For Motherless Mothers on Mother's Day
Mom and I on my 18th birthday
It has been four Mother’s Days since I lost my mother. Well, technically only three, as she passed on May 28th of 2019, but she entered the hospital two days before Mother’s Day that year, never to leave in her earthly body; one day before my annual gift arrived at her house, (that year, a framed photo, though now I cannot recall exactly who of); and approximately four days before all three of her children would arrive together as she had always hoped her disconnected offspring would.
I recall asking her if she wanted me to retrieve the cards and packages that had arrived for her, in order to bring them for her to open in the hospital. Though in tremendous pain, my mother’s determined stubbornness was greater, and she quickly and firmly told me not to. Was it her way of willing her body to recover so that she had something to look forward to going home to? Or was it that she knew that she would not survive and the thought of seeing cheery, flower laden Hallmark cards with ‘Best Mom ever’ wishes written in raised, gold font was just too much for her to bear? I suspect the latter, though I didn’t have the foresight at the time to find out.
My friend sent me a text about the sermon she heard this morning at church and how it made her think of me. The pastor spoke of the great role and responsibility mothers have in our society, and how gaping the hole is when they are no longer with us. She sweetly acknowledged that this day was hard for me since losing my mom. Bizarrely, my first thought was ‘I have barely thought of my mother today.’ But after sitting with that thought for a bit, I realized how far from the truth that was. I awoke to a meme a friend sent that said, ‘If your wounded mom’s higher self could speak to your conscious self.’ And I thought of my mother. Then I read a beautiful post by Cheryl Strayed about moms in all their imperfectly perfect forms. And I thought of my mother. After that I recalled one of my favorite mothers of one of my oldest friends and left her a note to let her know I care about her. And I thought about my mother. And after the breakfast in bed that my boys brought me was consumed, I felt the familiar, intense weariness in my body that I have felt the past three years on this day…since losing my mother.
My other best friend texted to tell me she thought of my mother when she ate scrambled eggs this morning. There was a funny moment in our youth when she was eating eggs my family prepared for her, creamy and buttery, just the way I like them. My friend asked for them to be cooked longer, more specifically, until they were browned, because that is how her mother made them. (Bless you, Linda Woodruff. You were so many wonderful things, but chef was not one of them!) Isn’t it funny that 30-something years later, something as simple as scrambled eggs can harken a memory of mothers?
The last time I put thoughts to paper (or screen as it were), was May of 2020. Those thoughts were about, who else? My mother. Though more days seem to pass now between the deep longings to hear her voice, when I do think of her those thoughts seem more pronounced, like the prick of a thorn as you cut the stems of roses before putting them in a vase. It hurts, but the reward of the sweet scent is worth the pain. I am who I am today because of and in spite of my mother. We all are, no matter how beautiful or shitty our mothering was. So at 5:25 PM as I finally make my way out of my pajamas, I raise a glass to all of the motherless mothers out there. You’ve almost made it through another second Sunday in May. I am proud of you.
