Thoughts On Mother's Day - A Story in Four Poems
Mother's Day for me is a holiday fraught with conflicting feelings. I never know whether I'm supposed to be (a) mourning the death of my own mother, (b) celebrating happy memories woven through the complex and difficult relationship my mom and I shared, (c) grieving the lack of the typical mother-daughter relationship we never enjoyed, or (d) rejoicing over my own sweet child who is helping me create a new mother-child bond. It's a day I spend flip-flopping between feelings of joy and sadness, fullness and loss. Throw in a healthy dose of sensitivity to women who are grappling with infertility or pregnancy loss -- because I've been in those shoes, too -- and my Mother's Day turns into a hot mess that looks nothing like a Hallmark greeting.
listen:
motherless and childless,
I am untethered
in a world full of strings
5-13-12
For the majority of the time I knew her, my mother was fighting physical and mental illness. She struggled with depression and anxiety and panic attacks that grew more intense each year with poor medical care and worsening circumstances. You can't underestimate the toll this takes on a person, and by extension her family. She hit a dead end the summer before I became a senior in high school, and I ended up spending that school year first in foster care and then living with an incredibly loving family who took me in as their own. (In fact, they still claim me. Thanks, Gary and Jan.) My mother and I switched roles; at 16 and 17, I became the caretaker who made sure she got up and brushed her hair every day, then after I moved out gave her money from my part-time job to keep her lights on and gas in the car. I had invaluable help from caring community members as well as my "adopted" family -- more than once Gary drove his truck around our small Texas town searching for my mother when her housing situation turned sour and she was nowhere to be found.
By the time I was in college, my mother's physical health -- which was never robust -- slid into quick decline. The diagnoses came: fibromyalgia, lupus, recurring respiratory illness due to 40 years of smoking. She got very bad very quickly, then plateaued for no reason that the doctors could explain. Her quality of life deteriorated, and eventually she moved in with my brother because she was too ill to live alone anymore. To quote something I read but have long since misplaced, "she held on so long we thought she'd stay." But in 2007, a couple of months after I left her standing on the sidewalk in Texas waving goodbye as I drove away for my new life in Ohio, she succumbed to complications from chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD) and collapsed in my brother's driveway. She was 56. I was 26. It's true that you will mourn your mother for the rest of your life.
a car you've never ridden in
a house you've never seen
in a town you've never visited.
you'd hardly recognize me.
but you'd still know my heart --
my love of words, animals, and sweets --
my laugh and my movie-star eyelashes.
I got those from you.
2-22-12
As sharp as that loss is, there's a second duller blade that hurts me more. With her death came the end of any normal mother-daughter relationship we might have had (but probably never would have). We never had our nails done together or shopped for a prom dress. She didn't attend my wedding, or ever see my new home, or meet my son. I experienced the loss of a dream, which is a unique grief to be layered on top of a loved one's death. It was, and still is, a complicated grieving process. Some days I handle it better than others. Mother's Day is not usually one of those days. Inundated with commercial images of happy, healthy mothers and children, there is nothing that adequately represents my dual losses. There is no Hallmark card for that.
it's a --- complicated -- relationship
still now
even though she's dead
and I am not.
we were not close
by conventional definition:
we shopped together only for adult diapers
and passed the time enumerating doctors' appointments,
of which there were many.
I called on Sundays
and paid for her dentures,
she told me not to worry so much
and saved all my letters.
I cannot say that we had
an intimate conversation
past the tumultuous age of 14.
but nobody loved her as much as me.
and nobody is sadder that she is gone.
look -- I have proof
see these tears? they fill the oceans.
see these regrets? big enough to harness and train.
my grief is double-edged:
I lost both parent and child
past and future.
I will never be whole again.
12-14-07
10-20-13
***
If you struggle on Mother's Day like I do, here's my wish for you. To those who celebrate -- Happy Mother's Day. To those who have lost a mother, those who are waiting for a child to arrive, those for whom motherhood or daughterhood isn't what you had hoped -- I hope you find a measure of peace today. You aren't forgotten by those who have found their happiness.
(All poetry contained herein is the sole property and copyright of the author, and may not be reproduced without permission.)
***
Mother's Day is hard for melisten:
motherless and childless,
I am untethered
in a world full of strings
5-13-12
***
For the majority of the time I knew her, my mother was fighting physical and mental illness. She struggled with depression and anxiety and panic attacks that grew more intense each year with poor medical care and worsening circumstances. You can't underestimate the toll this takes on a person, and by extension her family. She hit a dead end the summer before I became a senior in high school, and I ended up spending that school year first in foster care and then living with an incredibly loving family who took me in as their own. (In fact, they still claim me. Thanks, Gary and Jan.) My mother and I switched roles; at 16 and 17, I became the caretaker who made sure she got up and brushed her hair every day, then after I moved out gave her money from my part-time job to keep her lights on and gas in the car. I had invaluable help from caring community members as well as my "adopted" family -- more than once Gary drove his truck around our small Texas town searching for my mother when her housing situation turned sour and she was nowhere to be found.By the time I was in college, my mother's physical health -- which was never robust -- slid into quick decline. The diagnoses came: fibromyalgia, lupus, recurring respiratory illness due to 40 years of smoking. She got very bad very quickly, then plateaued for no reason that the doctors could explain. Her quality of life deteriorated, and eventually she moved in with my brother because she was too ill to live alone anymore. To quote something I read but have long since misplaced, "she held on so long we thought she'd stay." But in 2007, a couple of months after I left her standing on the sidewalk in Texas waving goodbye as I drove away for my new life in Ohio, she succumbed to complications from chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (COPD) and collapsed in my brother's driveway. She was 56. I was 26. It's true that you will mourn your mother for the rest of your life.
***
I have two dogs you've never meta car you've never ridden in
a house you've never seen
in a town you've never visited.
you'd hardly recognize me.
but you'd still know my heart --
my love of words, animals, and sweets --
my laugh and my movie-star eyelashes.
I got those from you.
2-22-12
***
As sharp as that loss is, there's a second duller blade that hurts me more. With her death came the end of any normal mother-daughter relationship we might have had (but probably never would have). We never had our nails done together or shopped for a prom dress. She didn't attend my wedding, or ever see my new home, or meet my son. I experienced the loss of a dream, which is a unique grief to be layered on top of a loved one's death. It was, and still is, a complicated grieving process. Some days I handle it better than others. Mother's Day is not usually one of those days. Inundated with commercial images of happy, healthy mothers and children, there is nothing that adequately represents my dual losses. There is no Hallmark card for that.
***
"whole"
still now
even though she's dead
and I am not.
we were not close
by conventional definition:
we shopped together only for adult diapers
and passed the time enumerating doctors' appointments,
of which there were many.
I called on Sundays
and paid for her dentures,
she told me not to worry so much
and saved all my letters.
I cannot say that we had
an intimate conversation
past the tumultuous age of 14.
but nobody loved her as much as me.
and nobody is sadder that she is gone.
look -- I have proof
see these tears? they fill the oceans.
see these regrets? big enough to harness and train.
my grief is double-edged:
I lost both parent and child
past and future.
I will never be whole again.
12-14-07
***
My son came in 2013, after three cruel years of infertility struggles. As I've mentioned before, one of the primary reasons I wanted to have children was to replace some of my sadder and more dysfunctional family memories with positive ones of my own creation. While that first year of motherhood was more difficult than I bargained for, I have nevertheless created hundreds of precious new memories that help fill the holes in my heart left by a tremendously difficult childhood and the loss of my mom. Mother's Day gives me a reason to reflect on these moments and their fleeting nature that makes them all the more cherished. These are -- finally -- my Hallmark moments, and I am more grateful for them, and him, than I can explain.
***
you will never be this small again.
tomorrow you will have grown a millimeter
and mastered another new skill;
you will fit a little less snugly into my arms.
so tonight I will hold you as long as I can
to memorize your weight and the rhythm of your breaths
the smell of your hair, the softness of your skin
before life gives you any calluses.
I will hold you here and rock in this chair
long past the point where my arms grow tired
because this is why I wanted you
this is what I came here for --
to hold you while you sleep and dream
and heal my heart with love
10-20-13
***
If you struggle on Mother's Day like I do, here's my wish for you. To those who celebrate -- Happy Mother's Day. To those who have lost a mother, those who are waiting for a child to arrive, those for whom motherhood or daughterhood isn't what you had hoped -- I hope you find a measure of peace today. You aren't forgotten by those who have found their happiness.
(All poetry contained herein is the sole property and copyright of the author, and may not be reproduced without permission.)
Thank you, once again, for your beautiful transparency
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