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.

Powerlessness

“You will not die.”  The words of NCIS’ famous Senior Special Agent Leroy Jethro Gibbs, delivered to Agent Anthony DiNozzo, as he lay dying of pneumonic plague. A light slap to the back of the head, and again, each whispered word measured out independently, as if with a period between them: “You. Will. Not. Die.” And the junior agent recovers, obediently.
If only it were that easy.
About six months ago, I went through a painful breakup. As with other difficult times in my life, Mom was there, on the other end of the phone line, reminding me of my value as a woman and making me laugh. I vividly recall one particular phone call within a few weeks of the split; as usual, she listened, let me cry, and encouraged me. She understood what I was going through; she’d been hurt badly a few times herself, and she and I were so similar emotionally. She had been feeling pretty lousy around that time, dealing with some pain and numbness related to a couple of car accidents she’d had years ago. Selfishly, I said to her, “Mom, you have to get better. You have to. I can’t lose you, too, you know? I need you.” She responded as I expected she would: “I know, Baby Girl. Don’t worry. I’m going to get better.”
I really do think Mom wanted to get well, at least at that point she did. In spite of the many difficulties she had – financial, family, health – she had three grandchildren she adored and in whose eyes she hung the moon. She loved her dogs and cats as much as most people love their children. I needed her and loved her more than anyone, and she knew that. She enjoyed her friends, music, and books, and when she felt up to going, her church. Besides all that, I flat-out told her to get better.
That last sentence is absurd, isn’t it?
The sense of powerlessness I feel as a result of Mom’s death is profound, beyond description. I wonder if she also felt powerless. I often find myself wondering if the emotional and physical pain of her life had reached some sort of critical mass, so that she didn’t want to live anymore. I ask myself if she knew what was happening to her beforehand, and if maybe she even welcomed the relief. I know she told friends at Thanksgiving dinner that she was “ready,” and I think that is somehow significant.
As I think of our conversations over the preceding days, I remember telling her many times that I loved her. I wish I had gotten to tell her again. It bothers me so much that I didn’t get to look her in the eyes and tell her one more time how much I love her and how important she was to me. I suppose no matter how many times you tell someone that, you always want to tell them one more time. The truth of the matter is the power over death is not in our hands. We don’t get to decide to say “I love you” one last time, to tell death to wait, to stand back, that we aren’t going to let the one we love go just yet. Gibbs and DiNozzo may tell us otherwise, but when death comes, we don’t get to choose.

Finding Joy

Last night after I posted “Christmas,” I began thinking about how I couldn’t find joy, not even in knowing He lives, and therefore, my mom lives, and I will see her again. It was disturbing to realize how far I was from the truth of Scripture. So I read her favorite Psalm, the 91st, thinking perhaps it would inspire me to write or help me understand her better, or at least to process the feelings.
Whoever dwells in the shelter of the Most High 
 will rest in the shadow of the Almighty.
I will say of the LORD, “He is my refuge and my fortress, 
   my God, in whom I trust.”
Mom made the Lord her refuge and fortress. She made Him her shelter, running to Him in the many difficult seasons of her life, especially in the last ten years or so, when she committed her life to Him in good times and bad. She wasn’t always a “good girl;” neither was I. We made horrible, selfish choices, and we came to know that we were, at our core, hateful, sinful people, full of ourselves and everything evil in the world. So she and I both know what it is to need a Savior. She trusted Him completely, and she inspired me to believe in Him as a powerful, healing God. A tiny ray of light began to shine in my soul, and this morning, I found an email from a friend that was a short and simple reminder of what the birth of Christ means for us, and through tears, the light began to shine brighter.
Jesus was born so that Mom and I would both have the Savior we need. He was born so that she would finally be happy, free of the painfulness of her life here, of the consequences of her choices and the deterioration of her body.  Born of the union between God and [wo]man, He was fully God and fully man. He lived, as we do, but was sinless, so that He could be all that we could not and do what we could not do: atone. He died, and He lives again, the first of many resurrected ones, and because of that I have hope. Jesus was born so that one day, I would see my mom again.
This isn’t the end of mourning, nor should it be, but I have found joy in the Season, and for that I am grateful.
Merry Christmas. 

Being Practical isn’t Practical

I went down to Mom’s last night to pick up one of her dogs to take to a friend who wants him. Part of Mom’s legacy to me is her love of animals, which she and her sister got from their mother. Naturally, Mom had – has – a houseful of pets. I took two of them away last weekend and that was hard, but they were going to good homes and obviously, I can’t keep them all, no matter how much I love them, and my stepfather is only going to be able to stay in the house for so long before he will have to go and live where he will have help. I am trying very hard to be practical. So after work yesterday, I drove the two and a half hours to Mom’s to pick up Spencer and take him to my friend.
Driving down to Mom’s, I was thinking about my stepfather, with whom I am not close, but who loved my mom, in his own way. I feel especially sorry for him. I was thinking about how difficult it is for me to walk through each day when I can go to work and not think 100 percent of the time about having lost her, and how he doesn’t get to do that. He lives in the house, sleeps in her bed, spends all day, every day unable to escape the reminders of her and the fact that she’s gone. How does he do it, I wondered. I am not sure I could. Actually I am quite sure I couldn’t.
So when I put Spencer’s collar on him, and my stepfather was saying goodbye, he started to cry, and those thoughts of his existence overwhelmed me, and I could not stop the tears from coming, no matter how strong I wanted to be for him. I came all the way down there to pick up the dog and take him away, but in the end, I couldn’t do it. I wept with my stepfather for all we had lost, and I left the dog in his care and drove back home, crying much of the way.
I will have to find homes for some, if not all, of the remaining animals eventually. Until I must, however, I will not take Spencer or Mom’s other dogs away. While they are in the house, an important piece of her is there, with my stepfather. The pain is so great, the hole so enormous; I will not make it bigger than it already is, for him or for me. 

Christmas

Yesterday was weepy. All day long I was biting back tears. The coworker and friend who had picked me up off the floor and walked me back to my classroom when I first heard the news brought me cookies, some of my students brought me presents, but all day I just wanted to cry. About 1:30, during my planning period, the chorus teacher brought his class around to my room and they sang carols outside my door. I walked out and sang along, harmonizing – the way Mom taught me – with one of my particularly special students. Then they started singing Carol of the Bells, and something about that song is so moving anyway. My eyes filled up, and couldn’t sing anymore. I just wanted to share Christmas one more time with my mom, and the reality of the season without her was too much.
There is no joy this Christmas. I haven’t put up any decorations, and I don’t have any desire to. I haven’t wrapped the first gift. I have bought a few, and I must wrap some of them. But I can’t make myself do it. I am completely unmotivated. I talked with another friend who lost her mother this year and she is having a similar experience, although she is also empty nesting, which is making it even worse. She has put up her tree, out of necessity for an event having to do with her husband’s work, but she hasn’t been able to decorate it beyond putting lights on it.
Driving down the street, seeing the lights on other houses and the Christmas trees brightly lit behind the windows, it all just makes me sad. I know that’s wrong, because Christ lived, died and lives again, so there is hope for me, that I will see my mom again, that death is not the end of our relationship. Perhaps, as some believe, my relationship with her will not be the same as it was during this life within the confines of time, but at least I know she is Somewhere, that she didn’t cease to exist. One day we will be together again There. But for now there is no joy, and the fact that I can’t even find joy in knowing that He lives, therefore we live, only serves to make me more broken.  I just want to forget everything, and the specialness of this season sharpens the pain. I am afraid of what Christmas will be for me from now on: a reminder of the one who isn’t here with me. 

Snow Day

Workdays are better than weekends. Most days I get up and get busy right away. Morning ablutions, quiet time, care for the pets, then off to work. The drive, thankfully, is short; if it were longer, I’d have more time to think, and thinking is bad. I arrive in ten minutes or so, practically run into the building, and then get ready for first period. I don’t really have much of a break until fourth period, nearly six hours after I arrive at school, and the intensity of teaching high school students keeps the reality of what has happened, while not forgotten, at least at bay for most of the day.
Today school was closed because of weather. I’m not really sure why, as the weather wasn’t all that bad, but this is the South, where a little rain can close schools. It would be a “snow day” if we’d had any snow. We didn’t but school was just as closed as if we had. So I slept in for a little bit. In a normal world, it would’ve been a miniature celebration, a snuggle-fest with my dog and cats in the quilts. But I’m not living in a normal world right now, and all I wanted to do was jump out of bed and busy myself with my daily routine. With school closed, my second choice was to bury myself under the covers so I could forget all the things I needed to do, that I had put off or not had time to do because I was working. Like call the veterinarian about Mom’s pets’ records. And clean the framed pictures of Mom’s dad and mom I’d brought home with me. And call the company about sending back some unopened items Mom had bought, pay the pastors who had done the funeral and interment services, fill out the life insurance claim form, and call about Mom’s headstone.
But of course, I didn’t let myself stay in bed very long. It would’ve been pointless; I wouldn’t have slept. I got out of bed and did all those horrible little things. I would’ve much rather been at work all day.

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.