Skip to main content

For Mom, Twenty-One Years Later

I lost my mom twenty-one years ago today. She died from complications related to a long battle with chronic-progressive multiple sclerosis. I was a week away from turning twenty-one. Which means I have not had her as long as I did have her.

It used to make me unique among my friends, to have lost a parent at such a young age. But I’m no longer young and many friends have joined this depressing club. The dues are astronomical and no one prepares refreshments.

People, moms are important. Don’t let anyone tell you differently. Whether you were once a child or are currently a mom. They are the sun, moon, and stars, even when they are completely obscured by darkness.

I wish she mattered less. She doesn’t. She matters more than almost anything: that first hit of love, that childhood sense of safety, that initial understanding of what it means to be a woman in the world: mom.

Mom in 1974-ish



Memory is funny when it comes to dead people: I can remember her any way I want. Which means I can also mis-remember her any way I want. I could make up stories and say, “She would have loved this,” but I don’t know that. She was a person changing too: perhaps by now, she would have very different tastes. For example, a memory circa 1994: she didn’t want to tell Dad that she no longer loved the country-style of gifts in blue and white that he would buy her. She used to love that aesthetic, but it was no longer her favorite. She appreciated the thoughtfulness behind the gift, more than the gift itself. So she gave me one comment about it, perhaps in an effort to conscript me into educating Dad on her new aesthetic or simply to influence my own gift-giving and gift appreciation. I remember at the time being horrified that she didn’t get exactly what she wanted. But now I know she did, if at a slant. Being able to deeply appreciate the intention behind things is very wise. So is being able to tell someone what you like and don’t like, but that was a lesson I’d have to learn on my own.

Other lessons she taught me: My brother and I were homeschooled for a spell in southern California; third through fifth grade for me, sixth through ninth for him. Our homeschool education was supplemented considerably by trips to the local museums: La Brea Tar Pits, the Smithsonian, the Botanical Garden, the Natural History museum, each an exciting discovery for a thirsty mind. She loved them too. Her soaking up of the experience was a lesson in enjoying the things you enjoy. What a valuable lesson.

Twenty-one years with, twenty-one years without. A transitional tipping point. Having her meant being cared for, but also fighting with her. Mothers and daughters know exactly how to strike a match that lights up the others’ fire. As a teen there were moments that simply the way she breathed sent me into a fury. I can only imagine the same was true for her. I knew exactly how to hold up one finger to indicate “A moment please” that drove her to the brink of madness. Those are memories I cull when writing fiction; that particular strain and pain. Other memories I pull for comfort, like being read to as a child (Alice in Wonderland, The Hobbit), and reading to her in my late teens as her disease rendered her more and more incapacitated.

The trajectory of my twenty-one years since has included close to a decade of a life in response to illness and death, followed by a decade of living my own life. As I hurtle toward the age she was when she died I am horrified to understand just how young she was, how inadequately short her life was.

I can miss her now without the loss of her cutting me in two. Closure isn’t necessary; finding a way to live well with grief is. What used to be a grief so enormous and singular I now know is part of a much larger tapestry of pain in the world.

I haven’t had her as many years as I have had her. Except, that isn’t true at all, is it? Physically absent, she is still a daily presence in my life. I take comfort in reports that even certain bacteria on my body are from hers and will never be erased. I can wear any of the pieces of jewelry she made and feel I’m carrying her out into the world with me. Today I am wearing a sweater of hers that is as old as I am. I have the wooden rocking chair she rocked me in as a child. I carry these things through life in much the same way as the lessons she taught me: treasuring them, trying not to get mustard on them, and letting them live beside each new lesson the day brings. 




Comments

  1. "I can miss her now without the loss of her cutting me in two. Closure isn’t necessary; finding a way to live well with grief is. What used to be a grief so enormous and singular I now know is part of a much larger tapestry of pain in the world."

    Beautiful Christin. Thank you for sharing her memory, and thank you for sharing your journey <3 Much love!

    ReplyDelete
  2. Oh Christin, this is so beautiful. It's as poignant as it is musical, as if you are dancing with your grief and sharing the dance with your younger self as well as with your memories of your mom.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Sis, this was amazing. I didn't realize how hungry I was to hear YOUR inner thoughts about your experience of her and with her. Thank you for reminding me of her strength in its many forms. I love you, groan with you, and stand with you in the mystery.

    ReplyDelete
  4. My goodness. What a beautiful and thoughtful piece!

    ReplyDelete
  5. Christin...this is brilliant. I think that in writing your personal thoughts and feeling, you have transcended into the realm of what humananity experiences and the dues it must pay to be a member of this club and experience the magnificence of Love. Rick,friend of Kim.

    ReplyDelete
  6. Lovely and moving.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

My Litquake 2012 Report

I've been avoiding putting this together, because a part of me really doesn't want this year's Litquake festival to be over already.  The other part of me is still cranky-tired, wandering around trying to get to all those projects I said I'd get to after Litquake, and feeling post-Christmas like. In short, this year's Litquake was AMAZING.  Every year has been awesome, but this one was particularly special for me because I got to actually help plan the awesome.  As a volunteer during the festival for the past several years, I definitely felt like I contributed to making each event I helped at awesome, but this year, being on the committee,* I got to witness the tremendous build up to the festival that happens the whole year prior.  The amount of love, sweat and time that goes into it is incredible, and I'm not sure I've ever been part of something so cool.  Which is not to say I'm not still cranky-tired and looking forward to feeling fully recovered.

Love These Days

What love looks like these days in my tiny corner of the world. Or, what I'm loving these days. Books: These have brought me so much delight and escape and hope lately: Housebreaking , by Colleen Hubbard The Swimmers , by Julie Otsuka A Life in Light; meditations on impermanence, by Mary Pipher Rules for Visiting , by Jessica Francis Kane This Time Tomorrow, by Emma Straub Unsheltered, by Barbara Kingsolver Hunt, Gather, Parent , by Michaeleen Doucleff, PhD Podcasts (the links will take you to specific episodes that moved me): Crazy Good Turns HerMoney with Jean Chatzky The Lazy Genius Podcast Mega Moms Don't Have Time to Grieve Unpublished We Can Do Hard Things On Being Death, Sex and Money I was going to add another category here and then I realized all I've been consuming lately are books and podcasts. :) I love a book or podcast recommendation! What have you read or heard lately that has made your heart sing, your world grow, or brought you solace?

What To Expect When You Are Expecting A Pandemic

“When I think about all that has to transpire to get from pregnancy to the birth, I am overwhelmed by time and the unknown. It’s not useful to contemplate. There is only today, and it is good.” I documented my move from ambivalence about parenting, to IVF, to motherhood, as well as all of Year One. I did it longhand because that’s what I did back then. So now, finally, I’m typing all those pages up, in part because of the great What If that living amid a pandemic creates. And I came across this yesterday and it is so true for the current moment, for this, the fifth week of Sheltering in Place. Ways this time is like pregnancy: It can make you fat. It will definitely make you crave near-constant meals and snacks. You will swing from feeling good to anxiety-laden, angry, irritable and back again several times a day. You will want to know how this will all unfold, how hard it will get, exactly how you and your life will be changed. You can’t know any of that. Ther