Final Words for My Mom

When a parent dies it is never easy.  I didn’t know this when my mom died.  I had many years to condition myself for this time, and even though the general consensus was she had brought this on herself there was nothing that was easy about accepting or dealing with the void it left.

We had a complicated, rocky relationship through our years together as mother and daughter.  There were many years we didn’t even speak to, or see one another.  Thankfully, towards the later years in her life we had buried our differences.  We had let go of the past; at least the bad parts.  For that, I am grateful. 

Still, I didn’t think I would feel so lost when I knew she was dying. In that last week as I sat by her bedside, I didn’t think the expected news that she had finally left me one final time would hit me with so much bittersweet sorrow.  I had no idea that I would start to miss so many of the things I only remembered about her.  I hadn’t been able to experience these things with her in years, anyway.  I hadn’t heard her voice or laughter in almost 10 years, yet, I missed those things all of a sudden.  How could that be?  I’d had years to deal with losing her, yet, the finality of this was, well, final.  Somehow, my psyche hadn’t been able to warn me this would happen.  No matter what, over all the years, good and bad, she had been a constant in my life.  She was my mother, and I knew her better than anyone.  I sometimes thought I knew her better than she knew herself.

To add to this, I had to write her eulogy.  I also had to read it as my younger sister expected this of me, I felt, and I knew my younger brother wouldn’t.  I would have to read it to people who knew the truth.  THEIR truth. 

At first, it made me feel guilty that I was happy and excited to do this.  I wondered if I was relieved that it was finally over.  Was I just looking forward to moving on, or, was I enjoying the attention this would give me?  (I am my mother’s daughter, after all.)  I finally came to peace with the fact that this was the one last thing I could do for my mother.  I could tell HER truth, as simple as it was.  As I sat down to write, memories started flooding my mind and touched my heart and soul.  I could almost feel her next to me reading every word. 

Some people, I’m sure, when they finally heard what I had written, might have thought I was trying to re-write history.  Maybe they thought this was not the woman they knew.  Or, was she a woman they didn’t know, or never got to know?  I knew her better than anyone, yet, sometimes, in spite of what I’ve said before, I still feel as though I didn’t really know her that well at all.  I think that was due to all our years apart, but, might it have been the fact that I sometimes turned my back on the emotions she seemed to wear on her sleeve.  I don’t know.  All I know is that she was a colorful, gregarious, emotionally inspiring woman.  I had to somehow convey this.

I only had a few days to write and all my senses were exhausted from tending to her care that last week of her life.  I purposely did not write a biography of her life or try to make excuses for the way she lived her life.  I wrote it for her, my sister, my brother, and me.  We three had our memories and stories behind everything I wrote:

Our mother was a simple yet complicated woman.  She was full of contradictions. She was strong and tough, yet, vulnerable and soft.  Focused and driven, yet sometimes restless and confused. 

No matter what, she had a lust for life and was passionate and full of emotion.  She loved bright colored clothes, convertible cars, music, sewing, animals, flowers, thunderstorms, Elvis, and had an appreciation for anyone she thought was a handsome man.

Mom was a vibrant and, sometimes strikingly, beautiful woman.  She always tried to look her best and each of us have fond memories of watching her work hard at it, whether it was playing with different hairstyles, or “putting on her face” to cover her freckles.  She had a great smile that we will never be able to forget.  It could light up a room during a blackout.  It made our day if we could make her laugh or just share something funny with her.  She loved to laugh and had a warm, yet sometimes, wicked sense of humor.

Her most outstanding feature, though, was her sparkling eyes. They glimmered. She could convey so much emotion with them.  As kids, we always knew how mom felt by looking at, or into, those beautiful eyes.  With her eyes and the movement of one eyebrow or the other you could read her mood and tell if she was happy, sad, tired, frightened or mad.  She didn’t have to say a word, and even if she did, her eyes always told the truth. They were beautiful, but more important, especially over these last years when the sparkle was gone and she couldn’t communicate verbally, or move her body, her eyes were definitely still the windows to her soul. 

Like any mother she was proud of her children.  She thought of us as her “intelligent dreamer”, her “mischievous, handsome, pretty boy” and her “little princess”.  We all grew up thinking that one of the others was her favorite, which had to be difficult for her to achieve. It’s every parent’s dream for their children to have a better life than they’ve had.  She told me once, on a visit to Chicago, that all her children had made her proud and had turned out to be better than even she could have ever hoped and she marveled at how we accomplished all that we had.  She didn’t realize that she had taught us to be independent, individual personalities who could survive and, even thrive on, any adversity. 

Mom loved her pets; in fact, Mom had a soft spot for  any animal, proven by the fact that she claimed to have even had a “pet” chicken when she was a little girl.  She just didn’t feel like she truly had a home unless she had a dog, and anyone would have loved to have been one of her pets.  Several times she wanted to try and make a living by breeding dogs, and tried, but I honestly think she found it too emotionally exhausting to have to part with the puppies after 8 weeks with them.

In her later years, she had her grandchildren.  She danced with little James at Susie’s wedding and truly regretted and missed being able to see him grow up. She played with her Melanie Rosie and her Michael, and called me at least every hour as I drove from Chicago with updates on the labor and delivery of Maria. Macy only got to visit and know her in the nursing home, but knowing Macy as I do, I know she, too, lit up Mom’s life just as much her three siblings, and has the added bonus of looking a lot like her.

Whether they do it intentionally, or not, our parents teach us by example. From our mother we learned to be accepting, tolerant, and passionate.  Passionate about all that we do and all that we believe, sometimes to the point of being stubborn.  She taught us to be strong and independent and to stand up for ourselves.  And, there are some things we can only learn from a loving parent.  Mom taught me about forgiveness.  I learned from her that giving it, AND asking for it has many healing qualities.  And it takes courage, I guess, either way.  It is the salve for many wounds and can set people free. 

Last week, as I sat holding her hand and reminisced and talked to her caregivers about her life I realized, again, how colorful her life really was and how it colored all of ours, too. These stories are rich with emotion both, hers and ours.  Years from now we will still be able to laugh, or sadly smile, and reminisce about some of these stories together and that is another good thing she left with us …memories to share…memories that certainly have added some color to all our lives.

And we loved her, each of us in our own way, and in a way that only we can understand. 

Rest in Peace, Mom.