It has been a little over a week since my mother died. I like to use the word "died" instead of "passed away." It seems like people are so afraid to say the words, "death" or "died" because they are heavy with the reality that life isn't permanent, they signify the end of us in some way and even those of us who believe that there is a life after this one aren't exactly comfortable with the finality of death.
Anyway, she died on October the 11th and the days following her death, with the funeral planning, spending time with my dad and sisters, the visitation and the funeral itself the whole week following her death was a blur. For the first time in my life I found myself standing on the receiving end of that line of family and friends who came to pay their respects and show their love for us. It was really very overwhelming to see so many faces, old and new, of people who knew my mother or who were there to show support for one of us whom they knew and loved and felt empathy for. I saw family members I haven't seen in years, saw friends I hardly think about anymore, and was deeply moved by the friends in my life who came to hug me and tell me how sorry they were for my loss. I never really understood the value of the visitation before the funeral until now; even my father has commented on how surprised he felt that so many people cared about him and his grief. I left there that night feeling emotionally wrung out, physically tired and so mentally overcome that I had to drive home slowly, taking in my thoughts as they came to me, concentrating minute by minute on what was before me.
My mother wasn't the kind of person who had close relationships with anyone, including her daughters. She wasn't the kind of mom we could call up to ask for advice or to vent our frustrations to. In fact we couldn't really talk to her at all about anyone in our lives who caused us any trouble; she was so biased towards us that if we ever once spoke ill of someone in our lives, she forever thought of them as evil. When I was younger I saw this as a fault in my mother, but now with adult daughters of my own, even in my efforts to remain objective, I have trouble not becoming bitter and angry at anyone who has done wrong by my children. I like to think that I learned from my mother that it isn't always the best idea to blurt out my own opinions as she did. Even though I understand it was her love for me that got her stirred up against anyone she thought had mistreated me, I realize the distance her reactions created between us.
Having had a strained relationship with my mom for most of my life I always felt envious of my friends who had close mother-daughter bonds. My friend Debbie, for instance, had such a bond with her mother that they almost seemed like one person at times. Her "Mama" as she always referred to her, was often her best friend. They shared a home together, shared worries and troubles. They supported each other, worried about each other and both absolutely adored one another. Debbie took on her mother's nature, always giving to others, recognizing the strengths of others and being everyone's cheerleader. I often wished for that kind of bond with my own mother, but I knew she was just not that kind of person. My mother was guarded, always thinking that people were not to be trusted, that most people just ended up causing her pain, so she, in a way, protected herself by not letting anyone get too close. That wall was erected so soundly that even her children couldn't penetrate it completely. I don't doubt that she loved us with all her heart, but she wasn't able to really express that love because she couldn't be that vulnerable. Likewise, I believe I often shield myself from potential "danger" by holding myself back emotionally, even at times when my own emotional vulnerability could help someone else.
Whoever they are, and whatever struggles our mothers face, they teach us how to relate to the world. My mother taught me to be careful, to hold others suspect, even after they prove they are trust worthy. Debbie's mom taught her to look for the positives in others, to give her heart and to be a beacon of encouragement to the people she loves.
On the day my mother died, I drove home, tired and emotionally worn out. I took a long shower and cried to myself at the thought of her languishing on her death-bed. I hummed the tune of her favorite hymn to myself quietly, and cried even more as I let it comfort me with the assurance that the storms were over for her; that perhaps she was finally resting in that perfect love she had always craved but been too afraid to accept. I tucked myself into bed, pulling the covers up under my chin as my mind began to race with what the next day would hold--planning the funeral. Just as I was about to ease into my pillow and seek the comfort of sleep, my phone made that chiming sound.
I had been texting with my friend Debbie earlier in the day, letting her know that my mother had died that morning. Her mother had been battling all week from illness and was not doing well either. This was the message she sent me just before I went to sleep:
We are two completely different women with completely different mothers, but together we grieve for what we lost when we lost them. It's a journey that we embarked on together, without ever knowing why it happened as it did. Their funerals were on the same day, at the same time, and although we were both experiencing our own losses, we both remembered one another as well. Through her own suffering, my mother taught me never to forget about the suffering of others; through her own graciousness and openness, Debbie's mother taught her to never fail to think of and encourage others. They went about it in different ways, but both of our mothers must have done a good job, because here we are, traversing the road of grief together, never once getting so lost in our own grief that we forget that we have a friend who is also hurting.
And for those lessons our mothers taught us, we must be forever grateful. We will miss them, we will wonder what could have been different. We will feel the loss for a long time to come, but we can both take comfort in remembering and recognizing those parts of our mothers that are now a part of us. Mama lives on in the struggles and victories, the loves and losses we experience. She lives on in us when we find ourselves repeating her words, cooking her food, seeing her looking back at us in the mirror as we age. In a way, Mothers never die, as long as they leave their mark on us. And our mothers surely did just that.
.jpg)
The last time I talked to my mother, I told her a lie. I know, we all lie to our moms now and then even when we are little kids. Nobody wants to admit they broke the ceramic owl (sorry mom) and no one is going to admit to eating the last cookie, especially if your mother is a midnight snacker who goes looking for sweets during the night like my mom did. But the lie I told was a different kind of lie. 
