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?