Merry Christmas!

What a Christmas. It was perfect. And I think it was exactly what my mother was hoping I would allow to finally happen. This Christmas wasn't spent in a fog of missing my mother. It was another one where I faked my way through it. It was not another one where I held myself back from enjoying the holiday with loved ones and friends. Instead, I allowed myself to be present to each and every moment. And I truly could not have asked for a better experience.

Christmas started early given that the love of my life and myself ended up opening every present we had for each other in the wee hours of Christmas day. Truly, I wanted to exchange one present Christmas Eve and leave the rest for the morning. But after we each opened one . . . we decided to just keep going. And it couldn't have evolved into a more spectacular Christmas. And, though I got awesome gifts . . . the joy for me was watching him as he opened up each gift and seeing his face light up or break out into a huge smile. There were practical and extravagant gifts, but each had its own meaning or story. They were thought out carefully because I had learned to do what my mother taught so well, which was to pay attention. Pay attention to everything. There may be those random statements that really aren't so random that will lead to something big, like some of the gifts that I ended up getting for my loved one. When we were opening up gifts, I knew my mother was with me because what really mattered most to me was him opening his gifts and for me to see his reaction.

I recall from an early age that my mother would spend hours in a mall looking, just looking, around at different things and thinking about who needs what or who would appreciate something that caught her eye. My mother didn't just buy gifts for people to have something to give. There was thought, careful thought, for each and every gift purchased. Some may think that purchasing a tie for a man is simple - but not to my mother. She thought about the man, the colors he wore or colors that would best suit him. She thought about his personality, etc. Interestingly enough, I did purchase a tie for the love of my life for Christmas. But it wasn't just a tie. First, it was bought from a store that I knew he loved. Second, I thought about everything that my mother always articulated when she was selecting a tie for a man. I thought about the suits he had, the colors he looked best in and his personality. The things that he liked the best - nothing flamboyant or loud, rather something that was simple yet elegant. I spent much time online looking at different ties that were offered before I went to the store. And when I went to the store, though it was a quick decision, I went through an abbreviated process to  make my final decision. And in the end, it was perfect. He loved it. It was so perfect that when he saw the bag, he thought I was playing a joke on him. 

The best Christmas present for me was watching my man open up each gift that was carefully selected for him. And it was because of the many lessons my mother taught me that I didn't even know she was teaching. That, is also the best Christmas present ever.

** I hope each and every one of you had a wonderful Christmas with your family and loved ones. And thank you for taking time out of your day to read my blog and leaving comments. I appreciate it all.

In appreciation . . .

While reading the ending of The Joy Luck Club, a line resonated within that I think explains so much of my guilt that I've had since my mother passed away. For those of you who don't know the basic story line of the book, here it is. The story revolves around a daughter whose mother passed away and the close friends of her mother's and their daughters. The points of view shift throughout the story and the main lesson to be learned, in my opinion, is how the mothers' pasts shaped, either directly or indirectly, the lives of their daughters. In the book, the last chapter is from the motherless daughter's point of view. And she says, "They'll think I'm responsible, that she died because I didn't appreciate her." That realization is the very same thing I feared when my mother was dying, or rather I feared that, in my case, my mother would die thinking I didn't love her. For I certainly thought my mother died hating me. And that, couldn't have been farther from the truth.

So, there it is . . . it seems so simplistic, so easy. But, it is full of so much emotion from the past. I know that there is no way my mother knew, at least from my words and, likely actions, that I appreciated her. That I admired her drive for what she believed in. That while I thought she was ridiculously stubborn, strict and unflexible she was appreciated. That she was loved so dearly by me. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty, so of course I always think about what I could have done differently, what I could have said. This is true down to the very last time I saw her. The last time I saw my mother, I didn't even speak to her. She was laying in her bed, floating in and out of consciousness. Truth be told, I didn't even approach her. Part of me was afraid, part of me was angry, part of me was being stubborn. It was resolved in my mind that I was done meeting her more than halfway and walking away angry, disappointed because she would just push my buttons. Yes, she managed to do that even while in her last weeks, days. I couldn't see the bigger picture. I couldn't see past my own anger and bitterness. I couldn't see past my own fear because seriously, what would I do if she did die? To approach her, see her as she really was, to me, would only be acknowledgement of what was going on. And that was the last thing I wanted to do. She was my mother . . . there was no way she was actually going to die. But, the thing is, she did. And she did so without my ever telling her how I really felt. She did so and I lost my chance to tell her that regardless of everything I loved her and appreciated everything she had ever done for me. And moreso, that I appreciated every lesson and value that she instilled in me. 

Now, I know that most will say of course she knew that I loved her and that of course she knew that she was appreciated by her only daughter. But of all times for my words and voice to fail me, the last time I saw my mother couldn't have been a worse time. I truly didn't think that she would die two days later. I thought there would be more time. I thought, next time. And so, I've spent the last eight years searching and searching for the answers. Searching for closure, searching for peace. And this year has been the first year where I feel as though the pieces are falling into place. Where I have been open to really reflecting on her life and her actions as well as what my actions are and have been; what my life has been and is. I think this is the first year where I am able to say that through my actions, will my mother or anyone else be able to see that I truly did appreciate her and all that she did. Put all her professional achievements aside . . . it's her personal side that I appreciate. The hardness, the stubbornness, the sillyness, the pure fun that made her who she was. It is mainly due to her that I am the way that I am. It is because of her that I have such firm stances on how I would like my children to be raised. It is because of her that I know what I do and do not want for my professional life. And I'm not saying that in a bad way. And though I don't want every aspect of my married life to reflect what her marriage was to my father, I do know that there are incredible aspects of their marriage that I would want mirrored in my own. 

It is because of my mother that I know who I am. Or at least really seeing and learning who I am. It is because of every aspect of my mother's life that I know what I want for myself and those who I include in my life. How could I not appreciate an incredible woman like that? It's absurd. But, admittedly, I thought for so long that it was my fault. That I didn't love her enough, didn't see her enough, didn't talk to her enough, didn't let her know enough that through it all she was an incredible mother. I know that she died because she was diagnosed with lung cancer well into its last stages where much couldn't be done. I know, rationally, that once it had spread to her bones and her brain that much couldn't be done. But, it didn't negate the incredible amount of guilt I felt. And it is really only now that I understand and realize where that guilt came from . . . that all would think she died because I didn't appreciate her enough. Because quite honestly, it was no secret among the entire family and friends that my mother and I fought more often than not. That's the shame that I brought on and carried myself. Is it true that people blame me for her dying because I didn't appreciate her enough? Reality and rational thinking would say no. But, that's where I was in my head and emotions. And when it comes to emotions of that caliber . . . reality and rational thinking don't really guide. 

Now, I know that it is my responsibility to live my life and quietly demonstrate my appreciation of my mother's life and all the lessons that can be learned. It is my job, as her only daughter, to pass on her knowledge, values and whatever else to my children (hopefully including a daughter) and all those around me. Appreciation is not done with words alone. 

Tis the season . . . tis the time

Since 2000, I have gone through each Christmas motherless. And I haven't exactly done it with very much grace, either. 

2000 - I was an absolute wreck because it was just over a month since my mother passed. If I recall correctly, my brother and I argued and my father retreated to his own space.

2001 - I stayed in Virginia with my friends. But, I think, for all intents and purposes, I boycotted Christmas. It was more of me just going through the motions. I was numb. Still.

2002 - Again, I was away from my father and brother. No one really pressed the matter . . . we were all trying to find our own way through it all. To borrow a line . . . I got by with a little help from my friends.

2003 - It was my first year of law school. And, even though I spent six months away from my father, I really didn't want to spend Christmas in the home where my mother passed. So, again, I stayed away. 

2004 - This was the first Christmas I spent in Pennsylvania and with my father and brother. Suffice it to say, it was a bit awkward and uncomfortable. It just didn't feel right. But, we muddled through.

2005 - I honestly don't remember what happened for Christmas. 

2006 - My brother, newly married, didn't come home for the holiday. I really had no desire to spend the holiday with my father as he had recently re-married and, well, I wanted nothing to do with his new wife. I spent the holiday with an ex-boyfriend and his family. 

2007 - Let me start with Christmas Eve . . . well, the long and short of it is that I was ridiculously depressed and I missed my mother so much it hurt. It was as if I was experiencing the loss all over again. That is how raw and crushed I felt. There's really no other way to put it. No one could help me out of it. I didn't want anyone's help, actually. I pushed everyone away. It was all I could do to ensure I didn't drown in my own misery. No joke. It was not one of my most stellar moments. In fact, it was horrible. But, all I wanted was my mother. No one could help me with that, so I hid. I spent Christmas away from my father, as he now lives on the west coast most of the time. The holiday was spent on a plane going to Las Vegas with an ex-boyfriend. I had to work while travelling. And, to be honest, I really didn't want to be on that trip.  At all. 

It's now 2008 and I can't believe that with Christmas approaching, I am doing well putting one foot in front of the other. The Christmas cards are addressed and waiting for stamps. I've managed to get my father his present and send it on its way. Most of my shopping for the love of my life is complete. The stuff that's left is to make my annual Christmas cookies and celebrate Christmas with loved ones. I won't be with my father this year, but that's okay. He'll be out west with his new wife and friends. I'll be here celebrating Christmas Eve and Christmas with loved ones. And I truly cannot wait.

Now, I'm not naive to the fact that I will probably think of my mother on Christmas Eve and Christmas . . . and I'm not ignorant to the fact that I'll miss her terribly. But, what I can say is that for the first time I truly feel like it's time to make the holiday joyous again. It's time to embrace the family that remains behind and the family that is to be. It is time to let go of not wanting to let go of my mother. I know that is what she would want. I know that of all things I could do for her for Christmas, it would be to realize that she wants to me stop living standing still, afraid to move forward, to stop feeling guilty for really moving on with my life, to let her go and be at peace. 

So, Christmas is about joy, love and peace. I have much joy in my life for one of the first times ever since my mother died. I have love in my life in quantities that amaze me sometimes. And now, my gift to my mother is to let her soul go and be at peace; to allow myself to continue living at peace, knowing that my mother lives within.

Christmas progression

As Christmas draws near, I have to admit that I really don't know how my mother did everything that had to be done. In addition to her working full time, there were so many things that had to be done before the annual Christmas trip to Taiwan. There were presents to be bought for her office employees, her friends in addition to all the presents that had to be bought for anyone she could think of that we would and might see when in Taiwan. Then there were the presents for my father, brother and, of course, me AND all of her brothers and sisters and their kids. I think all of this generally started right after Thanksgiving. 

Today, I was doing some Christmas shopping and while I was driving from place to place it was snowing. At certain points, there were the big fluffy snowflakes. The ones that just make you want to stick out your tongue and catch the snowflakes. I was stopped at a traffic light when all the years of Christmas shopping with my mother came flooding back. However, to my surprise, I did not get depressed or as sad as I am known to get when my mother came to my mind. Rather, I smiled to myself thinking that slowly but surely I am, again, stepping into her shoes. I knew this to be true when I found myself in a store contemplating wrapping paper . . . when I was deciding on which Christmas cards to purchase . . . knowing exactly what I wanted from a particular store . . . hemming and hawing over whether a particular item would be suitable as a gift. I did not do that much wandering through stores, but when I did . . . I could feel my mother right there along my side. I could see the process she went through selecting items as potential gifts and realized that I was doing the same thing. It felt so familiar. So comfortable.

Now, that is not to say that everything went off without a hitch because there was a glitch or two. But that's okay. I really don't mind that there was a glitch here or there because I learned how to approach the situation next Christmas. The point is that I could not be happier to be at a point in my life where I am embracing Christmas again and all that it entails. I am moving forward, putting one foot in front of the other. I am embracing at yet another opportunity where I am able to put all that my mother taught and emulated for me into practice. 

More than just memories

4As Christmas nears, scads of holiday memories come to mind . . . the many family trips to Taiwan to visit my mother's mother, the year I discovered that Santa's handwriting looked a lot like both my mother and father's handwriting, the year we opted for Hawaii instead of Taiwan . . . the list goes on and on. There are quite a few holiday memories where I just sit and giggle or groan to myself thinking about the family Christmases. 

One of the most memorable Christmases was the year my family moved to Philadelphia many years ago. Because of the move, my mother made the decision that we would not be going to Taiwan, rather we were staying in Philadelphia to finish unpacking the house and getting it organized. Woohoo!!! I remember thinking that was awesome, because I really didn't feel like going to Taiwan. AGAIN. Not that I don't love my grandmother and seeing her, but the trip does get tiring year after year after year. You know? So, anyway . . . one night, my mother and I were unpacking boxes in the dining room. I have no idea what time it was, but I remember that we were getting somewhat delirious and we'd start laughing for no particular reason. Now, I don't remember the exact order of events, but at some point, my mother ended up in a moving box, legs flopping about, with a moving sticker on her forehead. I remember laughing my head off at her AND taking a picture. The funniest thing is that we were laughing so hard that she couldn't get out of the box.

I had that picture of my mother for years. It reminded me that it is possible that my mother and I get along and have a good time. It often reminded me of the fact that my mother did have a sense of humor and could be ridiculously silly. After many moves of my own once I was out of college, I lost that picture. Or, admittedly, maybe I threw it out in a fit of anger at my mother at some point. I guess it doesn't really matter though, because I have that memory. I'll always have that memory. And nothing, except for maybe Alzheimer's, can take that (along with all my mother mom-memories) away. Sure it'd be great to have the picture just to show other people, but I know within my core that even though my mother and I fought more often than not, there were those incredibly fun and silly times together. 

There was probably a period of time when I was unable to think about happy times with my mother because of all the anger and bitterness that was built up inside me. I spent so much time being angry that I was unable to cherish the time we had together after my mother was sick. I was unable to let go of the anger from the past to just be with her, especially in the end. Going to my parent's house was a struggle because I didn't want to deal with her. Even as she got sicker, my mother still had a way of pushing just the right button and then in less than five minutes we were arguing. The anger was so strong in me, that I couldn't just let it be and try to find a way to cherish what ended up being the last few moments I had with my mother. 

Now, the anger has subsided along with the bitterness. I've found a way to be okay with everything that transpired between my mother and I. It's the only thing I could do so that I can be in a place where I want to celebrate my mother's life and remember all of our happy and silly times together. I want to be in that place so that as my own family develops, I will be able to share stories, good and bad, of the most incredible mother I could have ever had. As each day passes, I understand her life's importance. 

The weak spots

I’ve recently been reading The Joy Luck Club by Amy Tan, again. I can’t tell you just how many times I’ve read this book. Nor would I be able to tell you just how many times I watched the movie. I recall that when I first read the book, I saw so much of me and mother in the individual characters. When I saw the movie, I believe I walked out because it affected me that much. I don’t think I ever walked out of a movie before or after that one time. I don’t know what came over me to read this book again, right now, given that there is a list and stack of other books that I want to read. Not to mention that I’m still working my way through two other books. Regardless, here I am reading The Joy Luck Club yet again.

I must admit that reading TJLC again, I now have a different perspective. A different set of eyes reading the book and absorbing the information. I now read lines or portions of the text and either realize exactly what the lesson is or have multiple experiences of my own that can relate to what I’m reading. So, I’ve taken to writing down excerpts that stand out to me as they have given me many ideas to build on for my own purposes.

While I was reading last night, I came across a portion of text that referred to the invisible barriers that a character had created in order to protect herself from her mother’s attacks. Not the direct attacks where it’s clear what the purpose is, but the indirect attacks. The attacks that hit at our very core. Our weakest spots. Now, I am sure that any mother knows how to do this, but in my experience, from what I’ve seen, Chinese mothers seem to have this down to an art. That both of you could be in a regular conversation alone or with others, and without even skipping a beat or tone. That was exactly how my mother could be when we were together.

My mother knew exactly what buttons to push. She knew exactly what to say. And even moreso, she would say her sharp, cutting words in such a regular tone of voice that it would get me at more core like you wouldn’t believe. And it was all the more frustrating when she would do this when we were in mixed company. It’s not like I can have such a reaction when we are in front of others. (In fact, the only times I’ve ever been saved from my mothers sharp words was if her mother was around.) And it got so bad that I never knew if my mother was being light-hearted or cutting with her words. Hitting my weak points seemed to come so easily. She had a way of doing this that I felt as though just about everything she said to me had some sort of hidden meaning that was meant to grind my nerves.

Now, the bad thing about this is that I learned how to do this very same thing. Just as my mother could cut me to the quick in about three sentences or less, I too, am capable of doing the same thing. And I am learning on a daily basis how to not exercise that skill that my mother perfected. It hurts too many feelings and leaves feelings of inadequacy or resentment for which I want no responsibility. At least most of the time I just make these comments under my breath or in my head . . . it's much better that way. I only wish my mother could have seen that when it came to our interactions. I mean, I know that my mother's job was to be my mother and help me better myself. However, I don't think that includes cutting me to the core with her words that she knew would hit me where it hurt the most. I remember the first time I brought home a 92 on a test. What does she say to me? Where are the other eight points. I constantly heard the barrage of questions or wonderings aloud of why I couldn't be more like my brother, why couldn't I have friends like my brother . . . the constant devaluing of the choices I made in my life. The constant disapproval of just about everything. Focusing on all the times I wasn't around with my family rather than the times where I did pull through for my family. I constantly felt the frustration. I constantly felt the sting of my mother's extremely well-placed words.

To this day, I am still recovering from my mother’s ways. The one that has had such a lasting impact is not taking everything that everyone says so personally. That comments aren’t always full of hidden meanings, but that they are exactly how they sound. And that not everyone is trying to cut me to the quick and have me feel small by their words. It is a daily process to keep the invisible barriers down so that I don't respond defensively or passively to what people may say. Words are words. That's it. Not everyone has mastered the art of using words to the degree that my mother has. And even if they have, not everyone sees the benefit in mastering the art of hitting the weak spot as my mother did.

At this point, it is what I make it . . . or not make it. 

I'd like the usual, please.

The times I feel the loss of my mother tends to be around the holidays. Since my mother's passing, my brother, father and me couldn't be more geographically challenged if we tried. And, with the past few years, I've truly learned who are true friends. 

When I was a kid growing up, the Christmas tradition became easy to remember - we went to Taiwan each year, with the rest of my mother's brothers and sisters and my cousins to see my Grandmother. There was no doubt about any of that. As we got older, maybe not all the cousins would go to Taiwan, but for many years, that's all I knew for Christmas. And what an ordeal that would be. The shopping for people we would see while in Taiwan started early. My mother, who was great at selecting just the right gift for someone, took forever when we would go shopping. When all the shopping was completed, my mother and I would lay everything out, going over who was getting what and what gifts were extras. Then, the task became arranging all the gifts in a suitcase so they would stay in their respective grouping. That was what Christmas was almost every year I can remember up until the end of my college years. When the trips to Taiwan ended . . . I don't think I spent another Christmas with my mother. 

There was a period of time where my mother and I didn't speak. I mean it, we really didn't speak. At all. After a couple of years and many interventions, we were able to come to a point where I could tolerate her presence. And I think she may have felt the same way. And though she was sick, I was looking forward to spending some time with her around the holidays. I had missed the usual family gatherings during the time when my mother and I didn't talk. However, in 2000, spending time with my mother around the holidays was not meant to be. I didn't even get a little bit of Thanksgiving with my mother. 

For a few years, I had my own holiday traditions, but that soon came to an end when I came back to Pennsylvania and decided to stay. And now, I find that I feel a little at sea with the whole celebrating the holidays thing. Now, don't get me wrong - I love Christmas and everything that goes along with it. Well, almost everything. I could do with out the egg nog. I love Christmas carols and the Christmas shows. But, I do miss the Christmas traditions. The things that were constants for me at Christmas - shopping with my mother, decorating with my mother, travelling to Taiwan with my mother . . . All these things that I did with my mother.

I know that the past is the past and there is no way for me to go back. And I know there is no way for me to make my present or future exactly the way as my past was. But, there are just those times when I feel so disorganized or disconnected from the holidays because I find that I am missing my mother and want to do all the things that I once did. The flip side is that I can remake Christmas and start my own traditions. And then I only hope that the holidays will become less disconnected feeling and more family feeling. 

I would if I could

Some days it's just not enough to know that everything is the way it's supposed to be. I know that in my mother's last months, she was in a lot of pain and not in any condition that she wanted to be in. And I also know, without a doubt, that she left on her own terms. Because all else was taken from her - strength, health, etc. - she had to have the last say, somehow. In many ways, I am grateful that she decided when she was ready to let go. And when she did . . . I know she went peacefully. But seriously, there are just some days when that just isn't good enough for me. It doesn't bring me a sense of peace. I know her passing is not about me, it's not about her family or friends and the work she left behind. There are some days, though, when it feels too lonely without her here. 

As an adult in the stages of preparing to begin a life with another individual, there are days when I wish she were here to talk to and hear her opinion and thoughts. By her dying, the opportunity for our relationship to come full circle, whether it was meant to or not, was taken. I was robbed. I want to believe that at some point, my mother and I would have come to some sort of middle ground. A place of understanding for each other. A place where we could interact as adults and not just mother and daughter. A place where she could see me as her daughter about to get married, hopefully have children and be with me along the way. To be with me to provide her experience, her wisdom. As things have changed for me in this past year, what is abundantly clear to me is that I wade through this without her. That I go through the highs and lows, the good and bad and everything else in between without her.

I don't deny that there are women in my life who would gladly provide their pearls of wisdom and past experiences to help me along the way. But, to that, I have to admit, I tend to have no interest. I try to remain steadfast with an open mind, but that tends to prove harder than I think. It's just not the same. It's not my mother. I know that it would only be to my benefit to reach out and have an open  mind, but there's always the obvious - whoever that woman may be that I reach out to or seek comfort or knowledge from is not who I really want. I recognize that isn't fair to others and I struggle to resolve that problem. I know this is my obstacle. I want to think that as the pain and sadness lessens, my willingness to be open to others will blossom, if not completely, then just enough so that I may continue to learn from those who have come before.

She was, I wasn't

As my writing takes on different paths, I realized recently that there is a path that I will have difficulty going down if and when the time should come for me to take that journey. I really don't know much about my mother aside from her professional life and the interactions I saw myself. I don't know much about my mother when she was a child, a teenager or adult. I don't know what it was like when her brothers and sisters would stay with her and my father when they came to the United States to study. I don't know how she and my father met or what their courtship was like. I don't know what my parent's life was like before they had children. There are so many things that I don't know that I want so much to know. I know that I would like to know all these things and more - what were the relationships like between my mother and her siblings. How did she feel when she had children. Did my mother ever get into trouble as a child, teenager or adult? So many unanswered questions. These are the things I feel I lost out on given the fact that I no longer have my mother to turn to so I may ask these questions. Somewhere within me lies the curiousity and the want to reach out to my mother's remaining siblings to ask these questions and more. Is it too intrusive or would they welcome the opportunity to share these stories that I don't know about my mother? There are so many things I want to ask my father . . . but he is unable to utter one or two words about my mother without breaking down into tears. Would he welcome the opportunity to share with his daughter how he and my mother met? How they fell in love? How they felt when they had children? 

I want to know who she was so I may learn more about who I am and draw my own conclusions about how similar and different we are. Or maybe how as mother and daughter we complemented each other. Or not, for that matter. I know that I am my mother's daughter in so many ways. But those are characteristics or traits that we share. Do we share any similar stories, though? I want to come to a place where I understand her better. 

One part of her story that I do know . . . I am not the only daughter of Chinese parents who knew all too well that there was one child who was the apple of one or both parents' eyes. According to my aunt, my mother was always number one in my grandmother's eyes. Not one of my mother's four brothers and sisters could outdo my mother or take her place. My aunt explained that they all knew that, so no one ever tried to take her place or change that fact. And, oddly, my aunt didn't seem the least bit upset. She conveyed the story from a place of acceptance and calm. I remember for years it was so obvious that between my older brother and I . . .  he was the golden child. In my parents' eyes, my brother could do no wrong. He was the oldest. He was the male. And seriously, he could do no wrong. It was he who always had the "right" friends, good grades, etc. Me? I couldn't have been more inopposite of my brother, and that's not by accident. Though, I think even as babies and small children, we couldn't have been more opposite. To this day . . . as far as I can see or hear, in my presence, my father generally speaks of my brother as if worshipping him from afar. Not in my presence, though, things are not as they appear . . . but that's for another day. 

My mother was number one . . . her siblings would never be number one. I was never number one . . . my brother was always the apple of my parents' eyes. I think that is one of many factors that contributes to the dynamic of the relationship between my mother and I. Clearly, we don't share that story . . . rather we complemented each other. We balance that part of our independent stories. How awesome is that?

From generation to generation . . .

So, Thanksgiving came and went without much incident. The event was so filled with activity and new things that I really didn’t even have a chance to think about my mother. Although, there was one moment where thoughts of her came to mind. 

Let me set up the scenario: it was the first parent gathering for me and my significant other. And I was completely drowning in nervousness because, well, my father’s wife chooses to not speak a lot of English (though she understands quite a bit) and my father has a tendency of switching to ornery old man very easily. Forget all the other fears and thoughts that were plaguing my mind, those were the two that were really weighing me down. However, not much time goes by and I see, okay, things are going smoothly. So, then, without thinking twice, I begin doing what my mother has taught me so well to do – I begin helping my significant other’s mom with putting food out, etc. I immediately clear after each course. I feel good about this because not only do I want to help, but I know my mother is looking down smiling. The end of the meal comes and the table is being cleared, just as it’s been for every other course. At this point, there are only some glasses remaining on the table and random silverware. I return from the kitchen and am about to sit down when my father’s wife tells me to clear the glasses. It took less than 10 seconds (no joke) for every resentful bone in my body to flare up. I purposely did not clear the remaining clean glasses in the event that people wanted a different beverage for dessert. So, I wave her off saying not now and go to sit down. She then proceeds to physically touch me to clear the glasses. Now, I want to punch her. Ok, maybe not punch her . . . but, I really wanted to look at her and ask who she thought she was because seriously, she’s not the one who raised me or taught me how to conduct myself when having a meal at someone else’s home. This is where the significant other very quietly (and calmly) touched me and asked me to please just do what she asked. For him – I did. Had I been left to my own devices, I would have sat my weary behind down and ignored her. 

Now, let me say . . . I do not disrespect my elders. BUT, do not talk to or treat me as though I have no idea how to conduct myself. This applies moreso to my father’s wife than anyone else. And there I am not joking. To sing my mother’s praises . . . she did an EXCELLENT job of raising me, especially when I wasn’t acting like such a brat. But, when it comes to hosting and being an active participant when at someone else’s home – my mother knew exactly what to teach and show me and how to do things discretely or without having to be asked. 

So, the last thing I truly needed on Thanksgiving night was for someone to try and change what my mother taught me years ago. I take great offense that this woman, yes, I said “this woman”, thought that she had any place in telling me how to conduct myself at the home of my significant other’s parents. This was her FIRST time there . . . this was NOT my first time. I have had Sunday meals there and have helped in the style of my mother each and every time. And I think if something weren’t satisfactory or appropriate about what I did, I would know about it already. 

My mother was the most incredible host along with an incredibly active guest. She instilled every bit of her manners and skills in me, starting from an early age. And I’ve never forgotten a single iota of what she taught me. She would always tell me that if I looked bad it was my fault, not hers because she made sure to teach me everything I needed to know. So, to have some woman who has only been a member of my family for five years attempt to “mother” me was incredibly insulting and offensive. That is the one area where my temper and anger flares. I have one mother and one mother only. And because this woman married my father does not mean I want anything to do with her attempts at mothering me or giving me advice that my mother would dole out. 

Call it childish, call it being close-minded . . . but, I can say with great confidence that between my mother and I . . . there was knowledge on being a hostess and/or guest passed on that does not need or warrant any sort of improvement or alteration. Nor do I want any improvement or alteration unless it is mine.

These are some of the lessons that I have learned from my mother that will be the ones I want to pass on to my children. Without the input of anyone other than me.

The Next Breath

Well, the hard part is over. The eighth anniversary of my mother's passing is over. And, surprisingly, it went smoothly. I was with my father, his wife and my significant other, who could not have been a stronger rock for my roller coaster emotions. 

And then I thought, well, ok, so it's over, so what's next for all my writing? It started as a cathartic thing for all my feelings and emotions as her anniversary approached. And it worked. It brought a lot of clarity to me and my feelings. Then, I thought about my original goal when I started writing again. Last year. Yeah, a while ago. My original goal at that time was to do a crapload of writing to put together in a book and maybe even publish. The thought was to record my journey of healing, mainly healing from my mother's death. But, then, last night, I thought - there's so much to write about. The healing from my mother's death. The journey of my discovery of my mother in me. The lessons learned from my mother. Basically the good, the bad, the ugly. And, possibly even something that my children may read to learn about their grandmother and how their own mother was raised.  The journey of healing and learning will be lifelong one in which I am excited to record. So, join me if you will.

With brutal honesty about one of the most unsettling relationships I will ever have, perhaps it will bring me peace. Perhaps it will bring you peace or realizations that you thought not possible.

Who I am

I wonder sometimes if I really know my mother . . . if I ever knew her. It's funny because a few years ago, I probably would have scoffed at someone who asked me to talk about my mother and what I knew her to be, etc. Honestly, I probably would have been incredibly positive about the professional side of my mother, but not so much about her personal side. The truth of the matter is that I do know my mother and I am able to be positive about her professional and personal side. See, the bottom line is that my mother is in me . . . she is part of me. Down to the very core. 

I chuckle to myself when I realize my night vision is horrible. Or when I am ridiculously stubborn with others or myself. A smile rises from the depths when I realize that in a shop full of items, I am drawn to the ones of the highest quality (and likely to cost the most). When I find myself suddenly incredibly impatient or intolerant of others at times, I shake my head because that is so my mother.

When I see how I am today and how I have been, I am able recognize immediately where that particular characteristic/trait came from. It's easily identifiable as to whether it is my mother's or father's. As I would recognize a trait of my mother's in me, it used to make my skin crawl. It gave me no joy whatsoever to say to myself, I am my mother's daughter. However, today is a far different story. I have come to a place where I embrace each and every characteristic that is either my father's or my mother's. I am able to say that yes, I am my mother's daughter and enjoy making that statement. That's just another way to keep her spirit alive and honor her memory.

Ordinary day

So, today is the day. To my surprise, it's been relatively smooth sailing. I didn't wake up with a shroud of grey over my head. I didn't wake up not wanting to face the day. I woke up with somewhat a sense of renewal . . . a feeling that it is time to turn things around.

I went about the normal morning routine. Took the dog for a walk - we ran into a good friend with her dog. It was nice to spend some time catching up and watching the dogs run around and play. Got home, brought in the paper, made some coffee and actually interacted with my father's wife. This is a first for me - to interact with her and actually enjoy the conversation and not feel resentful that it should not be her standing there. Had some early chatting with my father then proceeded to do the crossword puzzle as I drank my coffee. It's like any other ordinary Saturday - except for the fact that my father is here and it has now been eight years since my mother's death.

It seems, in many ways, that this year is a turning point or a point of change for my father and I with respect to handling this day. My father didn't arrange a service or big gathering to honor my mother's memory. I am smiling, enjoying the day. It is as if in some non-verbal and unexplicable way, my father and I silently agreed to just let this be another ordinary day. Yes, we will go and see my mother and place a wreath of flowers at her site. And then we'll have lunch, as we do every year on the anniversary of her passing. However, it is without ceremony and formality that this will be done. We will each honor her and think of her, but then let the day pass as if it were any other ordinary day. And maybe, just maybe, that's how we need to look at it so that we may continue to put one foot in front of the other and continue moving on and letting go. Because, really, it is just another day. Neither my father nor I need to commemorate my mother's memory any differently than we would on any other day. This is just a day.

But, if this is just a day . . . it just doesn't feel that way.

A letter

Dear Mom,

Well, tomorrow it will be eight years since you have left a world of physical pain. And also, eight years since you left us behind. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't think about you. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't wish you were here. Though I know letting you go puts us both at peace, it is still such a difficult task.

I'm sitting here listening to Christmas music, and your favorite one, "O Holy Night" is playing in the background. And all I can think of are all the happy Christmases we had together, especially the first one we had when we moved to Philadelphia 20+ years ago. And how both of us would get eerily silent when "O Holy Night" would be playing. It snowed today, for the first time this winter. And I said how beautiful it is to you, under my breath. It was as if were right there in the car. If only.

I miss you like crazy. There are so many things I want to tell you, share with you. But, reality is that (1) I simply cannot do that and (2) you already are aware of everything. You know that I've fallen in love with an amazing man that I just can't wait to marry and have children with. You know that I've been wallowing in misery at times because I miss you. You know that my dog is growing up each and every day. You know. You know it all. You see it all. And I know that you see my attempts and small steps at moving forward. You already know that not every piece of jewelry on me was once yours. You already know that I am trying to let you go. But not because I want to forget you. But because that's what needs to be done to let the healing continue. Sometimes it's hard to remember that letting go doesn't mean forgetting you.

In fact, forgetting you just isn't possible. I am at a point now where I love sharing memories I have of you and me - shopping, when we first moved to Philly, our drives home with KFC in the car, your inability to get home successfully sometimes from the market (that was less than 10 minutes from our house) . . . how we used to watch "The Wizard of Oz" and "The Sound of Music" each year when there on television . . . tales of our shared stubbornness . . . I revel in all of it. So, while some things have changed, know that you'll not be forgotten. I can't wait for the hurt to lessen so the real joy of you being my mother may settle in. I can't wait to have children and tell them all about their grandmother and what an incredible woman she was. And I can't wait for the guilt of letting go subside so that I can just remember you with a smile on my face, always.

So, yes, the firsts now of my baked goods will go to my future husband. And if I have a daughter, I will learn from our mistakes so as to have a better relationship with my daughter than we were able to have before you left. Your strength of character, dedication to work and family along with your silliness will live on forever in me. I know you want me to move forward and take joy in all that I have . . . and I am trying to do that. Don't worry, I can feel your swift kick in my arse to nudge me along!


I love you, Mom.
Forever your daughter,
Kathryn

My lesson for you

She drove me nuts.
We argued within minutes of being together.
We rarely agreed.

We loved to go shopping together.
We loved our dinners out, just the two of us.
We watched cheesy TV together and swapped trashy novels or magazines.

We didn't exactly have an incredibly consistent relationship, but if nothing else, we were definitely mother and daughter. And despite all the screaming matches, disagreements and disappointments, there isn't anything I wouldn't do to have her here. There isn't anything I wouldn't do to be able to have just one more day, one more hour, one more minute with my mother.

Just one more moment in time to take in her breath, to take in her love. To tell her that above all and despite everything, that I love her. Just one more moment in time to bring closure to all that remained between us. Just one more moment in time for her to hear me call her "mom." Just one more moment to feel her presence.

I thought there would be more time. I thought she'd hang on just a little longer. I thought we would have the chance to come to a final place of agreement . . . even if it was just to disagree. I didn't think she would go so soon. I didn't think that there wouldn't be another chance to tell her how much I love her.

And these are the things that run through my mind each year as the date of her death approaches. It is this time of year when it sometimes becomes so hard for me to find my footing. To feel as though I have a place in this world. I never realized just how lonely it can be to NOT have a mother. Clearly it's not because I miss our friend-like relationship, but just the fact that one of my constants is no longer that - constant. It puts me a place where I have to find my strength of character to go about my daily business and function when that is the very last thing I want to do.

Time is precious.
Life is precious.
Our parents . . . they are precious.
Remember this when it's most difficult for you to do so. Remember this the next time you don't want to go and see your parents. Or pick up the phone and call them. Remember this when you think your parents are being oh so annoying.

This is our one chance in life to get it right with our parents. There are no mulligans. Once they're gone. That's it. And that is a hard pill to swallow when you live your life thinking there would always be more time.

Never put off tomorrow what you can do today.

Lessons

Last night I returned from a brief getaway to Orlando. I was right across the street from Disney World. Right across from where they have the one ride with the one song that my mother and I used to sing over and over again when I was younger. It’s a Small World. I remember the last time I was in Orlando, going to Magic Kingdom and riding on that ride was an absolute must. There was no getting around it, there was no way I wasn’t going to do that. This time – it was less of a must and more of a maybe. Surprisingly . . . the maybe didn’t bother me in the least. In fact, I started off thinking that I had to find a way to fit going to Magic Kingdom into the one full day I had in Orlando. And I couldn’t see that happening without wanting to lose my mind. And, quite frankly, in my mind, there were also other things that I wanted to take care of during the day. In fact, I could think of nothing more than helping out my significant other and taking care of what I needed.

So there was my sign. There were the flashing lights letting me know that in some way I was choosing to move on. That I was choosing to do what I am sure my mother has been wanting me to do since she died. Move on. Take care of myself. Live in the present. Admittedly, I have struggled with this since the day my mother left. I struggle with it as each year clicks by that she hasn’t been here. However, this year has been the first year where I’ve really felt okay and strong enough to take steps towards letting her go. It’s actually resonating with me that letting go doesn’t mean that I’m forgetting her or that I’m disrespecting her in some grand way. Rather, to move is honoring her and letting her be at peace.

This year has been a year of struggles and hard lessons learned. But it has also been the year of many incredibly wonderful lessons. Most of all, I’ve begun looking towards a life with someone who accepts me just as I am. Someone who has always allowed me to feel my grief and sadness. Someone who has reveled in the good with me. Someone who has always found a gentle way of letting me know that torturing myself and holding on so tightly to my mother aren’t exactly good things to do. And because of that . . . because of the freedom I have to talk about my mother and share the memories I finally feel and understand that letting go is exactly what I need to do to let my healing continue.

So, on this, the almost eight year anniversary of my mother’s death – I will strive to let her go and let her remain free so that we can both move on. And, on this the eighth Thanksgiving without her, I am grateful for a man who understands that to love me is to hold me when I cry for my mother and encourage me to let go of my past and embrace my future. Just as my mother would want me to do.

The ties that bind

For almost eight years, a piece of my mother has always been close. Ok, maybe not a piece of her, but something or some things that were once hers. Since the day she died, almost all my jewelry that I wear was hers - the first diamond earrings my father ever gave my mother along with a necklace and ring that she wore quite frequently. For eight years, nothing ever changed, unless it was to change my jewelry (to some other jewelry that was once my mother's) for a formal event. The construct was always the same though - earrings, ring and necklace was always something that she once wore. By doing this, I felt as though my mother was always close to me and it was a great source of comfort. But, it wasn't until recently that it occurred to me that maybe what I was doing wasn't the best of ideas. That by doing this on a daily basis I was trapping both myself and my mother.

Though my mother is gone . . . my inability to truly let her go has been debilitating to me and also to her soul. You may not believe in that, but I do. While I was trying so hard to hold on to her and keep her presence here, it just doesn't work like that way. She's gone. She's not going to come back . . . no matter how much of her jewelry I keep on my person. No matter how hard I think about her and remember her every single day. She's not going to materialize and suddenly be here, physically.

See, what I failed to realize completely is that she is with me. Everyday. That she is inherently a part of me. No kidding, right? But, it's funny how one can forget about this when it seems like the continuum has been thrown off. I am my mother's daughter. I have the freedom to think about her and honor her in any way I choose, whenever I choose. I don't need to have on a favorite ring of hers to honor her. I don't have to try and keep her alive in my mind and in everyone else's mind to respect her. I don't have to punish myself to make up for what never happened between my mother and I to honor her memory. And to make it seem like she died in vain. I don't have to do any of that. In fact, I have to do the complete opposite. I have to live.

I have to make the conscience decision every day to live the life that she would have wanted me to live. To be successful. To be happy. To not wallow in the misery of her absence. To remember her and laugh. To remember her and pass on all that I have learned form her to others and, hopefully one day, my children. I know that she would not want me to live like this, to live with such a death grip on the past. To live with such a hold on her soul because I don't want it to appear as though she's forgotten. What I do have to do is continue to move forward and let go of the sadness. To let go of the mourning. To let go of her.

So, I have taken more steps to completing the cycle of letting go. I have retired the notion that I must keep her close by having tangible pieces of her jewelry on my person. And I have taken action to break my debilitating cycle.

While I am moving on and letting go of her . . . she will never be forgotten. Her strength of character, the silly moments we shared and the lessons she taught me will be passed on and shared. I will honor her memory by living the life that I know she would want me to live. The life she would want me to live free of guilt and sadness.

She will always be with me. She was, is and will always be my mother.

Perspective

As each year passes since my mother died goes by, it still seems surreal. It still seems . . . unreal. But, what I do know and think about each year is just how much my mother's daughter I truly am. To be honest, I never thought I'd ever say something like that about me and my mother. To me, I thought to be like her would be the worst thing EVER. But, as the days pass . . . I couldn't be prouder of the fact that I truly am my mother's daughter. And that it's evident, even in some of the simplest and silliest ways. When I recognize the similarities, all I do is smile and laugh to myself. In other cases, I'll just say something to the effect of I have my mother to thank. And most times, I'm not being sarcastic.

I thought of this very topic last night while I was going home from work. It was later than I usually leave, so it was dark and rainy. After driving for a bit, I noticed my back was hurting as were my eyes. I took a minute to think about it and realized I was death gripping the steering wheel and squinting - yes, there it was . . . the lack of night vision that my mother has bestowed upon me. All I could do was shake my head, smile and chuckle quietly to myself.

In almost every way now, I am my mother's daughter. I am capable of her temper, incredible stubbornness and perseverence. I have her appreciation for the finer things in life, both shopping and dining, as well as her flair for being ridiculously silly. And while I revel in these thoughts, I have to wonder how my father feels about that. Whether when he looks at me, does he see my mother. And if he does . . . does he hate me for it? Those questions never occurred to me before until recently. It was pointed out to me that while I may feel abandoned by my remaining family members - it is appropriate to think about how my father must feel in comparison to the sadness I feel because my mother isn't here.

My father's partner of 25+ years is no longer here. He is a retired doctor . . . he couldn't save/ cure her. Their children remain one of whom is a daughter that in many ways is like his deceased wife. What he must feel when he looks at me . . . and then I wonder, what does he see. In so many ways, much of how my mother was is now a part of me - from the lack of night vision to making sure parties are planned for appropriately to the headstrong personality.

Being my mother's daughter . . . curse or blessing in disguise?

A new First

Last night I made dessert for me and my awesome significant other. I decided I would make chocolate lava cakes. Now, don't be impressed, really, because it was just a mix. The problem for me was two-fold - I wasn't in my own kitchen and this was the first time I've made these things. Whenever I tried a recipe for the first time . . . or whenever I would bake . . . firsts were always to my mother.

Whether it was chocolate chip cookies, blueberry muffins or a new recipe for dessert . . . my mother always had the first. I remember I would take a plate out, just for her . . . and as something came right out of the oven, she got the first one. Always. Even when I moved out of my house this would happen on days when I knew I would be going to see my parents. I would take the first and put it on a plate for her. It didn't matter if she was actually going to be the first to eat my creation, all that mattered was that she was the recipient of the first one.

So back to last night . . . I was baking these delicious looking chocolate lava cakes for dessert. As they were baking, the smell filled the house and was just awesome. I got blue for a moment because I realized that my mother would not be getting the first. But, the flipside of that is that my significant other would be receiving the first. And he will be receiving the first from here on out. That's not such a bad thing. If my original first's shoes must be filled, I truly cannot think of a better person to fill those shoes than he.

My mother had all my past firsts and she loved every single one (at least that's what she told me). I'll always want for her to be the first, but reality dictates otherwise. So, my significant other will have the present and future firsts. Not such a bad trade, in my opinion.

Fight or flight

Family. This time of year generally has me thinking a lot about family . . . the ones that are still here and those who have gone. It also reminds me of that "left behind" feeling. My mother is gone. My father generally spends most of his time in CA now. My brother is married and living in Shanghai. So, yes, I tend to get lost in that "left behind" feeling as the anniversary of my mother's passing approaches. The past few days, especially, I've been feeling especially blue and feel as though I have multiple personalities. It's amazing that anyone around me can deal with, what I think is craziness. Now, I do know that at some point, whether it be a couple of days or a week, I will shake these blues, sadness, whatever you want to call it. And I shared that yesterday while apologizing, yet again, for my recent craziness. It was at that moment that I was reminded that while it may seem as though everyone, in some way, has left me, I am in the process of building a family of my own.

Oh yeah, that's right! I'm building my own family. A family where life will be created and celebrated. A family where there will be no feeling of "left behind" - at least not immediately. the best part . . . I am creating a family with a man who I am so in love with. And this is the good stuff that I have to remember when all I want to do is be engulfed by the sadness that plagues me because my mother is gone. Yet keeping that perspective at the forefront of my mind is so difficult at times.

It remains difficult at times because I feel as though all I've been doing for the past eight years is re-building my life. Creating an existence without the presence of my mother. Re-creating my sense of family since now all that remains are the three of us . . . separated by ocean and land. And I have to admit that at times, it is just plain tiresome. All this rebuilding. Some days, I just want things as they were . . . the four of us.

But no, I must look forward and keep putting one foot in front of the other. Take comfort in the family I still have and continue to look forward to the family that I am creating. It's the circle and cycle of life. I can either fight it or welcome it. Some days I'm not sure what I want to engage in - a fight or life.

When I was just a little girl . . .

Given the time of year, I tend to think back of the moments of my mother and I. Most of those moments tend to be the funny . . . it's funny because most of those stolen happy moments I recall so often with my mother are ones that were so far and few between. Especially as I got older. However, my mind continues to hit rewind and play just the happy ones. I'm not disillusioned or that forgetful that I do not remember that most of the time, my mother and I fought like cats and dogs. I think at this point in time, it doesn't really matter. When I look back at times with my mother, there is already enough regret that just recalling the miserable times with her doesn't really make sense. So, yeah, I choose to remember the yearly Easter tradition where my mother gave me a chocolate Godiva bunny. Or the fit of laughter that she and I broke into when she thought she saw (identical) twins on a double date - and I mean, identical twin sisters on a date with identical twin brothers - only to realize that the couple was sitting right next to a mirror. Or the suddenly quick drives home when we had KFC in the car. Or the numerous times when we'd be out shopping and my mother would want ice cream, for example, and rather than just tell me she wants ice cream, she'd ask me if I wanted some. If I answered no, the woman would just stand there and pout and tell me I'm no fun.

The times that were the most fun were ones that usually involved shopping. Put my mother and I in any retail setting and the tensions that were between us simply melted away. I really have no explanation other than the fact that my mother and I always enjoyed shopping together. The purpose didn't matter, because usually there wasn't one. As I got older, the teasing would begin when one of us would be looking for something for me or come across something that I would like . . . when it was decided that I would get it - I generally played the "oops, I left my wallet at home" reel and though my mother would give me grief, in the end, she picked up the tab. And that was our song and dance. At the time, I always thought that I was pulling the wool over mom's eyes whenever she would finance our shopping trips, because let me tell you, when my mother and I went shopping, it was an all out event. We rarely came back empty-handed.

Looking back, though . . . I can't say that I was actually getting over on my mother. Looking back, I think it was her way of expressing a level of love or emotion that she was unable to articulate. Growing up, my family never really expressed our independent feelings. Nor was there ever many displays of affection, either. And my parents never really showed much affection towards each other. I think this always made me feel like a fish out of water because I always wanted the feel of my parents - something to make me feel safe. However, I rarely ever got that. It was generally a pat of some sort from my father and not much more from my mother. But, when it came to shopping or other events - it was no holds barred. As an adult I've come to realize that buying things or giving me excessive money when I went out was their way of showing their love. Though I thought it often as a child, it wasn't them trying to buy my love, but their way of just expressing their love because for whatever reason, they knew no other way. To engage in personal conversation or touch was beyond them.

This weekend I was on a mission for new black boots. I was also in quite a funk missing my mother. After some encouragement and nudging from my incredibly awesome boyfriend, I ventured to the outside world and went to find boots. When I finally managed to peel myself from the chasm of blankets and sadness, venturing into the outside world felt good and refreshing. After I successfully completed my quest of looking for new boots . . . I took a trip to a favorite store of mine to see what I could pick up. A little retail therapy never hurt anyone. While in the store, I was trying on a trench coat, admittedly the only trench coat I own was purchased well over 5 years ago and it was clear that it really doesn't fit properly. So, there I was standing in front of the mirror asking all the usual questions - does it fit right? Does it look okay? Will it fit properly even over a suit? And then I was hit with a wave of sadness. Suddenly, I couldn't help but notice that my mother wasn't here to answer my questions. That she wasn't around to tell me that I had indeed found the perfect trench coat. Before I could sink too far into the abyss of sadness, I hear a woman's voice telling me that the coat suits me and it looks great. I ask her if it's too big explaining that I had a thin t-shirt on underneath, she said no because I'll likely be wearing a sweater or suit jacket underneath. I thanked her and said she helped make my decision easy as she answered questions I was struggling with in my head. Before I had a chance to walk away, the very same woman asked me for my advice on two dresses she was holding. And for that moment in time, for that brief exchange with a complete stranger, it brought me back to those moments in time when my mother and I shopped together and had similar exchanges. As I walked to the register to pay for my belongings, all I did was smile to myself and knew that my mother was with me as she always has been and always will.

And as I walked out of the store, I recognized another sign that my mother was right there with me . . . I was humming one of our favorite songs.

What works for me

Truly, there is nothing worse than someone telling me that's it time I "get over it." Seriously, if you lost your mother, regardless of when, you would never tell another motherless child to "get over it." Second to that, don't tell a motherless daughter that the pain or grieve shouldn't still be debilitating - regardless of when it happens, regardless of how long ago her mother died. See, the thing that people do not realize is that you never really get over it. Obviously I cannot say that with 100% conviction. Nor is it a guarantee or absolute fact. However, from all that I have read, from all that I have heard from others . . . it is a loss that one does not wholly recover from. And finally, the fact that my mother isn't in pain anymore and is in a better place didn't bring me all that much comfort the day she left . . . so, honestly, it's really not going to bring me all that much comfort today. So, please, don't say anything remotely close to "but she's in a better place."

An old friend of mine would repeatedly tell me that it was time to move past the pain and, literally, to "get over it." Easy for anyone to say when both parents are still standing. Easy to say when you don't have to actually put that into practice. Death is hard enough to manage and cope with, let alone have to cope with the death of a parent at a time that just seems so unfair and wrong. But, to have someone tell you to get over losing half of the combination that made you? To get over losing someone who was supposed to guide me through having children? To get over someone who was supposed to do this, that and the other thing? You have got to be kidding me.

Here I stand approaching eight years to the day since my mother left this world. And still, unless I'm being irreverant to a telemarketer, I cannot bring myself to say that word . . . that she is de*d. I've said it out loud and it makes me want to vomit. Literally. Ok, so it makes me want to cry, be sad and all that other stuff. But, honestly, it makes me want to vomit. Why? What daughter, at any age, wants to say that her mother is dead? Even moreso, what daughter in her late 20s really wants to say her mother is dead. And realize that her mother won't be physically present when she gets married or when she has a baby.

So, as the 8-year mark of my mother's passing nears . . . this is what I need to help me through:

1. Do not tell me to "get over it."
2. Be gentle and kind with me. I'm just as irreverant and relentless as the next person, but this is a time when I need those around me to just understand that, yes, I am fragile.
3. Understand that the pain will be overwhelming at times so I may say things that are more a reaction to a feeling of being overwhelmed than actually a reaction to what you say or ask.
4. Let me have my day or two of wallowing. I need it. If those days come up for me, I need them. I need to be able to cry, watch sad movies, listen to sad music or whatever to help me get out the preceding days and months of missing my mother.
5. Do not tell me to "get over it."
6. Give me a wide berth . . . be cognizant that this is an extremely difficult time for me. The last thing I really want to do is remind anyone who is close to me of what's seemingly around the corner. This is especially annoying if we've had the conversation and yet you still look at me like I'm a freak when I'm over-emotional.
7. Accept the fact that you nor anyone else will be able to comfort me. But, the fact that you are listening to me talk and cry like crazy is awesome.
8. If I say I hate you and everyone else who has a mother . . . don't take it personally. I highly doubt I hate you if you're being a pillar of support/strength during this time.
9. If you ask me what I want or what you can do and I respond with something that implies my mother being here, just let me say it. You don't need to respond . . . I know it's not possible.
10. Do not tell me to "get over it."
11. Don't try and make a list of things for me to do (or something of the like) to distract me and keep me moving forward.
12. Don't problem-solve my feelings of sorrow, loss and emptiness. You can't. Just listen.
13. If I start to smell, am wearing the same clothes, am not eating or being remotely social for more than two days, you have my permission to kick my arse into gear.

I'm sure there are other things to add to my list, I just can't think of them at the moment. I generally go into hiding when this time of year approaches. However, as the years progress it's getting harder and harder to hide. But, I'm also finding that I don't want to hide. Yet, to rely on someone, anyone, during this time is incredibly scary. So, for those who find that I've been turning to you more . . . this is a partial, growing list of what works for me during this time.

So, thank you in advance for being such a good friend and staying by my side when I've asked during this difficult time.

Psst . . . if you tell me enough years have passed and that I should "get over it" - I may hurt you. Badly. ;o) Consider yourself warned.

There can be only one

This is the point that I think escapes people. When my mother died, what went with her was one of the two most important people in my life. For my entire life, my parents always said that the only ones I would be able to count on were my mother and my father. And, well, of course my brother. I remember my father saying this over and over again, even as I went into my twenties . . . my father constantly reminded me that the only people I would be able to truly and completely count on were my parents - my mother and father. So, the screwed up thing is that as much as I tried to not believe that, I did. I believed that my mother and father were always going to be there. That they would always be the two people who would pick up the pieces when they fell apart. That they would always be there to put me back together when I fell apart. Not that they ever really did . . . but, just knowing that I had them there in my corner (whether I believed that or not) always provided some sort of comfort. As I saw friends around me go through their parents divorcing, I took comfort in the fact that my parents stayed together - for better or worse. And believe me, there were times when all I wanted was for them to get divorced. Anyway, the point is that I was raised by a father who told me that he and my mother would always be there. But see, what he neglected to tell me were all the caveats. All the what ifs. All the possibilities of what could happen. So sure, you can say to yourself, well, gee . . . didn't it occur to you that you parents would die one day? Well, of course it did occur to me. Of course I knew that at some point in the far off future, my parents wouldn't be around. I didn't think that the natural flow of things would have a disruption. Never did I think I would have to deal with the death of my uncle (my mother's youngest brother) and maternal grandmother AFTER my mother died. Again, the natural flow of events was disrupted. At least in my world it was disrupted.

So, after my mother died, I've had some major milestones - I graduated from law school, my brother got married, my father re-married and I've moved into an incredible condo. I'm also about to embark on another journey, which is planning a wedding to the most incredible man I've known. And while it's awesome . . . again, my mother is not here to go through the process with me. Just as she wasn't here to see me graduate from law school and see my brother get married. I know that there are people in my life who will be more than happy and willing to help me plan my wedding . . . it's just not the same. And who knows how it would go if my mother helped me plan this wedding. But the fact remains that she would have been here to help or, at the very least, be part of the process dictating every little detail.

See, the point is that there is no substitute. There is no one who can take her place or even come close to it. And it's not that I want anyone to be able to do so, anyway. It's just the simple fact that a mother is like the swordsman out of "Highlander" - there can be only one. No one can come after. And those who try . . . not even close. I say this because this is what people need to remember. As far as mothers go - there is only one for every daughter. And when our mothers go . . . there is no replacing her. There is no substitute. There is no mother, per se. This is the daily struggle. The balance between embracing those who are here versus the one who isn't. If you aren't already, some day you'll walk in similar shoes as mine . . . and only then will you understand.

There can only be one.

Figuring it out

Anger. That was the strongest emotion, aside from sadness, that I felt after my mother died. I was angry that she was gone. I was angry that I didn't have resolution to our conflict. I was angry that I couldn't talk to my brother or my father about my feelings and what was happening to our family. I was angry. In one fell swoop, my world seemed like it was unraveling and I had no idea how to keep it together. The thought that my mother wasn't in pain anymore didn't bring me much comfort. It didn't ease the anger that I was feeling inside.

Anger. It describes the nature of the relationship that existed between my mother and I for as long as I could remember. I was in trouble more often than not. That made my mother angry. My mother was gone a lot for work, my father was gone during the week for work, my brother was in high school so he wasn't around much either. All of that made me angry. And the times when we were all together or some combination of the four of us together, I was angry because I felt like a fish out of water. I didn't feel like I belonged in my own family. That made me angry. When my mother died, the three left standing were like independent islands. We came together when we had to . . . but we co-existed when we did. That made me angry.

At some point, the anger dissipated and changed into an emotion that changes all the time. Sometimes I'm angry. Other times I'm sad. And when I'm not feeling one of those, empty, alone, depressed filled those gaps. There are times, though, when I remember what it's like to have fun or be happy and not feel guilty that I was feeling those emotions. I remember when I would stop myself from those feelings because it felt wrong. It felt like I was disrespecting my mother, but I know that what she would want is exactly that - for me to continue to move forward. For me to continue with my life and be successful. Admittedly, I feel guilty for doing so. Yeah, that's me - do the opposite of what someone would want. Seriously, it's not that difficult to do what's right . . . to do what comes naturally. It doesn't matter if it is exactly what another person would want from me.

It is now in my life when things are settling and making sense. So, of course, now is the time when I think I've been feeling the saddest and angriest since my mother died. All of these awesome things that are happening - I want her here with me. It's funny how all the feelings tend to come full circle at some point. How they all take turns in making their presence known within my being. What I have to remember is that while it's ok and natural to feel anger, sadness and guilt . . . there will be that moment in time when the feelings must switch for me to be in the present and not ruin it for everyone else.

Striking that balance . . . that's what I'm trying to figure out and do successfully.

Growing pains

Integrating the loss of a mother has its ups and downs. It's also an ongoing life process. And you better believe that there are some days when I feel just as sad as I did on the day she died and the days that followed.

This month will be the 8th year that my mother has been gone. Ok, fine, since my mother died. And I just experienced a couple of days that felt extremely familiar to the days of when she died. The sadness I felt, the depression that took a hold of me, the darkness that tried to consume me entirely. Grant it, there were some moments where the sadness completely took a hold of me and I had trouble finding my way out. There were moments where I thought my moods were going to drive me and everyone around me completely bonkers. In fact, I know I frustrated a specific someone this weekend with my Sybil-ness.

It's so not on purpose though. And this is truly the reason why I don't like people around me when I am going through some of the darkness. It gets bad. I get ridiculously sad, angry, bitter and resentful. And, I really don't want anyone around me who is going to try and be someone who won't let me feel the sadness or wallow, for just a bit. The thing about me is that I have to wallow in it. I have to get the sadness all over me before I can move forward. I move forward everyday, but as my mother's anniversary date nears each year, there is always a period of time I struggle with because of the hurt. Sure, I can focus on the people who are still here and are family. I can focus on the fact that I have my health, an amazing partner and the most incredibly loyal dog ever. But, really, for the two or three days when I feel so miserable and sad, the bottom line is that while I'm glad to have all of that, it doesn't change the simple facts that I (1) miss my mother; and (2) want my mother here. I know all the things and people who are still here. But, those moments in time are not about any of that.

So, unless I actually stay home from work day after day after day or lay in bed day after day after day . . . I'm allowed my sad days. I know eventually those won't all be sad days . . . but it's an ongoing life process. I guess it's just a different form of growing pains.

Gettin it right

Needless to say that Thanksgiving and Christmas 2000 weren’t joy-filled holidays. But, we made it through . . . somehow. And, the new year passed as did each day following. Life started to settle down and the days weren’t as difficult. I didn’t realize, though, that it was leading up to a calm before the storm. So, this is what happened . . . I was out with some friends on a regular Friday or Saturday night, I can’t remember which. It was April and probably one of the first times I agreed to go out with a group of people. I recall it was an ordinary night of shooting pool and hanging out. Nothing too out of the ordinary. The great thing about it is that I was having a good time. But the change took less than a split second. Suddenly I felt like the only person in a room full of people. My mood immediately sombered and all I knew was that I had to get out, I had to leave. The change was evident to everyone. And all of my friends tried to persuade me to stay, but I wasn’t having any of it. I had to leave. Immediately. I remember that when the mood changed, I couldn’t put my finger on what exactly was bothersome. I couldn’t figure what put me in such an immediate and rapid emotional spiral.

It was the day before Easter. Now, you may be asking yourself, what’s so special about Easter. Well, the answer is nothing. Absolutely nothing. EXCEPT for the fact that when I was younger, my mother and I would dye eggs. AND, until I graduated from college, each year, without fail, my mother gave me a Godiva bunny. It’s not like I was expecting a chocolate bunny this particular year. I hadn’t received one from my mother in at least five years. It was the memory of what was that sent me in a spiral. It was the memory and the idea that I’ll never be given another Godiva bunny on Easter by my mother. Ever.

See, when I went through some therapy and what not, no one told me that there would be random days or holidays that would unleash surges in grief and emotion. Easter of all holidays! But, it made sense. It didn’t matter that whatever I used to do on those holidays, for example, I didn’t do anymore. It was just the fact that I would never do them again with my mother that caused such turmoil. You see, I didn’t just stop there. I would continue the string of what won’t happen by stating she won’t be present to help me plan a wedding, she won’t be present when I have my first child . . . all these milestones in my life to come and she won’t be present. Physically present.

So, now, Thanksgiving and the 8th anniversary of my mother’s passing are fast approaching. And much as I’ve done since the first year of my mother’s passing, I mentally prepare myself. I’ve taken every approach that one can create and I haven’t been consistent as the years have passed, either. There are times when I hide, maybe I’ll allow one or two around me, maybe I’ll just want to be at my mother’s grave . . . I can never be sure the approach, I just know that I actively remind myself to be gentle with myself because of what’s approaching. While I am experiencing much of the same emotions and feelings as I usually do, there’s an added twist this year. There’s someone I want her to meet so much. There’s someone a part of my life now that I think she would truly have liked and welcomed into the family with open arms. It’s someone who, for the first time, I want to introduce to my mother. Alive or not, I don’t think I’ve ever had that feeling about any man who’s been a part of my life. I feel that way now because I think she’d laugh and see that I got it right this time. And I know she waited and hoped that I would . . .

Never give up . . . on anyone

I knew my mother was sick . . . I knew there wasn't much time left for her. But, I always thought there would be time for us to try and mend fences. I thought there would be time for us to find resolution and closure to the past together. I was wrong. I missed out on opportunity after opportunity to make amends with my mother, but towards the end, I gave up. If there's one trait I could say I definitely I inherited from my mother it's her stubbornness. Ok, and maybe a sense of pride. Though it is no excuse, I know that I gave up meeting my mother halfway because each time I did, it got me nowhere.

See, my mother and I were so similar that if you put the two of us in a room together (alone) the equivalent of a verbal World War III would break out. That’s just how we were . . . from the time I could probably speak, we rarely saw eye to eye on things. We were constantly arguing. But, the flip side is that when we got along, we really got along. We had a blast when we would go shopping together. She always gave into my ploys of “forgetting my wallet at home” and footing the bill. She did this even when I was a college student. There were times when my mother and I just laughed and laughed together – late night drives across the state of Pennsylvania, unpacking our house when we moved to Philadelphia, incredible shopping trips for prom dresses, etc. But, all that was lost on us when we didn’t get along. And in the last few years of her life, there were many things that brought her disappointment and sadness about some of the choices I made for myself.

For me, when my mother was getting really sick and the future was looking dim, my fears completely surfaced. I feared her dying thinking I was such a huge disappointment, that she hated me, etc. And what made it even worse was that the last time I saw her, two days before she died, I barely said a word to her. In fact, I don’t think I said anything and at the time, I had no idea if she even knew I was there. So, yeah, she died and our last moment together was silence. No words. Nothing. And this realization echoed through every inch of me.

So, there I was. My mother was gone and we had no resolution. No closure. Nothing. And I had all these lingering questions. Perhaps it seems childish or insane that I thought my mother hated me or that I was nothing but a disappointment in her eyes . . . but our relationship was so tenuous that these were truly my fears. Thus, in addition to feeling sad and grieving . . . I was angry because my mother left before we could resolve anything. She died without shedding a small ray on how she really felt.

God, yes, God, has a funny sense of humor though . . . either that or an incredible sense of timing. As I reveled in this anger, my father told me that my mother’s nurse was on the phone and she was asking for me. Her request was simple – to come to the house to talk to me about my mother and her last hours. Of course I said come over; which she did, the very next day. Never in a million years did I think that she would be my answer. What she conveyed to me was something I never thought I’d hear or learn about my mother’s thoughts. Especially during her last hours. In a nutshell, when all was said and done, the nurse told me that my mother was proud of me and the woman I had become. That though I didn’t follow the path she thought I should have, that I didn’t do so bad. And yes, she loved me. Apparently, my mother woke up calling for me and then proceeded to spend however long talking with the nurse about me and my life. She tried to express such disdain, worry and, perhaps, disappointment . . . but the nurse told me that when she simplified it for my mother, she couldn’t argue with the fact that I had a good job, a roof over my head and the ability to take care of myself. My mother conceded that there really wasn’t much more she could ask or expect. At least not at that point. And most of all . . . my mother loved me.

For quite some time, I was bitter because I couldn't understand why my mother couldn't have just said these things to me. Why she couldn't just, for once, tell me "I love you" without it being a battle of the wills. Why she couldn't have just met me halfway. Just. Once.

Now, I am not bitter or angry that it wasn't my mother who could have told me these things herself. She had her reasons . . . which I do understand. Rather, I am grateful that the nurse felt compelled to share this information. I am grateful that my mother was able to have this sort of conversation and leave nothing unresolved. It was Thanksgiving Day when I learned all of this . . . talk about something to be grateful for.

Passing the torch

The day of my mother's service is a day that I still don't remember completely. To me, everything seems like a blur. I do remember thinking that I couldn't believe what we were actually doing . . . that we were burying my mother. Everyone appeared on edge and of little words. And me, I was screaming inside. All I wanted was for my mother to be.

We arrived at the church for the service . . . and there she was - laying down in a box. She was dressed in one of her favorite suits. She looked so peaceful, she looked like she was asleep. But, I knew differently. But oh how I would have traded places with her - she deserved to be here. In my opinion, she wasn't done yet . . . we weren't done yet - there was so much more for her to accomplish as a professional and so much more for us to accomplish as mother and daughter. Apparently, though, that wasn't the case. Her time had come and it couldn't have been clearer than looking at the front of the church seeing her laying there. Peaceful.

I don't remember much of the service. My aunts did a couple of readings, one of my mother's close co-workers and my brother gave a eulogy. And the whole time my brother was speaking, all I could think was that he was so stoic, together, calm. Meanwhile, I was just numb. Looking around the church all I could see was a sea of people - it was standing room only. All these people who had crossed paths with my mother either permanently or temporarily had come to say their final goodbyes. It was an amazing sight. I think the breaking point for me during the service was when these very people did, in fact, say their final good byes to my mother. For, I guess as tradition or protocol holds, you then (again) express your condolences to the family. I can't tell you how many hands I shook, how many faces (familiar and unfamiliar) I saw, how many times I heard "I'm sorry". And I think it was the first time I ever saw my brother shed a tear over our mother's death.

After the service, I (yes, me) led the procession away from the front of the church holding a picture of my mother, my cousins were behind me holding my mother's casket. I remember focusing so hard on walking. I couldn't see through the tears that were just streaming down my face. It was too much for me. See, nothing really prepares you for a moment like this. Nothing prepares you for the loss of a parent, let alone how to get through a service in his/her honor.

When we finally got back to the house after the service at the cemetery, there was so much to be done - food to be put out, drinks to be served, people to be tended to. And this is where I finally felt some sort of familiarity - the hostess-ing. Immediately, I saw to the caterers, made the rounds to see that everyone had a drink, etc. I made small talk with people, listened in on some conversations where people were reminiscing about my mother - the good, the bad, the crazy. Throughout the day, my focus was on the guests - to make sure that everyone had what they needed. When I took a moment to breath, it was then I heard some guests talking about me. Revelling in how I had stepped into my mother's role of hostess so seamlessly. That on the first day of having to be the matriarch, I had done my mother proud.

Of course that was a proud moment for me, but a sad one as well. I didn't want that role. I didn't chose for that to happen when it did. But, in a house full of guests - what was I to do? I know my mother would have wanted me to take the reins and do what she would have done. All those parties she had where she had me running around like a maniac finally made sense to me. She did that so when it was my time, I would be able to pull off being a hostess to the degree that she did. So that I wouldn't question what I thought needed to be done, so that everything would flow smoothly and no one would notice the great effort it took to make it all happen. And there I stood, surveying the crowd of people in the house and making a mental list of who needed what, where there needed to be more food, where there were things that needed to be cleaned up. There I stood . . . in her shoes.

One foot in front of the other

The days that followed were a complete struggle. The week after that fateful day, I stayed in Philadelphia for another week to help my father. But, it didn’t take long for him to shoo me away to go back home. I relented, but I had no idea just how difficult it would be to resume life.

This was pretty much what happened the first week:
Day 1: Wake up, start crying . . . crawl back into bed.
Day 2: Wake up, start crying . . . crawl back into bed.
Day 3: Wake up, brush my teeth, start crying . . . crawl back into bed.
Day 4: Wake up, brush my teeth, take a shower, start crying . . . crawl back into bed.
Day 5: Wake up, brush my teeth, take a shower, get dressed, start crying . . .
Day 6: Wake up, force myself through the day.

I am grateful that at the time, my job was completely understanding of everything I was going through and the difficulty I was having resuming my daily routine. Unless you actually go through the loss of a mother, you truly have no idea how heart wrenching and painful the experience. And it makes no difference if you’re best friends or almost mortal enemies with your mother when she dies because the bottom line is that she’s gone, you’re here and that’s that.

During that time, if it hadn’t been for my friends, I really don’t know what I would have done. Anything and everything that had to do with daily life and existing was incredibly difficult for me. Truly, I didn’t want to exist. I wanted more than anything else to trade places – and I gladly would have done that. Selfish as it may sound . . . I didn’t want to be here. I didn’t want to be in so much pain and have to be here. My father had retreated into his own depression, my brother was emotionally unavailable when it came to the topic of my mother. Talking to my aunts, uncles or cousins wasn’t really a comfort to me, either. I’d felt like a child who didn’t know how to find her way anymore.

The weeks that followed got easier. The crying wasn’t every minute, the inability to move wasn’t so powerful. The pain wasn’t as gripping and debilitating. However, today . . . almost eight years later, there are those days when it feels like it just happened; where the pain is that huge and the inability to move that powerful. And it is then when I have to remember I can allow myself to feel all of that, but I cannot be paralyzed indefinitely. I’ll never get over the pain of my mother’s death or the sheer fact that she’s gone. Anyone who expects that or tells me that I should get over it is out of his or her mind. But what is important is to let go of the grief and my mother. I know that sounds weird, but it’s true. And it’s taken me eight years to learn that lesson. I couldn’t truly move forward until I let her go.

That Day

My mother’s death was the first family death I had to deal with. Ever. Wednesday, November 22, 2000. The day before Thanksgiving. I was living in Virginia and my goal was to leave the area for my parents’ house before 9 or 10 AM. As I was about to turn into my parking lot where I lived . . . my phone rang. It was my father and brother. While turning left, that’s when I hear the news – my mother was gone. I don’t remember how I managed to park or even get up to my apartment. What I do remember is how numb and shocked I felt. Over the weekend, one of my cousins and I figured that she’d make it until the end of the year. I didn’t think she’d leave the day before Thanksgiving.

How did it happen? Apparently ever so peacefully. My father said he went to say good morning to my mother. Perhaps they had some conversation, perhaps not. But I do know she knew he was there. He then said he told her he was going downstairs to get breakfast for them and he’d be right back upstairs. They didn’t have breakfast together. She was gone before he got back upstairs. I like to think that she held on for one more chance to see my father.

For second time in my life – I was paralyzed. I didn’t know what to do. I knew that this would happen, but nothing had prepared me for this moment and how to handle it. I think I just started calling people. And I kept making phone calls and it didn’t even register with me that I was calling people during the workday and they wouldn’t be able to talk. And, of course, for the moments that I was able to talk coherently, if someone said he or she couldn’t talk, then I said ok and hung up without explaining the nature of my call. After some time passed, there was a knock at the door – it was one of my friends, Dwight. He brought me the hugest Starbucks frappaccino topped with whipped cream and just sat with me. I don’t recall if there was any conversation, I just know that someone was with me. I suspect had someone not been there, I probably would have gone out of my mind. Knowing me, I probably started trying to put clothes together to get ready to leave and to keep myself occupied. But, I honestly couldn’t tell you what happened that morning.

The drive to Philadelphia was excruciatingly long. All I could think about was the fact that I was going home, but to a single-parent home. All I could notice was the massive amount of cars on the road. Well, no kidding there are a lot of cars on the road because it is the day before Thanksgiving, after all. And it was at that moment where I suddenly felt lost, abandoned . . . alone. It seemed like an eternity to get to Philadelphia and each second was pure agony. How was I supposed to walk into that house? What was I supposed to say to my father? What was I supposed to do. Period.

Seriously, I couldn’t tell you what happened once I got home. It’s all truly a blur. The next significant thing I remember is going to the funeral home . . . and all I remember thinking is that I just wish my mother would wake up; even if it meant yelling at me for whatever reason. Just wake up, dammit. She didn’t. Obviously.

That was the day. And as I sit here and try to recall all the details – I just can’t. Maybe it’s a good thing . . . maybe it’s not. But I guess at this point, it’s irrelevant. The long and short of it is that she is and was my mother. And it doesn’t really matter if I remember the details of that fateful day. What I’ve come to learn with regard to what matters is how I move on, how I remember and honor her and what I choose to do with each day that is given to me.