I can feel it coming. My mother's birthday. It's right around the corner and I have been bracing for it all month. Even with this mess about the retaining wall causing me so much stress, I can still feel the looming date on the calender sneaking up on me. August 31st. It's almost here.
My sister says "dead people don't celebrate birthdays". Yea...she's THAT crass at times. I usually call at least one of my six siblings on Mom's birthday, just to reassure myself that it was true....I DID have a mother at one time. Silly isn't it? How you can feel like an orphan when you are middle aged?
My Mom died when I was eight months pregnant with her youngest grandchild. In fact, this girl I was carrying was to bear Mom's first name as her middle name. Hazel. It's a bit old fashioned, but the happiness I felt in being pregnant and finally having a GOOD relationship with my Mother at the age of 33 made it feel like the right way to honor her.
I never thought I would ever have a good relationship with my mother. It always felt like we were at odds. I do remember hugs and cuddles on the couch watching Archie Bunker on TV (she chuckled, though I didn't quite understand his jokes at such a young age). Her belly would shake when she laughed, and her laugh always had a high pitched lilt at the end of it. That makes me smile thinking about her laugh. A little sad too.
Mom's mental illness (manic depression-though never formally diagnosed) always kept me one step away from fully trusting her. She could turn on me in a fit of rage with split second timing. Her tirades, both manic and depressive, caused a lot of turmoil in our household and I never really felt completely safe. It took me many years to figure that out.
I spent my teen years rebelling against Mom and Dad both. Defying curfews, drinking, experimenting with sex and drugs....not uncommon for a teen in a dysfunctional family. When I wound up pregnant at 18, I knew those days must end. Mom's response was to deny I was pregnant. She couldn't face it. Even though her own sister had been in the same situation during the 50's, Mom didn't want to believe it could happen to her own daughter. That was her way...deny deny deny. You do enough of that and you can avoid having to deal with reality. She was a master of that.
My twenties were full of anger and bitterness towards my parents for what they could not instill in me. I dealt with it by trying to understand it. To understand where they came from. Mom's illness mellowed a little with her age, but she still could spit fire and hatred with the best of them.
It wasn't until I married and moved 2000 miles away that I connected with my Mother. Her laughter as I relayed quips from my married life to her over the phone resounded so true in my soul, that I knew we had finally made that connection. I would call her 2-3 times a week and she would always sound to happy to hear from me. I miss that.
When she had her first heart attack two months after I married, I knew my time with her was limited. Maybe that is what helped my heart open up the tiniest bit to see her in a new light. Knowing that she would not be here forever, I gave her a part of me that I had been vindictively hiding from her for so much of my adult life. To punish her for the craziness of my childhood. I lost so much time hanging onto the past.
My mother was so excited that one of her children was finally going to name one of THEIR children after her that she even sent my unborn baby a Christmas present. It was a dumb little steering wheel with a rubber suction cup so you could smack it down on a highchair for the baby to play with. Nothing sentimental except the sentiment. She never did this with any of my other siblings. It felt special. It WAS special. I knew just how proud she was of me with that gift. She wrote on the attached card "For Baby Hazel". It was wrapped in her terrible, mishmash, hurried way, with lots of tape....typical of Mom. That was Christmas 1999.
By February of 2000, Mom had suffered her second and more damaging heart attack. I sunk to my knees when I got the news. I knew in that second that she would never meet Baby Hazel. I just knew.
With special permission and all my medical files from my doctor, I made the cross country flight to see her before she died. My sister, the nurse, had told me that I had to make a decision....to see Mom while she was still alive, or see her at her funeral. The agony of my decision to see my Mom one last time, or risk the health of my unborn baby was something I never thought I would have to choose between. I chose to see my mother. How could I live with myself if I didn't?
Mom was in good spirits and fair health when I walked into that hospital room. She told me I looked fat, in her boisterous, outspoken way. Some things never change. Then she placed her hands on my monstrous belly, leaned her head towards it, and yelled "Hello Little Hazel!" into my stomach. I will never forget that as long as I live. Everyone just chuckled, including me. My sisters rolled their eyes and shook their heads, as if embarassed. I just smiled. I knew Mom and I had a secret bond, one that none of the others shared. It made me happy to finally be sure that my mother loved me. Even if it was near the end of her life.
On my return to my home across the country, I knew I would never see my mother alive again. I cried all the way home. Sad little tears that wetted my eyes and filled me with that gnawing sense of loss. It was only a couple of weeks later that she died. March 10th, 2000. Seven weeks before Little Hazel arrived. I called every single day to talk to her. When she became less responsive, they would hold the phone up to her ear as I told her I loved her. She started moaning during the last week of her life. Each breath out she would let out a heavy, moany sigh. It was at that time that I would say to her over the phone to just let go. Let go of the pain of life and move on to the next level. I hated saying that. But it just felt better for her to go than to stay in misery.
After nearly 5 weeks of one of my sisters sitting vigil with Mom at the hospital, she finally had a night that she was all alone. One of us had been by her side every single day she was in the hospital. The last sister had decided she needed to gather more things from home, and left for the night on that Thursday. It was then that Mom finally knew she didn't have to hang on any longer. It was abundantly clear that Mom was not letting go because she wasn't ready to leave, she was hanging on because WE weren't ready for her to leave.
As the date of my mother's birth approaches, I find myself reflecting on the good things about her instead of the many many bad things. I have lost those stabbing memories of my childhood and have replaced them with the wonderful moments of her final years. It's best this way. It's what I want my own children to do. So, Happy Birthday Mom. I wish you were here.
My sister says "dead people don't celebrate birthdays". Yea...she's THAT crass at times. I usually call at least one of my six siblings on Mom's birthday, just to reassure myself that it was true....I DID have a mother at one time. Silly isn't it? How you can feel like an orphan when you are middle aged?
My Mom died when I was eight months pregnant with her youngest grandchild. In fact, this girl I was carrying was to bear Mom's first name as her middle name. Hazel. It's a bit old fashioned, but the happiness I felt in being pregnant and finally having a GOOD relationship with my Mother at the age of 33 made it feel like the right way to honor her.
I never thought I would ever have a good relationship with my mother. It always felt like we were at odds. I do remember hugs and cuddles on the couch watching Archie Bunker on TV (she chuckled, though I didn't quite understand his jokes at such a young age). Her belly would shake when she laughed, and her laugh always had a high pitched lilt at the end of it. That makes me smile thinking about her laugh. A little sad too.
Mom's mental illness (manic depression-though never formally diagnosed) always kept me one step away from fully trusting her. She could turn on me in a fit of rage with split second timing. Her tirades, both manic and depressive, caused a lot of turmoil in our household and I never really felt completely safe. It took me many years to figure that out.
I spent my teen years rebelling against Mom and Dad both. Defying curfews, drinking, experimenting with sex and drugs....not uncommon for a teen in a dysfunctional family. When I wound up pregnant at 18, I knew those days must end. Mom's response was to deny I was pregnant. She couldn't face it. Even though her own sister had been in the same situation during the 50's, Mom didn't want to believe it could happen to her own daughter. That was her way...deny deny deny. You do enough of that and you can avoid having to deal with reality. She was a master of that.
My twenties were full of anger and bitterness towards my parents for what they could not instill in me. I dealt with it by trying to understand it. To understand where they came from. Mom's illness mellowed a little with her age, but she still could spit fire and hatred with the best of them.
It wasn't until I married and moved 2000 miles away that I connected with my Mother. Her laughter as I relayed quips from my married life to her over the phone resounded so true in my soul, that I knew we had finally made that connection. I would call her 2-3 times a week and she would always sound to happy to hear from me. I miss that.
When she had her first heart attack two months after I married, I knew my time with her was limited. Maybe that is what helped my heart open up the tiniest bit to see her in a new light. Knowing that she would not be here forever, I gave her a part of me that I had been vindictively hiding from her for so much of my adult life. To punish her for the craziness of my childhood. I lost so much time hanging onto the past.
My mother was so excited that one of her children was finally going to name one of THEIR children after her that she even sent my unborn baby a Christmas present. It was a dumb little steering wheel with a rubber suction cup so you could smack it down on a highchair for the baby to play with. Nothing sentimental except the sentiment. She never did this with any of my other siblings. It felt special. It WAS special. I knew just how proud she was of me with that gift. She wrote on the attached card "For Baby Hazel". It was wrapped in her terrible, mishmash, hurried way, with lots of tape....typical of Mom. That was Christmas 1999.
By February of 2000, Mom had suffered her second and more damaging heart attack. I sunk to my knees when I got the news. I knew in that second that she would never meet Baby Hazel. I just knew.
With special permission and all my medical files from my doctor, I made the cross country flight to see her before she died. My sister, the nurse, had told me that I had to make a decision....to see Mom while she was still alive, or see her at her funeral. The agony of my decision to see my Mom one last time, or risk the health of my unborn baby was something I never thought I would have to choose between. I chose to see my mother. How could I live with myself if I didn't?
Mom was in good spirits and fair health when I walked into that hospital room. She told me I looked fat, in her boisterous, outspoken way. Some things never change. Then she placed her hands on my monstrous belly, leaned her head towards it, and yelled "Hello Little Hazel!" into my stomach. I will never forget that as long as I live. Everyone just chuckled, including me. My sisters rolled their eyes and shook their heads, as if embarassed. I just smiled. I knew Mom and I had a secret bond, one that none of the others shared. It made me happy to finally be sure that my mother loved me. Even if it was near the end of her life.
On my return to my home across the country, I knew I would never see my mother alive again. I cried all the way home. Sad little tears that wetted my eyes and filled me with that gnawing sense of loss. It was only a couple of weeks later that she died. March 10th, 2000. Seven weeks before Little Hazel arrived. I called every single day to talk to her. When she became less responsive, they would hold the phone up to her ear as I told her I loved her. She started moaning during the last week of her life. Each breath out she would let out a heavy, moany sigh. It was at that time that I would say to her over the phone to just let go. Let go of the pain of life and move on to the next level. I hated saying that. But it just felt better for her to go than to stay in misery.
After nearly 5 weeks of one of my sisters sitting vigil with Mom at the hospital, she finally had a night that she was all alone. One of us had been by her side every single day she was in the hospital. The last sister had decided she needed to gather more things from home, and left for the night on that Thursday. It was then that Mom finally knew she didn't have to hang on any longer. It was abundantly clear that Mom was not letting go because she wasn't ready to leave, she was hanging on because WE weren't ready for her to leave.
As the date of my mother's birth approaches, I find myself reflecting on the good things about her instead of the many many bad things. I have lost those stabbing memories of my childhood and have replaced them with the wonderful moments of her final years. It's best this way. It's what I want my own children to do. So, Happy Birthday Mom. I wish you were here.
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