Home for Christmas

Being home for Christmas is a bittersweet mixed bag. On the one hand, it’s important to be with my dad. On the other, I think I really get on his nerves sometimes, and in spite of how similar we are in personality, we don’t have all that much in common. And then there are all the other memories, regrets, and unfinished business that being home dredges up, between me and my dad and my stepmom, too, but most having to do with my mom and her side of the family.

Having lost my mom three years ago just a few weeks prior to Christmas, I find the season to be very difficult anyway. Last year I stayed home in Belgium, and for Christmas Day, it was pretty lonely, but friends came from Sweden for New Years, and we had a lovely time in Bruges, Brussels, and Liege. Dad was disappointed that I didn’t come home though, and I knew I needed to try to go home this year. So I went. I ended up being terribly melancholy, and very nearly depressed. Heck, if I’m gonna be melancholy, I’d rather be thus with my dog and cats nearby.

Driving through Mom’s hometown on the way to Dad’s family’s old home place, he had Ray Price in the CD player, and I swear, could he have picked any music that would have reminded me more of her? She loved his music, and For the Good Times would’ve had me nearly in tears anyway, so driving by places so filled with memories of her with that music in the background was almost more than I could stand. So I looked out the window and pretended to be daydreaming and bit back the tears.

Dad has been remarried for over forty years. There is little connection between him and my mom now; there’s just me. I know I must remind him of her, and that’s not exactly easy for him, I suppose. He has his own regrets and painful memories. When his own mother lay dying, he tearfully apologized to me for all the bad blood between him and Mom; it was very difficult for him but to his credit, he did it. The only other time I ever saw, well, heard him cry was when I told him via telephone that she’d died; he simply burst into tears, incredulous, and cried, “What?!?” I know he loves me, but I don’t think he loves having me around all that much. He wants me home, but when I’m actually there, it’s not really pleasant for him. But not being there, when he hasn’t got all that many Christmases left, steals something from both of us that will leave me with even more regrets. I’ll never get over not being with Mom on her last Thanksgiving; I don’t want to miss Dad’s last Christmas. But is that how you’re supposed to live? Making decisions based on what will leave you with less guilt?

There is so much baggage in my past, probably as there is in just about everyone’s. I don’t know quite how to carry it. I feel as if I’m shifting it from one hand to the other all the time, as one of my favorite authors once said. It’s filled with things said and unsaid running continuously through my head, an endless reel of regrets and what-ifs.

 

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.

Hold onto the Old; Welcome the New

2011 was a year of change and adventure, and a year of sadness. I moved yet again, back home to New Hanover County, without doubt the most beautiful area in the world: sun, tall pines and live oaks, dunes, the ocean, sunrises that stun the senses and sunsets over the water on the EAST coast. (Yes, it’s true[i].) I visited Iceland, land of severe and startling beauty. I met interesting people and developed lasting friendships. I accepted a position with DODEA and am preparing to move to Europe, another homecoming of sorts. And I have wanted to share it all with my mom, who is really and truly Home, but to whom I wasn’t ready to say goodbye when she went to be with Jesus just over a year ago.
 In the blog entry from June 19, 2011 I said, “Life is precious, life is sweet. And sometimes it is bittersweet.” I would amend that now to say “often” instead of “sometimes.” This recent move to Wilmington has been filled with bittersweet reminders of the years we spent together here when I was a child —
The USS North Carolina:  I recently visited the noble vessel with friends, something that I had done with Mom when I was about eight; she taught me to admire the sailors who served on her, to the point that I even served in the US Naval Reserve myself. The smells on the ship are overwhelming memory inducers, and this recent trip took me back to that first visit.
Carolina Beach:   The tiki bar is one of my favorite places. It sits on what is left of Center Pier, across from the land that once held the motel that Mom owned. Eons ago, when I was about seven, she walked me all the way out on Center Pier during a strong gale. She was terrified of hurricanes but loathed the thought that I would be, so we walked in the furious wind, my hand held firmly in hers, and she talked with me as if everything were perfectly normal. Only later would I learn that she was absolutely beside herself with fear, but so sternly determined that I not be afraid of wind storms that she swallowed her terror, and I, because of her sacrifice, have literally slept through category 3 hurricanes.
Wrightsville Beach: Standing on the sand, watching the waves and the fishermen, I remember Mom casting the line from the shore. At 5’4″ and 110 pounds, she could cast as well as most men. She taught herself to throw a cast net and gig for flounder, too, which she filleted and cooked like nobody else.
The Intracoastal Waterway: Every time I pass over an ICW bridge, I can almost taste the oysters we gathered and ate, standing on the sand. I still feel weight of the knife I held in my hand and how it scraped against the oyster bed as I mimicked her motions, learning to pull the individual shells away from the bed and then open. If I lick my lips, I taste the salt.
These and countless other landmarks, smells, and tastes cause memories to flash in my mind of things we did together here over the course of my life. She shared her love for this beautiful and varied place with me. It will always be home to me, as it was to her.
Now the move to Europe floods me with thoughts of her; she and I made a similar move many years ago, to Germany, and I so want to hear her thoughts. Just a few nights ago, as I was driving to a New Year’s celebration, I thought of calling her to ask her advice. After over a year, I still reach out for her frequently. The past thirteen months have been filled with memories of Mom, thoughts of what I want to say to her or ask her about, of things I wish I’d done differently, of questions about what eternity is really like.
2011 was a tough year. I have worked really hard at my job, and I’ve moved once and begun a second move. I’ve embraced my singleness, letting go of most of the vague dreams I once had of some fictional Prince Charming, realizing I am pretty content in my life with my pets and my friends. I’ve done all of it while mourning the loss of my mom. I have confronted everything with enthusiasm, in Mom’s example. So, in spite of the pain, I’ve begun to be relatively happy again.
There is a saying, “out with the old, in with the new.” I prefer “hold onto the old, welcome the new.” The old must never be tossed out; it makes us who we are. We must hold onto it, cherish it, nurture it, so that we are open and ready to enfold the new into us, and assimilate it all into a new whole.  As I face 2012, I resolve to hold onto the memories of my mom and all she meant to me, as well as all the rest of the good and bad of my past, and welcome the new adventure that is in front of me. There will be difficult days ahead, but life is still precious, sweet, and bittersweet. I am grateful for all I’ve been given. God is still good, and I am still His.


[i] Because NC’s coastal geography juts in, then out, then back, some of its coasts are western-facing. Little known and lovely fact.

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. 

Generous Empathy

A few nights ago, my phone rang and I didn’t answer it, as I was occupied with something else. Several minutes later, I listened in anguish to my voicemail, as a friend tearfully told of his mother’s death the day before. I called him back and wept with him as he told of his all-too-familiar disbelief and overwhelming grief, her relative vigor in spite of being in a nursing home, and his recent hopeful thoughts that she might actually outlive him. In spite of everything I’ve gone through in the past months, I didn’t have anything to say to him except that I am so sorry.
He is the second of my friends who have lost their moms in the past few weeks. In both cases, the ladies were quite elderly, had lived long and relatively healthy lives almost right up to the end, and their adult children and grandchildren knew they had only a little more time with them. Nevertheless…death came as a hateful shock and left behind people feeling like orphans. I wanted to help my friends somehow, to say something that would assuage their sorrowful hearts. My pastor recently spoke about how God’s dealings with us are not for us only, that they are meant to teach us and lead us to a place of generous empathy for the pain of others, and I’ve lived that truth out in the past. I’ve experienced the joyful awe of being an agent of comfort for someone because of what I’ve gone through. This time, though, when my friend called, I had nothing of value to say.
As I drove home this evening, I realized I was, and am, a little depressed. My friend’s phone call is on my mind, making me remember. I can still hear my uncle’s voice on the phone telling me, “Your mama’s dead.” He didn’t mean to sound insensitive, and I suppose he was hurting so much he wasn’t thinking clearly, but those words call out in my head over and over, and each time they tear my emotions apart. I think of my friends hearing those words from someone, and it breaks my heart all over again.
Losing my mom has made me more sensitive, and I am particularly empathetic toward those who are suffering loss. I’m glad to have this heightened empathy, but the ache in my own soul intensifies when someone, even someone with whom I’m not close, loses someone they love. Perhaps my own grief is too recent, too fresh and raw for me to draw on that empathy in a way that will help them. Maybe time will do its work and I will eventually be able to minister to others. For now, I just don’t think anything I might say will help them or me. Their grief, like mine, must be allowed to take its course, as long as it must, and generous empathy will have to wait.

Still

So it’s been a long time since I’ve written anything in the blog. Part of it is busyness. Part of it is an attempt to escape.
I have often thought of things I wanted to say in this medium. There is a stack of ideas in my head. They are not yet on paper. Every time I’ve thought of something I wanted to write about, I’ve gotten myself involved in some other activity and put the ideas out of my mind. They recede into the shadows but reemerge shortly, in vague feelings of melancholy or overwhelming waves of grief. They are always with me because thoughts of Mom are always with me.
In August, I went in to see my doctor for my yearly physical. She always chats with me a bit before getting to the exam. As usual she asked me, “So how are you doing?” I responded, “Well, it’s been a tough few months. My mom died last November.” And the tears started. When she was able to wipe the stunned look off her face, she recommended antidepressants, and I didn’t argue.
In recent months, I have moved home to a coastal city where Mom and I lived when I was little. I had wanted desperately to move back here while she was alive, as it would put me within two hours of her house. The move away from here just three years ago seemed so right at the time; I sincerely thought that an extra hour in the commute to her house would not be all that significant. I was so wrong. It was a terrible, horrible decision. That extra hour made an easy day trip impossible, and I was no longer able to be the kind of help she desperately needed. I am absolutely convinced that the absence of my frequent help contributed to her death. That is hard to take but take it I must. So here I am again, “home,” and I’m glad to be here. Nevertheless, it is bittersweet. Reminders of her are all around, and knowing I managed to get back here too late is a dagger in my soul.
My doctor said something to me as she was discussing the antidepressants: “I want you to feel sad when you think of your mother. I just don’t want it to stop you from living your life.” I think Mom would agree with that, frankly. I can go on. I can live my life, spend time with friends, even laugh and have fun. Nevertheless, the ache is always there, the knowing that she is not here with me, and yes, the wishing I had made different choices. I feel her presence and her absence at the same time, and sometimes it invades my whole being. Medicine may help, but there is no remedy for this, except maybe for time, doing its work, little by little. 

In the Wilderness

One of the devotionals that I often read, Streams in the Desert, was compiled by an American missionary named L.B. Cowman, who served in the early 20th century with her husband in the Far East. As its name implies, it is intended to minister to those going through difficult times, what we Christians often call “wilderness seasons.” I’ve been reading this one for a very long time.
This present wilderness began in Spring 2006, when a very important companion animal died. I had a bond with this particular cat that was unusual, even for me, an avowed “animal person;” he was as much a child to me as I can imagine, never having had a child of my own. I mourned him hard. Follow that in Summer 2006 with the death of my marriage, then the death of my work in 2007, then in 2008 a move away from ALL of my friends, and the restarting of a former career. In 2010, I began to think I was coming out of the wilderness: I was rekindling some lovely old friendships, was in my element at work, had traveled twice to Spain, the land that has my heart, and was enjoying an interesting relationship with a guy I was undoubtedly falling in love with. His insulting rejection of me in August of that year proved to me that I was not out of the woods yet, as it were. A few months later, the dénouement: the death of my mother. I plunged deeper in the wilderness than I had ever gone before.
Recently I had lunch with a friend I hadn’t seen in more than a year. This friend and I have both gone through some pretty deep wilderness seasons. I was happy to hear that she seems to be coming out of hers. She has a new job, one that seems to suit her perfectly, is living in a city she loves, three minutes from her parents and less than an hour from her brother, she just joined a church she’s excited about, she’s content in her singleness, and she is happier than she’s been in years. It was good to see her that way! She is coming out of her wilderness and I am beyond happy for her.
This friend had met my mom a time or two. Naturally, she asked about her death, saying “All I know is she was here one day and the next she was gone.” I said, “That’s pretty much all I know, too.” It seems I don’t know anything except that I hurt for the absence of her; I continue to feel more alone than ever.
I don’t often subject people to my sadness. I just try to be happy when I’m with people, and I usually am. When I’m alone, though, all bets are off. I still cry regularly; songs or something I read may set me off. When I get in my car, if the drive is more than an hour or so, sadness will usually overtake me at some point along the journey. This heaviness has become a part of me that I can’t shake. I don’t want to stay in this place, but I can’t seem to come out of it, and maybe I’m not supposed to, at least not for a while longer. It scares me a little though because I don’t want to make this wilderness my home. You’re supposed to go THROUGH a wilderness, not set up permanent residence there.
Most of my friends who’ve lost their moms attest to the lasting quality of the loss. One, a 72 year old woman, told me, “Sometimes I still think of my mama and just boo hoo.” Another friend lost her mother probably thirty years ago now and the last time she mentioned her to me, her eyes filled with tears. Apparently this is normal. So I am coming to terms with the fact that I will probably be in a similar state when I am much older, years from now, and that is okay; she was far too important for me to think I will ever stop missing her. I will not accept that this wilderness is my destiny, though. I will come out from here, when it is time, because my Father will bring me out. He will not leave me here forever.
Who is this coming up from the wilderness, leaning upon her beloved? I awakened you under the apple tree. There your mother brought you forth; there she who bore you brought you forth. Song of Solomon 8:5 Holy Bible, New King James Version

Therefore, behold, I will allure her, will bring her into the wilderness, and speak comfort to her. Hosea 2:14  Holy Bible, New King James Version

The Importance of Hearing

A few days ago, a caring friend asked me what I missed most about my mom. I thought for only a second or two before I responded, “Her voice.” Suddenly I felt the tears and before they could overflow, I said, “Stop, enough. I can’t talk about it.” My friend felt terrible as he tried to change the subject for me and move on from my unexpected reaction. I realized later that, strangely, I hadn’t thought before of this horrible truth: the familiar voice that I loved so much is slowly fading from memory and becoming harder to recall. This disturbs and saddens me.

It is said that of blindness and deafness, deafness is worse. Most hearing, seeing people seem to disagree with that, but I can totally understand it. I am a language geek, dialect mimic, music lover and dilettante maker of same. Sounds of nature fascinate me; one of my favorite CDs is music interspersed with nature sounds and wildlife calls. I so love the ocean partly because of the sounds of the waves pounding the shore and the seagulls calling to each other. When I study, I must have quiet; music only distracts me, draws me in. Often in the car, I turn the radio off so I can think. When I’m doing housework, however, I want music playing, loud enough for me to really hear it. And when I go to a concert, I want it LOUD, really loud, so nothing distracts from the entire experience of the music. Sounds comfort me, excite me, fascinate, disturb or distract me. Whether lovely or loud, sound is of vital importance to me.

Right now, just over seven months since her death, I can still hear the rich, velvetiness of my mother’s voice. For most of my life, she had a soft North Carolina accent that made her a delight for employers in Colorado, California and Germany; they were thrilled to have her as one of the “voices” of their organizations. During the last years of her life, her accent was made more pronounced as she shared her home with her sister, who rarely left the Southern Appalachian Mountains; I teased her sometimes about sounding like a hillbilly. Her singing voice was deep in the alto range; treasured are my memories of singing with her. She took the harmony as we sang together, until I learned from her to harmonize as she did — a third below the melody; we favored Gospel and Country songs as our repertoire. After years of smoking, she lost much of her range but the notes she retained were still strong and full.

Hearing her voice in my head makes me smile. Bits of our conversations sound as real as the times I actually heard her speaking. Several specific things she would say are fixed in my memory. When anyone said something nice about me or my sister, she would affect this silly and unidentifiable accent and say, “Well, of course; she only takes aftah her mothah!” When she would call me and leave a message for me to call her, she would usually begin with, “Now, nothin’s wrong…” because she knew I worried about her. And her usual greeting to me: “Hey, Baby Girl.”  Her laugh is there, too, uninhibited, throaty, filled with abandon and absolutely contagious.

It scares me, though, that already some of her words are starting to fade from my memory; I have to think really hard to bring them to mind. She loved to watch “Dog the Bounty Hunter,” and she would tell me about it sometimes. I can’t hear her voice saying the word, “dog,” though. I can’t hear the accent exactly right. She would greet loved ones with a happy, “Hey!” but I can’t remember which word she favored with people she didn’t know very well, whether it was “hi,” “hello,” or something else. This forgetfulness is disturbing; I want to remember her voice!  I want to remember how she sounded as we sang together, and the sound of her laugh. Most of all, I want to remember her calling my name or calling me “Baby Girl.”

I realize how blessed I am to have been “Baby Girl” to her for so long; she called me that for fifty years! How lucky I am! It doesn’t do to feel sorry for myself; there are so many who don’t have their moms for nearly that long. I really do hope, though, that the memory of the sound of her voice stays with me for many more years yet; I dread the thought of saying goodbye to her voice, even though it lives with me only in my head.

Bitter and Sweet


How can one day contain this much emotion?

Yesterday, the Saturday before Father’s Day, I spent several hours with two people I haven’t seen in years, people who were two of my best friends throughout the 1990’s. One was my roommate and sharer of clothing, my shoulder to cry on, partner in prayer, and the melody to my harmony as we careened through the NC Mountains in my little white pickup truck or gripped microphones at church. The other was my concert-going, head-bangin’ buddy, my “little brother,” with whom I was honored to walk as he loved and supported his first wife through her valiant fight against cancer, and then while he grieved in agony for her when she left him, much too young, to be with the Lord. These two remarkable people helped make me the person I am today; few others have shared such influence on me. We enjoyed a wonderful time together at his home, talking and laughing and feeling the years fall away.

A few hours later, I was standing over my mother’s grave, stricken again by her name on the stone and feeling intensely the loss. You see, in the misty and secluded southern Appalachian Mountains that my parents’ families have called home for generations, we have a tradition called Decoration Day. It generally falls on Father’s Day, and consists of family reunions and some sort of memorial for those who’ve preceded us in death. So the early evening found me helping my father’s sister carry and place flowers on the earthly resting places of my paternal grandparents at the family cemetery. A half hour later, quite alone now, I was tending my mother’s grave, as well as her mother’s and father’s, carefully placing flowers and preparing them for tomorrow’s visitors to the cemetery. Performing this task by myself was difficult, highly emotional, and left me feeling very lonely and very alone. I drove away with a heavy heart, experiencing her absence afresh.

A few hours later still, finally back home, I signed into Facebook and learned what I had missed when I couldn’t answer my phone when it rang in the early afternoon. My lovely friend in Chicago had called me but she didn’t leave a message. I guess she figured that telling me she’d gotten engaged was too much for a voicemail! I would have to agree. My happiness for her overflowed; she has patiently waited for God’s perfect choice for her, and He has proven Himself faithful once again. 

Throughout the day I alternately laughed and cried, and I welcomed the tears: tears of happiness, of missed years regained and friendships renewed, of joyful milestones, and of continued grieving. God is sovereign and He is good. He gave me precious friends, people who love me as much as I love them, and he gave me a mom who for 50 years made me feel as if I were the most special person in her world and who treated me as both her daughter and her friend. I am grateful to Him for all of these incomparable people who have enriched my life.

A current song by Wes King is playing in my mind: “Life is precious, life is sweet.” Sometimes it is bittersweet. And sometimes it is just bitter. But it is always precious.
Youtube video of Life is Precious by Wes King

Regrets

Frequently over the past months, I’ve heard people talking about regrets. Mainly they talk about not having any, not regretting anything you’ve done because it’s helped shape who you are today. It’s a good argument, at first glance, but it doesn’t hold up under pressure, at least not for the serious believer in Christ, and I would venture not very well for anyone with a conscience.
I regret a lot of what I’ve done over the years, from the time I was a little girl until now. Some things I’d do over if I could for my own benefit, like ignoring the outside influences that ruined the piano lessons I loved with all my heart, causing me to finally stop playing altogether. I would love to go back and change that; I am so musical, but it has very little way to manifest itself outside of singing, and I’m only a fair singer. Others are choices that caused a lot of pain for me and often for others. Two failed marriages scream to the top of that list. If I had married wisely, or not married at all, how very different my life would be now. I might be working in Spain or NYC, or I might even have children, for goodness sakes!
Some regrets are more painful, mainly because of the way my actions have hurt others. When my mom’s mother, my beloved Mimi, died in 1994, I immediately regretted not having spent as much time with her over the course of the preceding year as I had prior to that. It was all because of a stupid romantic entanglement that stole my attention away from her when she needed me. She had been so incredibly important to me, even living with us until I was about five years old, and when she died I deeply regretted having spent so little time with her over that year. Those choices haunt me still.
You would think, with that experience behind me, I would’ve made different choices with my mom. For a long while, I did. Then my career began to fail, and I finally had to take a job that moved me farther away from her. As a result, I didn’t get down to see her as often as I had before. When my aunt, her sister who lived with her, died last June, Mom started simply refusing to let me come. I think it was partly because she was depressed but also because when I came, I worked rather than just visited with her. She had so many things around the house that needed doing, and I wanted to clean out my aunt’s room.  Mom really didn’t want me to do that; it hurt her too much to even consider, so she simply wouldn’t let me come. The last six months of Mom’s life, I spent almost NO TIME with her.
Finally, last Thanksgiving, I decided to go see friends in New England instead of seeing Mom. I don’t usually do “family things” on that particular holiday. You see, I love the concept of Thanksgiving; I am very grateful for all the myriad of blessings I enjoy. But Thanksgiving has been marked in my life by unhappy events, from my paternal grandfather’s death in the 80’s, which resulted in my dad’s family’s relative denial of the holiday, to my mother’s drinking in the 80’s and 90’s that ruined several Thanksgiving celebrations on the maternal side of the family. So when Mom began getting sick, I was in Massachusetts. I returned just in time to fuss at her over the phone, try to get her to go to the emergency room, make her promise to go to the doctor on Monday, and then get the call, at school, that she had died at 6:00 in the morning, just hours before she would’ve seen her doctor.
I don’t know how to process all of that without regrets. It seems a hard-heartedness would be required, and it just isn’t in me. My heart is soft. I feel everything keenly. And so I live with a profound regret over having neglected Mom in the last months of her life. I wish I had coaxed her to let me come down by promising to just visit, or take her to lunch, or go with her to the doctor. I wish I had chosen to spend Thanksgiving, her last Thanksgiving, with her. I wish, I wish, I wish.
You can’t go back. You have to go forward. So I face front and lean into my future, but not without regrets.