This Mother's Day will be the first one without my mom. This has been a profound realization for me. Oh, I know I am not special, as, sooner or later, everyone loses one's mom. I get that. But this is my story, my truth.
And it feels not so great.
My mom passed away on a Sunday, in the early evening, on April 18, after a long illness. Correction: she died. I have always disliked the term "passed away." I know why it's used; it's less offensive somehow. But there is no way to sugar-coat death. It stinks. Even though her death was expected, her final hours came suddenly, without warning. I wasn't there to say good-bye, though I made every attempt to fly back from California. Not being with her when she passed from this life to the next breaks my heart. I also know I am not the only person this has ever happened to, especially in a COVID world. Thousands are alone with me in this circumstance.
I am still grieving her loss and am wise enough to know, to some degree, I always will. But there is now more time between my tears falling or the occasional meltdown that comes out of the blue. This very morning, a sun-filled Colorado Thursday, as I sat at a stoplight after making a Starbucks run, the finality hit me square in the face: I will never see her again in this life. I will never have to worry about visiting the despised nursing home, with its horrible sights and smells. I don’t have to worry about leaving there, depressed, after seeing the shell that once was my mom. I should feel relieved, I thought.
At moments, I am. I never again have to hold my breath, waiting for that phone call. Yet the grief ebbs and flows, as grief is bound to do. As one of my favorite writers, Anne Lamott, said, "But what if the great secret insider-trading truth is that you don't ever get over the biggest losses in your life?" Her answer is you don't. She has a very valid, true point. Time heals all wounds is a bunch of bunk. Some, yes. But not all.
Even if I wanted to get over the loss of my mom or try to briefly forget, the deluge of Mother's Day commercials on TV would not allow it. Funny how I have never honed into them nearly as much as I do now. Is it just me or are there about a zillion more this year? Watching them is brutal, painful reality.
I complete a lot of online surveys in my spare time, to make a little extra cash or earn gift cards. Lately there have been a few on the topic of Mother's Day, specifically asking what plans the survey taker has for the holiday this year. Spending time, giving a gift, and sending flowers are some of the choices one can select. Funny how some of them don't allow the option to choose "My mom is no longer alive" and I am in deep mourning because of it. Note to future survey writers: include this as a potential choice from now on. Many of us are not blessed enough to have any kind of choice about how we want to spend the day, other than visit mom at the cemetery. Or sit next to her urn of ashes.
I remember dreading many Mother's Days over the years, for different reasons. Sometimes it was because my first husband felt no obligation to ever acknowledge the day, stating in a matter-of-fact way that I was not his mother. Well, no duh. But I am the mother of your three children, I would say, exasperated. And for many years my children were too darn young to buy me a gift or take me to dinner. I recall my mom saying my father had similar attitudes, but you would have never known it. He made sure my mom received some sort of trinket, meal or both to commemorate the day. Back then, I sometimes allowed myself to spiral into the abyss more than once as the day drew near and I tried not to psyche myself up, thinking it could be better than it was the year before. It seldom was. Never because of my three children, mind you. They were usually the only (and the best) reason for me to look forward to the day. If only they could have been my sole focus.
My relationship with my own mom also colored the way I viewed the day. As stated in other writings, we had a complicated relationship. My mom, in general, expected a lot and it was hard to measure up to her expectations. But I tried, I really did, oftentimes failing miserably. My kids probably feel the same way about me, at least now and then. But I am nothing if not acutely self-aware. My mom? Not so much.
She enjoyed being spoiled; she loved jewelry, flowers and going out to eat. Most years, I think I did a pretty good job of lavishing things on her, but, once I became a mom, the day belonged partially to me. This was not selfish, but a simple truth, one I am not sure she always understood. So, between the pressure to do the right thing and the fact that our relationship was not ever going to be featured in Hallmark commercials, the day was a struggle.
Hindsight, as we know, is always 100%. Shoulda, coulda, woulda. Those three words ring as loudly in my ears today as anything else ever does. Now that I don't have a mom, I would love to feel guilty about not doing the right thing or feel bad that we didn't have the perfect relationship. I get to do neither. All I get is to feel the void that only a mom, even an imperfect one, can fill.
So this is my first Mother's Day, in 57 years, that I am without a mom. My oldest child is nearly 29 so it is also the first time in nearly three decades that the day will truly be mine, not to be shared with the one who gave me life. Even though it should feel like a victory, it is far from it. It just feels like a gigantic loss, one of the greatest of my life.
If you still have a mom, try to be grateful, even if your relationship is less than perfect. Try to treat her as if this is her last Mother’s Day with you. For it very well could be.
Just ask me.
I know.