Later today I will be having oral surgery, so then I am sure I will either be totally absent from facebook or be posting selfies. But this morning was difficult. It was the first morning that everyone left me alone, where there wasnt planning to be done. My friend suggested I try writing, so I wrote this. If you are my sibling, I KNOW she was your mother too. I am in no way implying she wasnt. If you posted at any time sorry for your loss or said that to me, please dont take offense. I am just really sensitive right now. I would have had my daily gossip session with her at 9 am today. “I am sorry for your loss” I heard over and over. Some would go on to tell a story of my mother, some would tell me how they knew her, some would tell me she is “in a better place” or that she is “with your dad now”. I know all of these things are meant to comfort. I know all these words are supposed to help ease the pain. All I could think though, was she is not lost. I know exactly where she is. Dressed in white, lying in a white coffin lined with pink, holding a lacey handkerchief instead of the wad of tissues she would have had in her hand on any other occasion. “I am sorry for your loss.” Loss: as in lost. As in, “I’m sorry, I lost your number!” As in, “OH NO! I lost my phone!” I lost my mother. January 9, 2015 was my wedding anniversary. My husband and I both worked a half day, and then went to an early dinner. We were both tired, so we just rented some movies and came home. January 9, 2015 my mother went to her usual hair appointment. She went to get some groceries and went home. I am sure she took a nap, as she always did. And later that night, I lost her. She went suddenly. I got a call from one of my sisters telling me the news. I called her a liar. My husband and I left for the hospital immediately. I don’t remember much about that, except the staff didn’t hesitate for us. They didn’t make us wait. Her body was warm and soft, and I held her hand until it wasn’t. Her hair was stiff from the hairspray her stylist had used. The paramedics had messed up her style, which was supposed to last until after church on Sunday. I don’t suppose it mattered now. I lost her. The next few days were a blur of anguish and meetings. There were too many children and not enough mother. No more mother to lay down the law and settle the meaningless squabbles. When we were young, there would be arguments over chores, clothes, television shows, and telephone time. The biggest fights I remember were over whose turn it was to do the dishes. Dad always said he didn’t need to buy a dishwasher, he had nine of them. There were arguments about laundry, which never seemed to end. I remember mother ironing clothes every Saturday night, the smell of starch heavy in the air, The Lawrence Whelk Show playing on TV, and mother singing along. Then she would practice her hymns so she could play for church on Sunday. She would make bread by hand and the warm smell of yeast would fill your head, and everyone would fight over the end piece, hot from the oven. One by one my siblings grew up and moved away, and I was left alone with my parents. My dad was always working, and I tried to always be. She didn’t approve of the choices I was making. I thought she was old fashioned. I know she was worried, but I couldn’t wait to leave her. She cried when I did. When I got engaged, she made a wedding dress for me, and spent hours and hours beading it by hand. And when I got divorced 10 months later, she didn’t even say “I told you so”. She just quietly sold the dress. When I married my husband, she was over the moon with joy. She loved him so much. And when the babies came, she cradled every one of them so tenderly, smothering them with kisses, sneaking them cookies, and I wondered, who is this person? I lost my mother. To say it like that rips the heart from the chest. It brings up memories of her lying on the cold table at the hospital, of trying to talk to a non-responsive person just one more time. Of watching my son gently lay a yellow rose on her white casket. After dad died, mom and I grew closer than we ever had before. I called her a lot. The last year I spoke with her almost every day. There were things I could tell her that I knew she would be overjoyed for, and things I could tell her that she would weep with me. She gave good advice all of the time. How did I not know this person? We traded fingernail tips and trends, and recipes, and boy was she loyal. (You should have won) She would tell me stories about her genealogy research (And I admit I zoned out a little there). She told me her secrets and I told her mine. (After speaking to my sisters, everything she said was a secret, really wasn’t, but it made me feel special anyway) The pain is fresh, and the emotional wound is deep. I miss her. However, she is not lost. I know where she is. She is in the bread I make for my family; she is in the blankets she made for them all as infants. She is in the stories we tell each other. She is in the stolen cookies, the cuddles, the tender hands. She is in our hearts. I hope you are singing Mom. I love you.
Posted on: Tue, 20 Jan 2015 19:34:08 +0000
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