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On Mother’s Day in 2015, I posted I Still Miss My Mother. This year, the post has generated a flurry of comments. When we lose our mothers, regardless of gender, how old we were, the circumstances or how many years have passed, we continue to miss our mothers. The mother-child bond is a unique one, different though, depending on whether the child is a son or a daughter.
I discovered from one of my readers, and I was not aware of this — that if someone googles “I miss my mom,” — this post comes up as second on the list generated by the search engine.
It doesn’t help that every May, Mother’s Day is celebrated in this country with a single-mindedness that painfully excludes those of us who no longer have mothers as well of those of us who are childfree. I’m childfree by choice, so it’s not a big deal for me, but I can’t imagine the pain that couples or women who are dealing with infertility challenges experience.
Mother’s Day last year was difficult for me and as it was the fifteenth-year anniversary of mom’s death, I attributed my intense sadness to a number and figured that the feelings would subside. My body absorbed the sadness, but I was left with unfamiliar sensations of restlessness and unease. Nothing should have been stirring; at the end of April last year, I’d participated in an event at a local Barnes and Noble in which I’d read my piece which was published in an anthology on borderline personality disorder. May 15th was my second anniversary at my (no longer) new job. My manager kept referring to me as her “unofficial” team lead.
Like any dedicated writer, I always have pen and paper with me. Some situations are not conducive to jotting down a big idea and that’s when, at least lately, the ones with the most impact seem to hit. I was cruising around in my new VW crossover when one thought occurred and I was terrified I wouldn’t remember it.
I never got the opportunity to have a relationship with my mom as a healthy adult.
If a car had jammed into my rear bumper, I’d have cried and thanked my mom. Tears running down my face, I wanted to turn on the windshield wipers, but in a moment of clarity remembered they were external, but the chaos was not.
You were there with me and for me the whole time. You accepted me and tried to understand as much as possible. We got drawn into each other and our hearts joined. When I had to go into the hospital, the ragged edges left behind on my heart tore inward. What about you? I used to think you were grateful for the break and knowing I was safe for now.
I needed you so much. Whether on the phone or in person, when we said goodnight, I always said “Love you” and you always snuck in “Love you more.” Your voice, thick with cigarette smoke, comforted me, as I fought racing thoughts which never let me drop off to a peaceful sleep.
I realized you were smart, very smart and I was proud of you. I bragged about you to all my friends. Today I’m in awe of how brilliant you were. My admiration and respect continue to grow exponentially. Your achievements, your generation, your childhood, your husband; I try to picture your life on a timeline, speeding towards success like the bullet train. I finally was able to understand through years of therapy that you were human too and I gently lifted you off and took you down from the pedestal upon which you stood all those years.
And then you died. You were supposed to last six months, but true to yourself and your bullet train mentality, you did it in three. I will never forget that night. We were both at your house for some reason. I was spending every night there because you had a gangrenous foot and couldn’t get out of bed. You were afraid if you needed something in the middle of the night, the nurse you hired wouldn’t hear you because her bedroom was upstairs. I slept with you every night, the two of us in your king-sized bed. In Grandma’s bed, Daddy’s mother’s fine antique bed from Romania.
It was early March, the ground still frozen. In bed, tons of covers, you breathed a raspy snore. I inched closer, longing to cuddle like thirty years ago. I was afraid of hurting you, so I reached out, settling for resting my curled first in the small of your back.
That night, Daniel, my brother and I were in your bedroom watching television dinner. “What’s that flag doing on the wall?” My eyes shot to the spot over the tv where my mother’s gazed remained fixed. I met Daniel’s eyes; he shook his head.
“Mom, there’s no flag there,” I told her, but she insisted. I sat down next to her and tried to gently lower her arm that seemed more like a stiffened tree branch, then a warm and pink human limb.
“Nooo.” If mom had a lit cigarette, she’d keep blowing the smoke circles, extending her plea. She took an awkward swing at me and we called 911.
I tried to make myself comfortable in the chair next to her hospital bed. Every part was hard and unforgiving. My ass sliding close to the edge of the seat, my feet resting on the rails which kept her safe, I stared hard. The doctor said she was sleeping. She was snoring the same snore as she did at home, not as loudly. Her face was wrinkled from years of tanning.
Daniel said he’d be right back.
I thought I should make some calls. My boss, saying I wouldn’t be into work the next day. Actually, it was the same day now. My aunt and uncle, my mother’s sister in Florida. I woke them up to worry them, to tell them Mom was in the hospital because she had been hallucinating and took a swing at me.
“No, I don’t know any more. Yes, I will call you as soon as I know something.”
The doctor walked in and put a stethoscope to her chest. In a second, as he shook his head, my world changed.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “She’s gone.”
I stared hard. Her face was wrinkled from years of tanning. She wasn’t snoring any more.
I thought I should make some calls. My, boss, saying that my mother had died and I would be out for a week. My aunt and uncle who grabbed the phone after one ring and said they could catch a plane in the morning. Daniel walked into the room. I looked at him, reluctant to turn away from my mother. If I went to look at her again, she might not be there.
“I know,” he said. “I met the doctor in the hall.
We stood motionless on the checkerboard tile floor.
Daniel motioned to me to get my puffy down jacket. “Come on,” he said, quietly. “It’s time to leave.”
I turned my back on my mother. Daniel put his arm around my shoulder and we walked out of her room together. The hospital corridor seemed endless and the silence insistent.
I waited for a sign. I was told I would know it when you chose to tell me you were with me. You were with us when Daniel got married, just a year after you died. We felt you hovering in the cerulean sky, over the ocean as the rabbi recited the blessing under the chuppah. We felt your pride swell from an incomprehensible distance much the way a swell travel through the ocean – fueled by energy over distances of thousands of miles without any changes in its shape.
Years later, picnicking with my friends on a pier that jutted out into the Long Island Sound, a large butterfly, wings painted with brilliant jewel tones landed on my shoulder. I stood rod-still as she took respite on my shoulder. It seemed like forever she was with me and I wanted her to stay forever. I knew it was her.
I long for her to return, but since then I haven’t gotten such a passionate sign. I thought she might be angry with me for trying to take my life again four years ago. As Mother’s Day draws close, I’ve been thinking and talking about being haunted by this desire to be reassured she has not left for good.
Rifling through some stuff one evening I had put away, I found an old black and white photo of my mom, framed it and put it across the room, so every time I look up I see her. She’s young and beautiful, dressed in a white business suit, pumps and a string of pearls. Before we were born my mother was one of the only female computer programmers in the country and travelled all over the United Stated to meet with clients.
I 'd placed the photograph there for inspiration, but at times I thought I might have made a mistake. Much of the time, when I saw her, I felt intimidated.
Continuing to believe the family entrepreneurial gene skipped me by, I was resigned to working for someone else for the rest of my life. I thought I didn’t have “it” in me, whatever “it” was — a combination of intelligence, risk-taking, grit, perseverance and blind faith among others.
As my friends pointed out, I’ve now gained the self-confidence to allow the entrepreneurial spirit in me to rise from wherever it had lain dormant. Like Dorothy at the end of “The Wizard of Oz.”
“That’s her sign to you,” one of my friends said. “She’s trying to tell you “it’s” been inside you all along.”
“This is my relationship with my mother as a healthy adult. As she continues to inspire me and guide me. It’s not like she never left. But she’s close. Close enough so I can feel her “it.”
