The days following my mom’s passing were a blur. One minute, I was sobbing uncontrollably; one minute, I was zoned out. The next minute, I felt as though I was at a standstill as the world around me buzzed by with no way to catch up to anyone or anything.
I prayed for signs, anything to still feel a connection to her, for the affirmation that she was still out there. I needed confirmation that although I had lost her physically, she would always be there in the spiritual realm, guiding me through the rest of my life.
My mom was something else. I don’t think there is a word to describe someone like her. Around 5’6”, she constantly reminded me she would take on any man who hurt me. “I’ve already done time, and I can do it again,” she’d tell me as she reminded me of the lengths she’d go to for me. She would make me confirm my understanding, and to appease her, I did.
The days before her passing, even the months leading up to were typical days. As a family, we drove up to Niagara Falls, having left on her birthday. We went out to dinners and wore matching family Christmas pajamas. She and I even flew to Florida to cross ‘get on an airplane’ off her bucket list. My mom was a realist. Her bucket list depended on what she could do at the moment. She never wanted to do anything crazy, probably because most of her life had been such.
The most important item on her bucket list was doing whatever it took to assist her children in healing their inner child that she had damaged so much. She started with me years ago when I was in college. We’d talk for hours on the phone about what she was like as a daughter and a sister. She told me stories of my grandfather and how she was the apple of his eye until she started noticing boys. She spoke of her relationship with her older brother, who called her “Kid” until he passed. Much like my brothers are to me, my uncle was my mother’s lifeline.
We talked about the day I was placed into foster care and how much it altered our lives. She never forgave herself for her fall from grace. We would pause conversations about our past and live in the present for a while. We’d talk about my dating life, I’d offer a dilemma, and she would blow my mind with her understanding. I’d tell her about trips I was taking or the fun I was having. She always encouraged me and asked me to share stories with her so she could live vicariously through me.
The closer we became, the more we shared. I could let my guard down and open my heart to her, but not before I’d make her chase me for a few years. One day, we went to a diner and had a heart-to-heart about my relationship at the time; he was a drinker, and I had a few concerns. She pleaded with me to leave even though I assured her I wasn’t scared for my safety. It wasn’t until months later when I learned of her abuse, that I understood her fear. We had begun to see the parallels in our lives and our actions, and she wanted to stop me from walking down the same path she had.
The Saturday morning before her passing, we went through a timeline of my life. We were looking for the minute my life paused, and my feelings for her changed. Her memories were heartfelt, sad, desperate. She shared with me the worst parts of her life. Our conversation continuously goes back to a particular period when we lived on Buckingham St.
I’ve probably spent more time in my life angry and hating my mother than being happy with her. The memories of the love I’d once had, and the pain of knowing I would never experience that again caused me to shut down. For a long while, I didn’t know how to talk to her, let alone maintain a relationship with her, and to me that was perfectly fine. I had convinced myself that it didn’t matter because I wasn’t the one who had done wrong.
When it came to my mother, I was a lost little girl still searching for that hand to hold or loving eyes and open arms to greet me, and I was convinced if she passed, it wouldn’t change my life any. I had so much hurt towards her I honestly couldn’t cared less what happened.
Reminding me forgiveness is for me; a coworker once asked if I would be okay with myself if I missed the opportunity for forgiveness. She spoke directly to my soul, and eventually, I would seek forgiveness. I hadn’t even realized I had grown emotionally and spiritually until the last conversation with my mother, and I didn’t desire to hurt her with my words. I finally broke free from this behavior pattern at precisely the right time.
They say that after you’ve passed on, your brain is the last thing to shut down; it remains active, replaying significant memories from your life for about ten minutes. I hope when mom’s last memories of me flashed, they were the times we stood in front of the bathroom mirror singing, “Who’s that pretty girl in that mirror?” or the time she had to convince child me that a giant killer tomato was not going to rip through the streets when the news mentioned tornadoes.
I hope she remembered the days we’d walk to/from school on New Britain Avenue, and a gentle breeze would caress our cheeks as the sun brilliantly painted the perfect day in the background, how her hand wrapped around mine and the security it provided. I hope she remembered our trip to Florida, how we stayed up too late telling each other stories, and how hard we’d laugh when each one began with, “Just one more thing, and I’m going to bed.” Something about that goodnight and that I love you filled my heart and a missing piece of my soul.
I hope she remembered every time I loved her, not the times I cut her from my life. I hope in the end, she had more fond memories of her life and with her kids, than she did of her worst days. I hope she knew just how much I’ve always loved her, even when I wasn’t able to say it.
