The corner bookstore, pharmacy and grocery are all stocked and stacked with Mother’s Day cards. The emails for fancy brunches and “best of” gift lists for Mom, fill my inbox to overflowing. It is that time of year again, when my heart hurts and my body knows “it” is here.
I never know exactly when grief may wash over, but this seems to be my griefy season. Sometimes it is also in the Fall, on Mom’s birthday, which comes just a week after mine. In recent years my own “birth day” has been glazed in a bittersweet malaise.
Sometimes it’s a glance over at her beloved Malomars in the cookie aisle, or waiting in line and spotting a stash of Goldenberg’s Peanut Chews at check out. In the early years, just tossing Bounty paper towel in my cart, could take me out. “Buy Bounty or nothing at all.” she said. So I do.
For years I just suffered this Hallmark induced Sunday silently. All of its meaning had left the building when Mom did. Sometimes I would duck into a movie and try to just wait it out in the dark.
In the years that followed and I had my first daughter, Emma, my little family wanted to celebrate ME. Oh, but how complicated it felt to be a mother without a mother. I found grief support the year I had Emma. Being in the world as a Mom without her, bought up grief I had never known, and lots I had clearly never processed. Looking back, I didn’t really know it was ever there or needed to be intentionally tended to.
In 1993, when she died, there were precious few resources for grief support. The most important and secure attachment I knew was taken from me in an instant, and nobody thought to even whisper the idea. Twenty-somethings can be an oft forgotten group when it comes to societal support. Your pre-frontal cortex has just come “on-line” somewhere in the middle of the 20s and most folks treat you as if you are a full-on adult.
While it is not science-backed, I believe that there is a silent changing of the guard to “official adult” when you lose a parent. It is unspoken, but suddenly you are on your own in the world and in charge of yourself, in a new and staggering way.
I returned to work when the house quieted from visitors. This was about a week after the funeral. I owned a PR agency back then, was married and had an apartment in New York City. My stepfather headed back to his law firm, my sister onto a plane to her new job in Denver. She was a fresh college grad in her early 20s and first gig out of school. A “return to normal” seemed the unspoken expectation.
There was a lot more, “you are strong like her and at least you are married and she was at the wedding”, than anyone asking what kind of support or grief counseling any of us may have needed. I realized later, from a brilliant and trauma informed therapist, that the sudden loss was indeed trauma. Losing her without warning one day at the beach was a devastating shock and it lived in my bones. I had the most beautiful relationship with her and so did my sister. Mom called us at least once a day. She was plugged in to the minutiae of our lives. Her pride in our work was what every kid deserves. And she was gone. In a minute. No good-byes or warning.
In the years that followed, I met motherless daughters everywhere I would go. I felt as if I must be wearing a sign on my back, or had some kind of magnet on my heart. The connections were always illuminating. I did not realize how much shame I held, in not understanding how to move forward without her. This “arrested development” or state of suspended adolescence made me feel childlike. Years later, I am still interrogating the me on this side of motherloss.
I left NY for Chicago after she died. It was a move she would have never allowed, or at least been very happy about. Moving felt like a middle finger to her death. And a great escape.
Years in, I thought it may be time to “take back the night”. The Saturday before Mother’s Day, I held the first Unmothered Mother’s Day Circle. This was long before The Memory Circle was officially official. My dear friend and teacher Amy Owen and I joined women in a support circle, where we shared yoga and prompted writing. I have done some iteration of this annually ever since.
This year I am back in NY, after years of hosting this in Chicago. Lingua Franca, of “sweetly stitched sweater fame”, has offered to host us in the West Village.
LINK HERE to join us — the ticket price will help raise funds for Every Mother Counts.
Grieving a loss can be lonely. Being in community can remind us we are never alone. Hope to meet you there. Please pass along to friends and family and anyone that may be in need of some extra heart this time of year.
My Mother died at 102 and I will tell you that isn't easy either. I had her for so very long the loss was a gut punch. She would drive me crazy and my patience would wane for which in hindsight I am sorry and sad. I think of all the "should have said and done" . I carry regret with me . She was my anchor tenant and I feel even having had her all thos years I feel unmoored. I held her hand as she took her last breath and I am certain she knew I was there.