“To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.”
I buried my mother one year ago today. The weather didn’t work for a graveside service, so we gathered in the mausoleum instead. But the doors were open, and when the bagpiper played “Amazing Grace,” she walked slowly outside, taking the music and my mother’s spirit with her. My only regret from that bittersweet day was that we didn’t get to greet the friends who had gathered to see her off. We were whisked back into the funeral home limo and transported to an intimate farewell luncheon. It felt somehow incomplete not to hug and thank every dear soul who sat with us. So, thank you for being there with me that day, a year ago. The power of your presence sustained me through that surreal morning.
Mom died after Dad’s birthday and my brother’s birthday but before my son’s birthday. All the March men in my life. She timed it perfectly, so as not to disrupt or create a memory of sadness amidst the happiness of these celebrations. And yet, this first birthday season without her is all about her absence.
I survived the First Mother’s Day. Then the First Thanksgiving. For the First Christmas, we took a well-documented Geezer Family Vacation to my brother’s house in Jax. The change of scenery was a nice distraction from the usual traditions that have been forever changed by my mother’s death. I have her stocking, but I didn’t get it out. Didn’t put up a tree. Didn’t even try to make the candied grapefruit peel she made every year, like her mother before her. A special treat for me.
My first birthday without my mother was low key. Sushi with my son. My dad forgot entirely, and my sweet boy slipped away and called him, reminding him to call me and wish me well. That was in January. Then came Mom’s birthday on February 9, which brought back aching waves of horror and helplessness as I relived how we discovered and then grappled with my mother’s cancer this time last year, not knowing how quickly it would progress and how soon she would be gone. The hindsight unhinges me, makes my legs buckle, and I collapse with grief at her abject suffering and how I couldn’t save her.
DooDaddy called the other night – March 29 – to ask why my sweet cousin Rebecca, a favorite of my mother’s, had sent him yellow roses out of the blue. He was stumped.
“Don’t you remember, Daddy?” I reminded him gently. “Mom died a year ago today.”
And then he was crying uncontrollably, overwhelmed by his own grief at her loss and at the loss of his memory, lamenting his increasing forgetfulness and various infirmities.
A friend told me recently that he and his siblings eventually switched to commemorating their mother’s birthday rather than the day she died, which seems right. A celebration rather than a somber remembrance.
My old friend Cindy, another member of the Motherless Club, explained the concept of “Yahrzeit” to me. It’s a day conditioned by the need to honor one’s parent in death as in life, in accordance with the Hebrew calendar. I’ve done that now. But I want to transition from memorials to parties.
I notice now I refer to her again as “Mom” rather than “Gmamma,” as she was known in her last decades, a white fluffy grandmotherly person, soft and round, then frail and weak, clad in cardigan sweaters, flowing skirts and random scarfs. Instead, I picture her young and glamorous as she was when I was a child. And I freeze-frame her there. I wonder if that’s a universal thing to do when you lose your parent or just my idiosyncratic approach. But it takes us both back to at time before sickness, loss and sadness – hers and mine. Because these last twenty-two years of my life – since I became a mother – have been marked by poignant moments of exquisite happiness but also periods of profound sorrow at dreams dashed, loves lost and marriages imploded.
And starting over. Again and again. And again.
Another friend recently told me I didn’t seem like my “old self,” and she was worried about me. But I’ve shed that skin. I’m not my old self and never can be again. It’s nothing to worry about. Just the new normal. We evolve. We grow. And we are indelibly marked by life’s journey, affecting us in unforeseen ways.
So as I mark this Last First, I close a chapter of my life. I officially end this season of mourning for my mother in the first year after her death. And I look ahead, hopeful and grateful, to see what’s next. And I take her with me, like an angel on my shoulder and a grounding presence in my broken heart. I find that I’ve let go of the hurts and slights and annoyances of our complicated relationship and remember more her strength and loyalty and devotion to me and mine.
Because family was everything to my mother. And as her world got smaller and smaller, she kept us close. It’s all that mattered to her at the end. That’s her legacy.
Here lies my angel mother, buried April 1, 2016
Precious Laura.. that brings tears .. but so true the evolution we encounter.. xox
Truth. XXOOO
Laura, such beautiful writing about your beautiful mother. It is interesting how we remember our mothers after they are gone, and I too dwell on the days of my Mom on the beach in Cape Cod dressed in her Indian caftan and enjoying the sun and sand with all five of us kids and Dad. She was a constant loving and giving presence in my life, and she taught me how to be a woman, a mother, a wife, and a teacher. She taught me that you can give and give and still have more love in reserve, never to be parsimonious with feelings.
I just spent my spring break wth my Dad, taking him on a trip to Florida where he loved to go this time of year. We went to see my aunt and uncle in Sarasota, my mother’s sister who is just starting to show the signs of Alzheimer’s. We had a lovely time with them enjoying a Bosox spring training game and seeing all of their favorite spots in Sarasota. Then we went to see Shannon and her husband Peter in Miami, and spent some good family time with them. I think it was healing for Dad to get away from Cape Cod at this dreary time of year, and the family time was spent in joy and in in remembrance of Mom.
Thanks for your honest words about the evolution of your grief. I never know when it will hit, but grief is powerful, and I let it come on whenever it does. Keep writing, your blogs are a solace to me and others going through this change.
Tracy
Tracy, I know you are living what I’m living every day. And caring for you dad who is grieving too. Such a sad, sweet time of life. Thank you for your kind words and encouragement and for walking with me on this journey. XXOOO
What timing as I plan to visit my mother’s grave in Grove Hill, Alabama today. My time with her was so short that I am blessed with only good memories. But the loss of her still stabs at times. This is a beautiful wrting, Laura.
The sisters and I all squealed with delight as we pulled onto the main street in Grove Hill to get to my grandmother’s house where my cousin and her family now live.
Lizzy D – I love how close you and your sisters hold your shared memories of your mother. And how you care for your sweet daddy. Much love to you always! XXOOO
Thank you, Laura, for sharing your beautiful word-smithing with all of us who remember our mothers as younger than us, fulll of fun and life, and the first person who greeted us into this world. Love to you and your family and keep on writing!!
Love you and yours, Jerry. Been thinking about you lately. XXOOO
What a beautifully written, emotional, and heartfelt blog, Laura. As a member of the Motherless & Fatherless Club, “The Last First” captures the essence and the transformation that is a natural and essential part of the grieving process. And yes, as we close the first year, our mental pictures often freeze-frame the best of our loves ones. In Judaism the expression “May her/his memory be for a blessing” is said when a loved one passes. That’s why, in addition to lighting the Yahrzeit candles, I celebrate my parents’ birthdays. My father loved Chinese food and ice cream so we indulge on both his birthday and Yahrzeit, which is a tradition my mother started as a young widow. Now in memory of my mother we indulge in pizza and toast a Bellini — because that’s what she would do!
Love that, Cindy. Zelda was one of a kind. Pizza and Bellinis seem like the perfect tribute 😉 XXOOO
Dear Laura- Thank you for sharing your thoughts and feelings through beautifully written words. Yes, remembering your Mom as young and glamorous is as it should be. I did not have the privilege of knowing your Mom but am blessed to know you. I wish you peace.
Marti, thank you for your kind words. Grateful to have you in my life. XXOOO
Awww, that was beautiful! Wishing you peace and joy in this new chapter. xoxoxo!
Thanks, sweet friend! XXOOO