Mother’s Day. Without Mom.
Some days, I just need my mom. There is no rhyme or reason, no particular upset or trigger, just a feeling down deep, that today, is that day.
“Four years since moms’ disappearance and some days my slow to heal heart feels overwhelmed with a giant hole. Today is one of them,” I report to my sister.
It isn’t that something happened today that is just too big for me to handle, but it has been a really tough week. A week of truly noticing awful differences in our family dynamic. Differences that I hadn’t noticed earlier, or didn’t want to notice before. But this week there was no denying it. Something had clearly gone awry since my mom left this planet. Surely she did not disappear, as I reported to my sister, instead, she lost her battle to Pancreatic Cancer 4 years ago. Four whole years. When I hear people mention they lost someone several years ago, my brain thinks, that’s hard. But that is it. It doesn’t think, ugh, she must still be in mourning. I mean, who is in mourning several years after someone passes.
We are.
It is sporadic when it shows up, but when it does, it is hard to look away. At first glance, it doesn’t look at all like mourning. It looks like anger, misguided upset, blame. It looks like deep resentment and even chaos. It feels like we have turned on each other. Like we are unclear which of us is wearing a home jersey. And by we, I mean, my family. My beautiful, little family that has always been so close. The one that has stood together through so many storms…
As I head into town during the umpteenth day of COVID-19 and yet, still no where to go, I round the corner and know just the place. The cemetery. I walk briskly, listening to the sweet sound of James Taylor whispering in my ears, but pound the pavement like I have somewhere important to be. I can see the spot coming into view as my broken heart beats in an unbroken pattern. It beats so quickly I wonder if I had begun to jog without noticing, but no, I hadn’t. In fact, it wasn’t the quick pace that made my heart race at all, it was the sight before me.
Just where I needed to be.
The sight of the beautiful colors overwhelmed me, and I wondered if the woven looking clouds would catch me as I fell. Reaching for the stone wall, I sat and let my tears drain from my eyes, feeling relief in arriving.
This was not my mom’s cemetery. It was not where we once stood and buried her tiny shell, but it was where I went when I needed to be as close to hers as I could. And since I believed I could feel and hear her in any cemetery I stood in, I felt gifted to be able to walk there, even in a situation where there was no place to go.
I walked through the entire cemetery, noting how long each person lived, noticing the names of family members buried together and searched for a sign. Anything. When I couldn’t find it, I found a bench and simply sat and listened. It was then that I placed my one hand inside the other and could hear her voice.
”When you need me, just place your hand inside the other and you will know I am here.”
I could see her face as clear as ever. It was her third and final week in the hospital. It was her 30th month of fighting a cancer they said would give her just 3 months. We were the lucky ones…I knew that. But on this day, as I sat perched holding my own hand, I knew so much more.
I finally understood the she was the one holding us together. I understood that she was silently ironing out the wrinkles, before we even knew things were wrinkled. That she was selflessly taking care of all the details, so that we could just show up and enjoy our time together.
It came to me in a way that could not be ignored or denied. It was in the clouds, and in the air. It was everywhere as I thought about all the recent and unnecessary drama keeping us from being connected. It was there as I thought about the hole that remains vacant in my heart, secretly waiting for her return. It was there as I sobbed and wondered how long it would take to allow our home team to play as one unit, like we had before.
It was in that moment that I heard her very weak voice make one final request…”Take care of each other.”
What seemed so obvious and easy as her words fell, was still one of the hardest things for us to achieve.
I bowed my head and thanked her for showing up and hearing me. I promised her again, as I did on that day, that we would take care of each other. And that, we were. Mostly. Even though sometimes it did not feel like it. Because, as mom used to say, some days are just like that.
I walked home slowly with James Taylor lulling ‘in my mind I’ve gone to Carolina…’ and wished for a moment I could, but knew for sure that running away from this one wasn’t going to make us heal any faster. It was just going to take some time.