motherless
maybe she's looking after my dad, who says he sees her every day, says he sees sort of an aura of her in unexpected places. i haven't sensed her, haven't had one dream, haven't encountered her anywhere in my first off-balance, floaty steps through motherlessness since she died three sundays ago.
my oldest friend L, who grew up one door down from me – her mother was diagnosed with a similar type of cancer just a month or two before my mom's diagnosis. L lost her mother just a year and a half ago. my mom saw her obituary in the paper and phoned me. i drove down south for the funeral and remember seeing L there on the ocean cliff of the cemetery on that sunny, blue day, shell-shocked, having lost her best friend, biggest supporter, and original source of fierce, unconditional love. i had nothing to say beyond a choked, tear-blurred i'm so, so sorry because i could not imagine the overwhelming pain she was experiencing.
L heard about my mom in the same way, when her aunt called the other day after seeing the obit, and L called me crying because she knew exactly where i was and how much further i have to go. but she said it will get better, if i don't believe it now, and i take her words completely to heart because i saw her live it herself. even in losing our mothers we have the small comfort of being able to draw from our parallel histories. it's a lot more bitter than sweet, but as long as i can catch that barest implication of sweetness i'm going to close my eyes and taste it.
it hasn't all quite settled into what forms my reality. i was there when my mother died; i saw the silent change between life and death, and yet it doesn't feel like i was there at all. i had a moment of dissociation the other night, speculating on what i would end up doing, as if i were watching the actions of another person. it was the first i'd noticed, but it's probably an impromptu coping mechanism. i'm able to laugh; i've actually had a little fun without feeling guilty. but as another friend put it – one who lost her mother at about the same age – my life will never be the same. and i feel that so keenly, not just that i've lost this irreplaceable, amazing and beautiful person who nurtured and gave me life, but also that i've lost something intangible i can't even explain but which leaves a dimension of my selfhood missing.
my dad and brother and i are so grateful that she didn't die a painful, cancerous death. although the cancer had recently returned to her brain and lymph nodes, the only symptom she felt was exhaustion. what eventually broke her in body and spirit was the massive stroke that didn't seem to hurt terribly much. in the beginning, she knew who we were and smiled when she saw us enter her hospital room: a blessing. but she also began remembering the date, and how long she'd been in hospital, and that she'd been moved from rehab institute to nursing home: a curse. i am still thankful that she didn't suffer physically, when cancer can be hideously painful – but the idea of her understanding that she was deteriorating on a daily basis just crushes me. she was so proud, so independent. i almost wish it had been more sudden, even if i weren't with her when she died, if she didn't have to know that she was dying. if it was momentary.
it is a fearful thing to love what death can touch. – anonymous
my oldest friend L, who grew up one door down from me – her mother was diagnosed with a similar type of cancer just a month or two before my mom's diagnosis. L lost her mother just a year and a half ago. my mom saw her obituary in the paper and phoned me. i drove down south for the funeral and remember seeing L there on the ocean cliff of the cemetery on that sunny, blue day, shell-shocked, having lost her best friend, biggest supporter, and original source of fierce, unconditional love. i had nothing to say beyond a choked, tear-blurred i'm so, so sorry because i could not imagine the overwhelming pain she was experiencing.
L heard about my mom in the same way, when her aunt called the other day after seeing the obit, and L called me crying because she knew exactly where i was and how much further i have to go. but she said it will get better, if i don't believe it now, and i take her words completely to heart because i saw her live it herself. even in losing our mothers we have the small comfort of being able to draw from our parallel histories. it's a lot more bitter than sweet, but as long as i can catch that barest implication of sweetness i'm going to close my eyes and taste it.
it hasn't all quite settled into what forms my reality. i was there when my mother died; i saw the silent change between life and death, and yet it doesn't feel like i was there at all. i had a moment of dissociation the other night, speculating on what i would end up doing, as if i were watching the actions of another person. it was the first i'd noticed, but it's probably an impromptu coping mechanism. i'm able to laugh; i've actually had a little fun without feeling guilty. but as another friend put it – one who lost her mother at about the same age – my life will never be the same. and i feel that so keenly, not just that i've lost this irreplaceable, amazing and beautiful person who nurtured and gave me life, but also that i've lost something intangible i can't even explain but which leaves a dimension of my selfhood missing.
my dad and brother and i are so grateful that she didn't die a painful, cancerous death. although the cancer had recently returned to her brain and lymph nodes, the only symptom she felt was exhaustion. what eventually broke her in body and spirit was the massive stroke that didn't seem to hurt terribly much. in the beginning, she knew who we were and smiled when she saw us enter her hospital room: a blessing. but she also began remembering the date, and how long she'd been in hospital, and that she'd been moved from rehab institute to nursing home: a curse. i am still thankful that she didn't suffer physically, when cancer can be hideously painful – but the idea of her understanding that she was deteriorating on a daily basis just crushes me. she was so proud, so independent. i almost wish it had been more sudden, even if i weren't with her when she died, if she didn't have to know that she was dying. if it was momentary.
it is a fearful thing to love what death can touch. – anonymous
posted by a wandering eye at 12:56 AM
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