My mom's not here. Yet she is.
This was my thought weeks ago, as I sat in my backyard, doing my Daily Trip with Jeff on the Calm App. It is a thought that comes, now and then. Not unique to me, I am sure. But still uniquely mine.
A lot of people who have been close to me have departed this life: my brother, my dad, my-ex husband, several friends. Yet no loss has been as profound as my mom. And it's so different than I thought it would be. Why?
Because we had the most complicated of relationships. Part of me thought I would be relieved when she died. And part of me was, just not the part I thought.
I thought I would be relieved because our relationship was such a struggle, especially in the years since my brother, Scott, died. Devastated by profound loss and grief, she needed to lash out and I was an easy target. I usually am. If anyone can piss people off, it is me. Just like she wasn't, I am not always easy to handle. She was complicated; the apple didn't fall far from the tree.
For most of my life, I saw my mom's flaws much more than I saw the good. Human nature, I know, but not the best part. The best part is seeing the good, or trying to, amidst the crap. This is probably obvious to anyone who has had a loved one die: you realize the crap matters a lot less after they die than when they were alive. Or at least that's hopefully the case. There is nothing worse than being angry with someone who is no longer around to yell at. I have been in that position as well. More than once.
A few years before she died, I woke up and started seeing her for who she was: perfectly flawed and imperfect, strong, a warrior of sorts. She did the best she could with what she was given. And most days, it truly was enough. I expected way more of her than I should have; she did the same with me. She was giving, she had a great laugh, she was fun to be with. She was the most hospitable person I have ever known. I mean, when she threw a party, no one walked away disappointed.
She would have done anything for me.
Not demonstrative usually, but sometimes she surprised me. When she had breast cancer, she needed six chemo treatments. I was there with her for four of them while my father made a beeline for the exit as soon as I arrived. I had to be the strong one. Did I want to be? Of course not. No daughter wants to sit by while her mom's body is pumped with chemicals that may or may not save her life. But what choice did I have? It was the right thing to do; she would have done the same for me, I have no doubt. Even though I was angry with my dad for acting cowardly, I should have thanked him because being there with her was a gift he gave us. I would not have missed it for the world.
When mom beat the c word, I took her on a cruise to celebrate. We had a great time and because of her outgoingness, we made friends, some that I still have to this day. I know she appreciated the trip, just like many others I took her on. But more than that, I know she appreciated me just being there with her during that trial in her life. I know this because she gave me a card, telling me so. That blew my mind because it was just so NOT her. But maybe it WAS her and I just couldn't see it, didn't want to. I was so focused on all the struggles we had, it was hard for me to see any light, blinded by the perceived ever-present darkness.
I still have the card.
The strength I had to sit there, to be there, was strength I inherited from her, the woman who I spent so much of my life being angry with, wasting precious time and energy. So many of her great qualities, I inherited. And many of the not-so-great ones.
But she had many gifts I would never, ever come close to having. So many.
In the end, I appreciated those gifts, more and more. I told her as much. Every time I did, she would get this far off look in her eyes, like she didn't believe my words. She wore regret like a regal robe; not many wore it better. Except for maybe me. Sometimes she would shake her head, sometimes she would say no, that she wasn't a good mother. She never, ever smiled and accepted the compliment. I know she never felt good enough, yet she would never admit that. Vulnerability wasn't her strong suit. The fact that she thought not much of herself explains why she acted the way she did. Often people with the biggest insecurities act like they have none. I finally understand this.
My mom loved me. She gave me life. She was always there when it counted. And I know it wasn't always easy. Just because you have a child doesn't mean you don't have issues with them. That is the big lie we are told. Do you love them, no matter what? Yes. But you don't always like them. In fact, she used to always say to me, "Erin, I will always love you, but right now I don't like you so much." The words stung when she said them, but I get it now. I have probably even said the same words to my three kids at least once.
It didn't once enter my mind that maybe I was just a huge pain in the ass a lot of the time and could have made things easier for her, for us. But I didn't. I dug my heels in, telling myself it was my right to be angry, mad, vindictive, a rotten teenager. It wasn't.
Time is the great teacher, of course, and when we are nearly out of it, things start to make sense.
So my mom isn't here, it's true. I wish it weren't. But what's also true is that every time I see a dove, like I did while I was meditating that day, she is here. Not in a physical, cosmic kind of a way. I don't buy into that. More in a spiritual, emotional sense. I know she's with God, finally at peace. She did her time here on earth, taking care of me and everyone else. Now she gets to just be her, in the presence of God, finally good enough.
She's here in a physical sense because she lives on in me, in her grandkids, in her soon-to-be great-grandchild. All the kindness, love and hospitality she showed to so many. Lives were impacted because she lived.
None more so than mine.