Always wear clean underwear

Last night I started reading a book called Things I Want My Daughters to Know by Elizabeth Noble. It's basically about a mother who writes a letter to each 0f her four daughters upon realizing she is running out of time. As I was reading the book, I wondered, if my mother had written me a letter of things she wanted me to know . . . what would she have told me. Would she had given me tips on being married? On being a mother? Maybe tips on how to plan a wedding? I don’t know. Would my mother have reminisced about the past? Would she have shared knowledge with me that she would have found helpful to me as an adult?

Whatever she would or would not have written, I think that I would have liked one last thing from her. Something that was just between me and her. Something that she took time to do that was from her to me. When I was born, or shortly thereafter, my father started a journal for each of his children. When we packed up the family house and he made his way to California, he gave me a small journal. I realized it was his writings over the years. Though he wrote it was from both he and my mother, it was clear who took the time to write entries. I think I saw one entry out of all of them that my mother wrote. But, in the journal, my father wrote of my learning how to talk, walk, count, etc. He described what a pain I was to eat a meal with because I was so slow and picky. I learned a few things about my childhood that, well, are still true today. However, I also know that there are just some things that a father cannot tell or explain to his daughter. There are things that only a mother can tell, share or explain with her daughter. And now, I don’t have that. Ok, so I didn’t exactly take advantage of that when my mother was alive . . . but I guess that is the benefit of hindsight, right?

Seriously, though . . . there are so many unanswered questions for me . . . so many things that my mother won’t be around to help me with. Now, some of those things, sure, I can figure them out on my own. But it definitely would have been nice to have her experience to draw from. But then there are things I think about like what will it be like when I am pregnant? What did being a wife mean to her? What did being a mother mean to her? If there were things she could change or improve, what would they be? What lessons would she want to pass on to me?

There is a reason why there are those who came before us . . . it’s so we can learn from them so that we can at least avoid those mistakes. But most importantly, I know that our parents may also serve as our guides – not just for what we want, but also as what we don’t want, in some cases. Sure there are people in our lives we can draw knowledge and advice from, but it’s not the same. There is no replacement. There is no substitute.

I know for me, I could probably sit down and write a letter to my future child and come up with a few things that I would want him or her to know. I’ve already begun creating a recipe book so that my future child(ren) will have a piece of their mother always. I have jewelry that my mother passed on to me that I want to pass on to my children. And I know that I will do the same as my father, and keep a journal for my children. I want to leave traces of me behind for my children.

So, I can’t help but wonder . . . what things did my mother want me to know?

Home Sweet Home

For having not been with my aunt and uncle for quite a while and a lot of water under the bridge . . . the visit with them this weekend was unbelievable. So much so that I really didn't want to leave. The anticipation of this visit was a bit nerve-wracking . . . in addition to not having seen them in a while, it would also be the first time for my other half to meet some of my extended family. It would not have gone smoother. Upon arrival, my aunt and OH (teehee, "Other Half") started chatting away like old friends. It gave me this warm fuzzy feeling inside. There was the familiar encouragement to OH to keep eating, my cousin's daughters were incredibly cute relaying stories to me about how their father (my cousin) is a "yes man" and Yeh-Yeh (Chinese for father's father) lets them do just about anything (imagine a 70+ year old man with a load of hair product in his hair, eyeshadow, lipstick, rouge . . . the whole works). My aunt talking to my OH to get as good a feel for him as she could. There was never that lull in conversation, there were explanations to my OH for Chinese that was used and there was just fun. 

For not having my mother around, my aunt is the next closest person I have to my mother. So similar in so many ways . . . for her to have a positive reaction to my OH was extremely important. And to begin re-establishing frequent visits is so very important. My aunt, as sweet as she is, is a straight-shooter and when I heard the continunal comments to visit more or even come and stay on the weekend and do what we want during the day and crash at the house is when I knew that OH was part of the family. Not that he wouldn't be part of the family . . . but to have that level of acceptance and openness really made me feel good about my own family. In a situation where I knew there could be room for disappointment, there was absolutely none.

However, this is the one area where my mother and my aunt differed. I recall far too many times where I went to see my mother full of excitement and happiness about something or someone only for her to completely squash that feeling in about T-2 seconds. No joke. But this was different. And I think my aunt knew exactly what I was thinking and feeling. Since my mother's passing, there have been family events where my aunt has seen the meltdown or heard of the meltdown. That I just couldn't see past the fact that my mother wasn't there. And when my aunt flat out told me that she is proud of me and that I found a good man . . . I know that it wasn't just her talking to me, but it was her and my mother. 

I know this time is different. I know that my mother would absolutely have loved my OH. Of course she would have found her own things to nitpick about to me . . . but I know she would have welcomed my OH into the family as warmly and openly as my aunt did this weekend. So, though my mother may not be around anymore, she is in so many ways. For my aunt is a true testament to that. I could see, feel and hear it all. 

While growing up, my mother used "family is family" as an explanation to just about any question I had that was in regard to family matters. At the time, I think I thought she was just being unreasonable . . . why couldn't I just meet up with you all later? Family is family, she would say. Why do I have to go to Taiwan instead of ______? Family is family, she would say. Endless questions from me, the same response from her. And now I understand that sometimes, most times, that is all the explanation that is required. My OH is my family, thus he is their family as well. And for all the little familial acts I saw . . . family is family.

Lincoln Logs

When I went to start today's entry, my thoughts for writing centered around Easter and seeing my aunt (my mother's youngest sister) this weekend. It's been quite a while since I've seen my aunt and this is the first trip to see my aunt that I initiated in some time. I tend to get mixed feelings sometimes when I'm around my mother's side of the family because of my own sadness. So, while I was geared up to write about the upcoming trip, I saw this portion of a post headline: "What stage of the grief and loss process are you . . ." I didn't seen what came underneath. This is the actual post. But, before I saw what came underneath, I clicked on the headline because I, of course, wanted to know what the post was about. Well, turns out it really had nothing to do with grief and loss in terms of death. What it did do was give me a refresher on what the stages of grief and loss are and to think about where I am today. Or at least on most days.

I recall the days when I was early on and struggling through the different stages of grief. And I truly thought I would never make it through. However, reflecting on the past year, the writing that I've been doing and different feelings and experiences I've been having - I'd say that I successfully have moved into the upswing of things. There are different stages of grief, depending upon which model you subscribe to - could be this one or that one; I'm sure there are others. What's important though is that I know where I am in the grand scheme of things and, at the risk of sounding egotistical, I'm pretty proud of my progress and growth. I am at the point where I have accepted my mother's death, though I may not always have ease with saying she's "dead". (Ugh, that kinda made me cringe). And I'm at the point where I'm reorganizing/restructuring my life and moving forward. Believe me, there was a time when I didn't think anything like this would be possible.

So here I am, eight and a half years later, just getting around to acceptance and really moving on with my life. But, quite frankly, it is what it is and I'm here. Better late than never, right? The important thing for me to remember is that I did it in the time that was necessary to feel comfortable with moving forward. I couldn't force a feeling or progress no matter how hard I tried or wanted to. Plus, what's the point in that? I'm only denying myself the actual process. As the old adage goes, "Rome wasn't built in a day." Now, I'm not equating myself with Rome, but no one should deny themselves however long the process takes them to move through the stages of grief. I had an old friend who would tell me that enough time had passed and I need to get over it and move on. Umm, really? Who is to say what enough time is . . . and how do you tell someone whose mother died to get over it? But I digress.

The progress and where I am is allowing me to do so many more things than I have done since my mother passed. Yes, I recognize that eight and a half years is a long time. But, given that my mother was alive for almost 27 years of my life, eight and a half years is a drop in the bucket. Anyhoo . . . so yeah, I'm off to see my aunt this weekend for Easter. I absolutely cannot wait. I am looking forward to spending time with her and my uncle.

Things in my life are starting to fall into place. I believed they would once I could find a way to co-exist with the fact that my mother is no longer with me. And I fully believe that my life is falling into place in a way that would make her so very proud to say that I'm her daughter.

So, this Easter it is all about family for me and my other half. We are starting with my family and then seeing his family. For me, though, this is an important step with the reconstructing process and moving forward. I guess it's also just another form of trailblazing for me . . . and I don't think I mind so much.

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.

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.

The Nuts and Bolts - Why? Who? How?

Why am I doing this? Because it's healing. Because it brings the cycle full circle. Because I want to. Because I'm ready. It's hard enough to deal with the death of a parent. What makes it harder is that unless you've actually experienced the death of your mother you have no idea what it is like. And even if you experienced the loss of a parent, you can only sympathize. There are far too many factors that affect how a person reacts, handles and lives in the aftermath where another individual could actually empathize with how I felt and still feel with respect to my mother's death. So if no one other than me ever lays eyes on this particular blog . . . I'm okay with that because this is for me more than anyone else to help me down the road of healing and recovering.

Who? Well, it is my mother who this revolves around. And it is about and for me as well. Anyone else who comes along for the ride is more than welcome.

How? It was November 22, 2000 when I received the phone call from my father and brother. We all knew it was coming, however, we, or maybe just I, thought that it wouldn't happen until after the holidays. My mother was diagnosed with lung cancer less than 8 months before she passed. She went over a year undiagnosed - one doctor thought it was TB, another thought acid reflux, etc. No one ever thought to look for lung cancer - she didn't smoke. Nor was she around people who do smoke. After she was properly diagnosed, I think it was already Stage II or III. Immediately my mother started chemo/radiation . . . it was heart-wrenching to watch her go through those processes. After her first round, the doctors were relieved because it seemed as though she was doing fine. Then . . . my mother started saying how her bones were hurting and it hurt for her to walk. Yeah, you guessed it - the cancer had spread to her bones. This is never a good thing. By the time she went in for x-rays, the cancer had spread to her brain. That was, literally, the kiss of death. In less than 3 months, my mother died peacefully in our home.

Why? It is almost eight years later and I find that I am at a point where I want to talk about her more. Where I want to share my mommy-and-me stories. Where I want to celebrate my mother.

So, Mom - this is for you.