September 19, 2016

31 Years


My mother died 31 years ago, today.  She was 60 years old.

I hear people talk about the anniversary of their mother's (or father's) death - how much they miss them - all of the wonderful memories - how close they were.

"I miss her every day," they say, through tears.
  "I remember the times we....
...went to the movies
...met for lunch (or dinner)
...went shopping
...laughed ‘til we cried"

or...

"No one else will ever...
...love my kids as much as she did
...love me as much as she did
...be my champion like she was
...fill the empty place she left in my heart"

None of those things are true for me.  I wish they were.  I sometimes wonder what that must feel like.

For the first time in 31 years... here's the truth.  I don't miss my mother.  I didn't hate her. I sure didn't wish her dead.  My feelings about her weren't that strong one way or the other.

She had an emotionally difficult life.  I feel compassion for all that she experienced and I think it's great that she achieved so much.  The older I get, the more I realize how lonely she must have been.  For years (and sometimes, still) I let that be her excuse.  That way I can give her a "pass" for being a shitty, emotionally absent mother.  "She did the best she could." (She said softly with respect)

The truth (again) is that there was a sense of freedom after she died - freedom to be myself - freedom from constant disapproval - freedom from undermining my attempts at parenting.  Freedom... to just... be.  Not joy.  There was no joy when she died.  It was sad.  But there was freedom.

I'm not saying I didn't deserve her disapproval. I'm not saying I've done a very good job at much of anything.  I've missed the mark in almost every area of my life. I was the disappointment she thought I was.  For sure. She was just as much a disappointment to me as I was to her.

My parents were separated for about a year when I was four (I think I was four) and my mother and I went to live with my grandmother and great-grandfather.  It was a magical year.  I remember my grandmother and my great-grandfather and dozens of joyful experiences with each of them and the things we did together.  I don't have one memory of my mother during that period.  The only reason I know she was there was because my grandmother told me she was.

The earliest memory of a hole in my life where my mother should have been, was at the age of four.
Thanks to my grandmother and great-grandfather, it was also the first time in my life that I felt loved.
When my mother died, we had a memorial service.  It was packed with people whose lives were touched or changed (or touched AND changed) by my mother.  I heard story after story of how much she loved and was loved by all of these people (hundreds - mostly women).  If you measure success by the mark we leave on the world, my mother was a huge success.  She definitely left an impact on everyone she met.

When I die, I hope no one bothers with a memorial service.  No one would come.  I didn't touch lives.  I didn't change lives.  I didn't leave my mark - didn't impact hundreds. But if my children can say that they felt loved every day of their lives, I will have accomplished everything I hoped to accomplish in my life.

If one day... even one of my children can smile and say any of the following...

"I remember the times we....
...went to the movies
...met for lunch (or dinner)
...went shopping (you go, you get?)
...laughed ‘til we cried"

or...

"No one else will ever...
...love my kids as much as she did
...love me as much as she did
...be my champion like she was"

I hope that I leave joy,
hope, and laughter-filled memories
in the hearts of each of my children -
and love - lots and lots of love - 
no empty spaces.  ...then it's all good.