn-out deaths, tubes invading their bodies, pricked with needles and in a drug-induced stupor suffer indignities and physical and emotional torment that ought not be. My dad’s mother died that way, and her children suffered greatly right along with her. My mom did not have to endure such agony. She died where she had lived: among her pets, in her living room, comfortable in her own chair. Her best friend, who was called to the house before Mom’s body was taken away, remarked that she seemed to be smiling. I think it may have been the first time in many years she was not frightened or worried.
Would I rather she had become ill enough to go to the hospital, where she would have been poked and prodded, robbed of her privacy and dignity? Would it have been preferable for her to have spent her last days or hours worried about her pets at home without her? Would I be happier now knowing I had been with her when she died, in spite of all that? No. I hope that I could never be that selfish. As precious as it would have been to have been able to pray with Mom, to have held her hand and kissed her goodbye, it is far better that she died as she did. God knows best and He did what was best for her and for us. My last goodbye to my Mom was on the phone, the day before she died, and that will have to do for now.

Remembering Gratitude

For most of my life, I have embraced gratitude. I have known that I am blessed beyond measure, that I have so much in terms of both tangibles and intangibles. I have had an interesting life; I have lived in and have traveled to a lot of great places, and as a result I have lovely and generous friends all over the US and in Europe. I have a dad who still thinks to look after me, even now, and I had wonderful relationships with my grandparents. I have, and have had for years, darling pets that bring me a lot of joy. I value the creativity God gave to me and to others. My car runs well, I have nice clothes, a great job, a comfortable place to live, music in my stereo and in my heart. My health has been good, and better still is my life in Christ; I sense His presence and I know He hears me when I pray. That is irrefutably a life to be thankful for.
So how is it then that I look around at all that, and what overwhelms me is the hole that is left where my mom used to be? My relationship with her was, from my earliest childhood, one of the very things for which I was grateful, every day. Even during my difficult and rebellious years, we talked and laughed and enjoyed being together. I am still profoundly thankful that we were such incredibly good friends. But almost all I see now, in spite of all of that and all the good that remains in my life, is the loss of her. It permeates everything. It refuses to be ignored or forgotten, even for a moment.
I teach my classes, and then my students leave, and the first thing I think as they are walking out the door is, “Mom.” I leave school, and I reach for my phone; I used to call her when I was on my way home. My pets do something funny, I laugh, and then while the laughter is still on my lips, I remember how she was with them, or worse, that she died before she met Maggie, my Maine Coon mix. I get an email with cute pictures of pets, and I want to send it to her. I hear a song, and it reminds me of her; I see an ad for a television show she liked or a movie I wanted her to see, and I think of her. There is practically nothing in my life that doesn’t remind me that she is gone.
Don’t get me wrong: I remain grateful for all that is beautiful in my life. I know there is so much, and I am mindful of it and of the One who provides for me. I will continue to thank Him for everything. I simply want to remember to be thankful that for all of my life, Mom was a great friend, that she is finally happy and truly whole, and in the Place all creation yearns for (Romans 8), and that I will be with her again one day. I hope that soon, the overarching theme of my life will again be gratitude, instead of this pervasive sadness that has been marking my days since she left.