February 9th, 8:15 pm

Every once in a while, I still think to myself, “Hey, I should call mom; she always wants someone to call her.”

I remember she felt lonely a lot. She used to tell me she had “empty nest syndrome” (I’m still not convinced this is a thing). She wanted me to call her every day if I could, but she accepted my intention to “do my best to call every 2-3 days”. Even if we talked for 10 minutes, she was grateful. And if I said “I have to go so-and-so”, signing off real quick, she was completely understanding. I should have talked longer. 

I miss her voice. I miss her “Ok, darling, thanks for calling”s. I hope I remember her voice forever. I wonder if there comes a time when you can’t really recall on your own and you have to go back to your collection of videos. 

I have a million videos on Facebook (that’s my default dumping ground for ALL photos and videos- I set most to private, but I’m sure it’s not the most “private” option out there, so I need to make it a point to switch over). If I scroll down far enough, I get to the ones of mom. Reading T a book with him on her lap, following him around in the garage area at church, together at the doctor’s office, playing guitar on the stairwell, staring awkwardly and smiling into the camera when I zoomed in on her. She was a smiler. Though the smiles finally started to fade as she got weaker. 

I want to hold her hand again. I want to lean on her and feel her arm around me again. 

I can’t think of a conclusion to this. There doesn’t seem to be any resolution or lesson learned or grand finale to this train of thought. Just ongoing feelings. (Why am I such an emotional being?!) That’s the funny thing about writing. It usually comes in neat, organized parts that fit in nice, little packages and feel complete and resolved and settled. Life is nothing like that (at least not my life ha!).

And with that, I will simply end awkwardly and abruptly.

Toodles!

Year and a Half Point

We had a little memorial service for our loved ones at our Manhattan church last Sunday. About 30 people came and stood at the front of the chapel and shared briefly their memories about their parent, spouse, sibling, grandparent, or child who’d passed.

I would say I was about 12th or 13th in line. I was the first one who cried (leave it to me!) I can’t seem to get through much public speaking without tearing up (I speak mostly for youth services at my church in Queens). Something about hearing my voice saying the words out loud? Who knows.

It’s funny how I forget just how fragile I am. How I keep going through the motions of every day and I forget that I still have a lot of pain juuust beneath the surface. I’ve been brought to tears by a whole list of random topics, but most times, it’s when I start talking about God or my mom.

It’s been a year and 29 weeks and I still feel so raw.

It’s not just mom. There are other things that have been chipping away at my emotional armor over time. I guess my mom passing away just brought out a lot of the emotions I got so good at hiding.

Sometimes I feel selfish. Or ashamed. Because people have gone through way worse than I have.

I really miss her though. I find myself wanting to go back to places we’ve been together as if somehow my presence in those places might bring her back to me. As if somehow memories of her are floating around in those places and perhaps I can catch a glimpse of her in the form of a gentle breeze brushing across my cheek or a warm ray of sunshine on my shoulder.

I lie awake some nights just confused. What do I feel? What do I want out of life? (Dramatic much?!) It’s funny to think about who you really are. Do you really know? And people are always changing right? So if you change, are you still you? I guess that’s the beauty of being human.

Welp! That ends my philosophical discussion for tonight! I’ll leave you to ponder these existential questions into the wee hours of the morning…

Moments in Time

I want to memorialize a memory.

It was a few months before mom passed (August or September, 2014 I suppose). She had been getting better in some ways (or so we thought), but also getting worse in others. She was having a lot of trouble breathing (Stage 4 Cancer in her lungs). It scared her a lot and it scared me a lot, too, but I tried not to let on. She was afraid of coming downstairs from her little room on the second floor, because she dreaded the trip back up the stairs, during which she became tired and out of breath. I really wanted to bring her outside for some fresh air, but the best I could coax her to do was come down the first half of the stairs. There is a small landing in the middle of the stairway that holds a bench, some plants, and a couple of windows through which gentle light casts itself over the living room downstairs.

She had one hand on the railing and one hand in mine and she gingerly came through the doorway, and walked very slowly down, one foot in front of the other. I had to remind myself not to hurry her. Sometimes, I get used to the busyness of life and I automatically try to make everything faster and more efficient. This was not needed at that period in time. Mom didn’t need speed, tension, or stress. She needed peace, serenity, quiet reassurance.

Mom looked out the windows and smiled at the sun. She liked my suggestion of going halfway. I didn’t want to push her. She wanted to sit and rest on the bench, and I let her. Her back was to the windows and she looked out over the rooms downstairs. She could see the front door and the porch outside where she used to like to lie down and relax. I think she sat on that landing for almost an hour. A few visitors came by. One friend sang and played a song on guitar at her request, and I followed. I held the guitar over my pregnant belly and sang a few songs she loved including As The Deer. I asked her to play and sing. She didn’t seem to have the energy to sing; she just strummed a tune or two and put the guitar down. I love my parents for giving me the gift of song.

My playful 1 year old scooted over and sat next to Grandma. They smiled and laughed, and I took pictures. Mom muttered a few words to him, but mostly just gazed at him adoringly. She patted my son’s back gently and grasped his little hands. He giggled and squealed, and beamed at her. He stood so that his face was just level with hers. Mom didn’t seem afraid. She seemed calmer than normal. I think he helped her forget. She liked to say she strove for “simple elegance”. She was simply elegant in that moment.

Mommy

When I was little, I called my mom Mommy. At some point, I decided Mommy didn’t sound cool enough and I needed to graduate to calling her Mom. I don’t think I was the only one out there that thought this was a rite of passage. With my newfound coolness came an aloofness. I was uncomfortable being seen with my mom too much, I shuddered when she called me her “baby”, and I quite disrespectfully pushed her away (physically and emotionally) when she told me to put more clothes on.

Thankfully, this phase didn’t last long and I came back around. And, of course, there she was, patiently waiting with open arms (both figuratively and literally). A mother’s love is so unconditional; no matter how cruelly her children may treat her at times, she retains nothing but love. (I dread the day my own daughter will yell at me from across the room, “I hate you!”, but I know the day will come. I remember doing this impulsively out of desperation, of course not really meaning it and instantly regretting it every time, but too proud to retract anything.)

One of many little memories.

I’ve been playing memories on repeat recently. Just random ones, whichever ones I can gather. The saddest part of grief, for me, is the feeling that my mother is slipping away. Obviously, her physical body has already slipped away, but I so wish that I could hold onto her memory completely and absolutely. When she died, I wanted to freeze for eternity everything I remembered and everything I felt about her. The way I knew her then, I wanted to know her forever. But that’s just not how brains work, is it? It’s been 15 months and my memories are already fading. I feel like I’m squinting at the blackboard at the front of a huge classroom. Maybe I’m just being dramatic (That happens from time to time). It’s not that I’m forgetting everything. I remember almost everything…vaguely. Some memories are clearer than others. Bits and pieces are crystal clear.

I have found myself on occasion straining to remember what her voice sounds like. Then desperately clicking through old videos to remind myself.

One night, in particular, I remember. Someone had asked me that day what my favorite flower was. It used to be irises; now it’s roses. I’m fickle. And then my thoughts wandered to my mother, as they often do, and it dawned on me that I didn’t know what her favorite flower was. It stabbed me in the heart like a knife that I couldn’t ask her.

I suppose I’ll have to write that one down on my list of questions to ask her in a hundred years.

That Song Reminds Me of My Mom

There’s a lovely little song that comes on on our baby swing.

It hasn’t a name that I know of. To me, it’s just “My Favorite Baby Swing Song”. It’s childish, unsophisticated, and about 30 seconds long. It plays in that familiar, tinkling music box kind of a way.

Songs have a way of engraving certain memories on our hearts. Imprinting specific experiences in our minds. This little lullaby brings me back to when I was a first time mom. The first few blissful, yet frightening months. Ecstatic to have a beautiful new blessing in my life, yet constantly worried about what I may be doing wrong. That time period is all a bit fuzzy in my mind, mainly because I was half asleep for most of it.

I do, however, remember clearly something beautiful my mother did then. She packed her bags and stayed at our apartment for a few weeks to help me take care of the baby (as perhaps many other mothers and mothers in law out there do). She happily giggled and cooed with him. She readily woke up to comfort him, so that I could sleep. What made this time truly beautiful, though, is the way she so obviously trusted in my ability as a mother. The way she never second guessed anything I said about myself or my baby. The way she quietly, gracefully supported me.

My mother wasn’t much of a “talker”. She said what needed to be said, but she didn’t go on for very long. I spent a lot of time in silence with her. This is one thing that stands out in my mind about her. The way I felt comforted, encouraged, and loved throughout the silence. She made it clear throughout the years how much she adored me and how in her eyes, I could do no wrong. Certain things changed about her as she started showing more signs of Huntington’s Disease, but in the moments in which she had complete clarity and her true self could shine through, I felt the same unconditional love and support. I held on for dear life to the real her, as I know she was doing.

It wasn’t Huntington’s Disease that took her life in the end. It was an even crueler being: Cancer. That’s a story for another day.

Every time I hear this playful, gentle lullaby, bittersweet nostalgia envelops me. I’ll have to record it somewhere so that I can listen to it after our baby swing days are gone. My mother left a void in my heart and in my life, but I refuse to let it taint my faith, my hope and my happiness and excitement for the future. She may not be around physically anymore, but she lives on through me. Now, when I hold my second blessing, my little girl, I hold her not just for myself, but also for my mama.