I first wrote this post in June 2015. I wanted to highlight it again this weekend, as Sunday is Mothers' Day. Unfortunately, because of a glitch in the Blogger software, I've had to repost it and remove the original post. Anyway, here it is.
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A month ago the United States and many other countries around the world celebrated Mother’s Day. It’s a day to recognize mothers for the crucial part they play in our lives. Last year, Father’s Day (which is celebrated this month) moved me to write about my own father. Now it’s my mother’s turn.
Starting at the End
My mother has been gone for a long time – more than 20 years. She died fairly young after being ravaged by diabetes. I was not there when she passed away. In fact, I had not been there at all during her illness. At that point in my life, money was tight and traveling from Colorado to Massachusetts was not an easy undertaking. So for the several years that she was mostly bedridden, I did not see her, did not see what she was going through, and was not a part of the gut-wrenching process the rest of my family went through to care for her each day.
We spoke occasionally on the phone. She tried to be upbeat and not let me in on how she was really doing. But I knew. It was clear that she was weak and tired. When I was finally prepared to go east for a Christmas visit, my mom convinced me to put it off. “The doctor says I’ll be a lot better in the spring,” she said. “Why don’t you come then so that we can have a nicer visit?”
It was what she wanted, so I agreed to wait. Sometime in March or April, she went into the hospital. She went into a diabetic coma, and although she came out of the coma before she died, the hospital was the last stop on her journey of life. In mid-June I got a phone message from my father in his uniquely weird style: “I’m calling to tell you that mother has expired. Call back when you can.”
“Expired?” What was she – a bottle of milk?
So finally I flew east – not for a visit, but for a funeral. It was open-casket, and she looked good. My aunt, her older sister, told me it was the best my mom had looked for a long time. Apparently undertakers can work wonders.
The only other thing I remember from the service was my father breaking down in tears and saying, “She was too young to go” (my father was a fair amount older than my mom). I was more shocked by his small emotional outburst than with her death. I had never seen him show much emotion in my life, and the relationship between them had always seemed “sterile,” that is, I never saw any displays of affection or signs of love between them. It was something that I know was a major disappointment in her life, and it saddened me as well.
We spoke occasionally on the phone. She tried to be upbeat and not let me in on how she was really doing. But I knew. It was clear that she was weak and tired. When I was finally prepared to go east for a Christmas visit, my mom convinced me to put it off. “The doctor says I’ll be a lot better in the spring,” she said. “Why don’t you come then so that we can have a nicer visit?”
It was what she wanted, so I agreed to wait. Sometime in March or April, she went into the hospital. She went into a diabetic coma, and although she came out of the coma before she died, the hospital was the last stop on her journey of life. In mid-June I got a phone message from my father in his uniquely weird style: “I’m calling to tell you that mother has expired. Call back when you can.”
“Expired?” What was she – a bottle of milk?
So finally I flew east – not for a visit, but for a funeral. It was open-casket, and she looked good. My aunt, her older sister, told me it was the best my mom had looked for a long time. Apparently undertakers can work wonders.
The only other thing I remember from the service was my father breaking down in tears and saying, “She was too young to go” (my father was a fair amount older than my mom). I was more shocked by his small emotional outburst than with her death. I had never seen him show much emotion in my life, and the relationship between them had always seemed “sterile,” that is, I never saw any displays of affection or signs of love between them. It was something that I know was a major disappointment in her life, and it saddened me as well.
The Saddest Thing – I Didn’t Really Know Her
What saddened me more after she was gone – and still weighs on my mind – was that my mom and I were not as close as we should have been. Looking back, I realize that I really didn’t know her, at least not like a son should know his mom.
It seems as though all I have are a small collection of childhood memories, but very little from the period after I left home. And in thinking about her, I find that I imagine more than I can actually count as fact. For all his faults, my father clearly had a greater impact on me, even if much of that impact was not positive. On some level, this seems wrong; I should be able to point to more in my mom’s life that made me who I am.
It seems as though all I have are a small collection of childhood memories, but very little from the period after I left home. And in thinking about her, I find that I imagine more than I can actually count as fact. For all his faults, my father clearly had a greater impact on me, even if much of that impact was not positive. On some level, this seems wrong; I should be able to point to more in my mom’s life that made me who I am.
A Kind Heart
I think there are three things about my mom that are undeniable. First, she was an innately kind and gentle person. Other family members have always said this about her. Her two sisters knew her this way from their childhood together, and I’ve heard this kind of sentiment from my cousins as well. A few years after my mom passed away, one of my daughters lamented the loss of her “nana,” saying that she had been her favorite and most loving grandparent, and she couldn’t understand why the “best one had to go first.”
I remember her mostly this way as well. Of course, every mother gets frustrated and fed up with her kids’ behavior and lashes out with a little yelling from time to time, but she was mostly pretty patient with my sister and me. One of my most lasting memories is of those times when I was sick with chicken pox or something similar and had to stay home for some days. She would get me books to read and sometimes would sit and read with me. She knew it made me feel better.
Even when I was an adult, her approach was more patient and understanding. When I decided that ending my marriage was the best thing (and it was), my mom calmly tried to talk me out of it, hoping things could work out, but she never judged or spoke harshly (unlike my father). Like all parents, she wanted her children to have happy lives, but she also understood that it doesn’t always work out that way. Maybe her own unhappiness in marriage helped her to understand how I felt.
I remember her mostly this way as well. Of course, every mother gets frustrated and fed up with her kids’ behavior and lashes out with a little yelling from time to time, but she was mostly pretty patient with my sister and me. One of my most lasting memories is of those times when I was sick with chicken pox or something similar and had to stay home for some days. She would get me books to read and sometimes would sit and read with me. She knew it made me feel better.
Even when I was an adult, her approach was more patient and understanding. When I decided that ending my marriage was the best thing (and it was), my mom calmly tried to talk me out of it, hoping things could work out, but she never judged or spoke harshly (unlike my father). Like all parents, she wanted her children to have happy lives, but she also understood that it doesn’t always work out that way. Maybe her own unhappiness in marriage helped her to understand how I felt.
Searching for Her Spiritual Self
Secondly, she had a deep sense of spirit. Her problem, I think, was that she never found a way to express that spirituality that really worked for her. Unlike my father, my mom liked going to church. The only time my father had been in a church, that I knew of, was for a wedding. But my mother went as often as she could, not just to be seen as so many people do, but because it gave her something that her soul needed.
What I didn’t like about that as a child was that she made my sister and me go to church as well. We had to attend Sunday school and then sit with her in the service. Mostly I dreaded that, but I have to admit that, over time, I did get a certain spiritual feeling from it as well. But like her, I found that the church experience merely stirred my need for spirituality, but did not give it any real sustenance. It raised more questions than it provided answers.
Once, when a war had broken out in the Middle East, my mother was very concerned that it might erupt into something worldwide. She collected my sister and me in her bedroom and had us all get on our knees to pray for peace. At the time, I really didn’t get it. But that was just how she reacted to the situation.
She spoke of God and spirituality on other occasions, but she never found anything that really gave her peace. It seemed like she was always searching for that kind of spiritual understanding and peace, but it eluded her. Ironically, her name was Grace, and this seems to be what she was searching for all her life.
Sometimes I think that if she had had a chance to become acquainted with some Eastern spiritual practices, she might have found what she was looking for. She may, in fact, have found it at the very end. My aunt told me, after she had died, that my mom told her she was at peace, not afraid of death, and ready to be released back to the creator.
What I didn’t like about that as a child was that she made my sister and me go to church as well. We had to attend Sunday school and then sit with her in the service. Mostly I dreaded that, but I have to admit that, over time, I did get a certain spiritual feeling from it as well. But like her, I found that the church experience merely stirred my need for spirituality, but did not give it any real sustenance. It raised more questions than it provided answers.
Once, when a war had broken out in the Middle East, my mother was very concerned that it might erupt into something worldwide. She collected my sister and me in her bedroom and had us all get on our knees to pray for peace. At the time, I really didn’t get it. But that was just how she reacted to the situation.
She spoke of God and spirituality on other occasions, but she never found anything that really gave her peace. It seemed like she was always searching for that kind of spiritual understanding and peace, but it eluded her. Ironically, her name was Grace, and this seems to be what she was searching for all her life.
Sometimes I think that if she had had a chance to become acquainted with some Eastern spiritual practices, she might have found what she was looking for. She may, in fact, have found it at the very end. My aunt told me, after she had died, that my mom told her she was at peace, not afraid of death, and ready to be released back to the creator.
An Unhappy Life
The third thing, which is related to the second, was that she seemed to live most of her life being sort of lost and unhappy. It was clear that she was unhappy in her marriage to my father and, thus, in her life overall. But it apparently went much further back than that.
My mother never spoke much of her family life growing up (just as my father rarely discussed his upbringing). But my aunts later told me that it had not been pleasant. I know very little about their father, my grandfather, who died before I was born. But apparently their mother was an alcoholic and not an especially nice person. My grandmother died when I was about 12, and I remember her as an awful and disgusting woman whom I truly hated having to visit.
When my mom was a teen, she had to suffer the regular embarrassment of going to the store for her mother’s “bottle” and carrying it home in a brown paper bag. It fell to her because her older sister (by two years) was too strong-willed and simply refused to do it, and her younger sister (by five years) was too young. As she walked home, it seems everyone she passed knew what was in the bag and who it was for, and this was humiliating for her.
On the other hand, it was clear that their difficult family life created a close and strong bond between my mom and her sisters. Our extended family was based on those three women, their husbands and their children. We all got together often, and it was always fun. I loved my aunts, and my cousins were always great company.
Summer vacations together and especially holiday gatherings really perked my mother up, and she enjoyed herself in those moments like she rarely did in her normal home life. We rotated Thanksgiving and Christmas celebrations among the three family homes, and my mom was a fantastic host, cooking up a storm and enjoying every moment of it. Those were rare islands of joy in her sea of melancholy.
Honestly, I don’t know why she married my father. But it happened. As I understand it, my mom had a romantic streak, and despite her family life, she was optimistic and, as I mentioned, a kind and friendly person. But living with my dad seemed to have taken something out of her. The two of them settled into a humdrum existence and, by all outward appearances, a loveless relationship. I believe this was a major source of her sadness.
As a young child, I do recall that she was loving to my sister and me. But as time went on, it seemed that she was less able to express her love even to her children. The emptiness of her marriage just seemed to eat a hole in her heart. Little by little, she closed up and became more depressed.
I won’t go into many details of her depression. But looking back, I can see that she pretty much gave up on having a happy life. She made one attempt when I was a teen to go out with some new work friends and have some fun, but this resulted in an ugly scene with my father. Shortly after that, I found her on the living room floor, passing out from too many sleeping pills. She recovered from that, but the embarrassment she felt from that incident just pushed her further into a state of joylessness.
When my girls came along, they were a source of real joy for her. You couldn't have found a more adoring and attentive grandmother. It was like they opened up a conduit for her real nature to come out. It was nice to see her doting over them (on the rare occasions that she got to see them) and seeming really happy.
In her later years, just before she got sick, she seemed to be doing better. Perhaps she had found some kind of satisfaction or even happiness, or maybe she just accepted her life for what it was. I don’t know – we never talked about it.
My mother never spoke much of her family life growing up (just as my father rarely discussed his upbringing). But my aunts later told me that it had not been pleasant. I know very little about their father, my grandfather, who died before I was born. But apparently their mother was an alcoholic and not an especially nice person. My grandmother died when I was about 12, and I remember her as an awful and disgusting woman whom I truly hated having to visit.
When my mom was a teen, she had to suffer the regular embarrassment of going to the store for her mother’s “bottle” and carrying it home in a brown paper bag. It fell to her because her older sister (by two years) was too strong-willed and simply refused to do it, and her younger sister (by five years) was too young. As she walked home, it seems everyone she passed knew what was in the bag and who it was for, and this was humiliating for her.
On the other hand, it was clear that their difficult family life created a close and strong bond between my mom and her sisters. Our extended family was based on those three women, their husbands and their children. We all got together often, and it was always fun. I loved my aunts, and my cousins were always great company.
Summer vacations together and especially holiday gatherings really perked my mother up, and she enjoyed herself in those moments like she rarely did in her normal home life. We rotated Thanksgiving and Christmas celebrations among the three family homes, and my mom was a fantastic host, cooking up a storm and enjoying every moment of it. Those were rare islands of joy in her sea of melancholy.
Honestly, I don’t know why she married my father. But it happened. As I understand it, my mom had a romantic streak, and despite her family life, she was optimistic and, as I mentioned, a kind and friendly person. But living with my dad seemed to have taken something out of her. The two of them settled into a humdrum existence and, by all outward appearances, a loveless relationship. I believe this was a major source of her sadness.
As a young child, I do recall that she was loving to my sister and me. But as time went on, it seemed that she was less able to express her love even to her children. The emptiness of her marriage just seemed to eat a hole in her heart. Little by little, she closed up and became more depressed.
I won’t go into many details of her depression. But looking back, I can see that she pretty much gave up on having a happy life. She made one attempt when I was a teen to go out with some new work friends and have some fun, but this resulted in an ugly scene with my father. Shortly after that, I found her on the living room floor, passing out from too many sleeping pills. She recovered from that, but the embarrassment she felt from that incident just pushed her further into a state of joylessness.
When my girls came along, they were a source of real joy for her. You couldn't have found a more adoring and attentive grandmother. It was like they opened up a conduit for her real nature to come out. It was nice to see her doting over them (on the rare occasions that she got to see them) and seeming really happy.
But she got to spend precious little time with them as we all lived far apart, and visits were expensive, and rare. So she continued to contend with her usual life.
In her later years, just before she got sick, she seemed to be doing better. Perhaps she had found some kind of satisfaction or even happiness, or maybe she just accepted her life for what it was. I don’t know – we never talked about it.
Strangers, in a Way
And that’s the point: I didn’t know, and we didn’t talk enough. After I became an adult, I faulted my parents – both of them – for a lot of things. I went off to faraway places to live my own life, and I made plenty of my own mistakes. I suppose I blamed my parents for those as well. I was angry, and while I didn’t shut my parents out completely, I certainly didn’t let them into my life much. This probably hurt my mom, though she would never have said anything about it.
I guess no one could ever accuse me of being a “mama’s boy.”
So here I sit with memories of the woman who raised me, a woman who left long ago. The memories are mainly good, because that’s how I want them to be.
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I guess no one could ever accuse me of being a “mama’s boy.”
So here I sit with memories of the woman who raised me, a woman who left long ago. The memories are mainly good, because that’s how I want them to be.
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