Exactly twenty-eight years ago today was Mother’s Day, and I
saw my mother for last time. She died 5 days later, on May 15, 1987, after a
painful 19-month battle with an aggressive form of cancer. She was 43 years
old. I was 21.
I don’t need Mother’s Day to arrive to think of her. That’s
a daily occurrence. For years, though, Mother’s Day and the passing of the
anniversary of her death have been both grueling and inevitable – an annual
return to the raw, unwelcome emotions of the past.
This year the calendar lined up just so that the same dates
from 1987 happened again – all these years later. Sunday May 10 – Mother’s Day.
Friday May 15 – Death. I am sure this
timing has happened before. Maybe for some reason this year I just noticed it.
It’s an unfortunate association – Mother’s Day and death.
Unfortunate and ironic certainly because perhaps nothing in many of our lives
says “life,” “love,” “gratitude,” “happiness” and a plethora of other positive
things than mothers and motherhood.
For me, though, this so often has not been the case. I’ll be
honest – I’ve struggled. It’s funny how memory works, too. You can try not to
think of something, and a memory will rush in on you. Smell does this for me,
specifically the smell of blossoms on the trees every spring. That wonderful
smell is inextricably linked to my mother and Mother’s Day 1987.
Tree Blossoms
That Sunday was a beautiful spring day. It was quite warm,
and a breeze was sending the fragrant scent of the newly blossomed trees through the air. Our entire family was gathered on the 2nd floor of my
grandparents’ home in Golf, Illinois – in a room that used to be my mother’s
bedroom when she was a teenager. The windows were open, letting in the breeze. The heavy smell of
blossoms poured in around the 30 or so of us in that room like a cloud of incense.
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| May 10, 1987 - Mother's Day |
We held two baptisms that day – for my brother’s daughter (my
mom’s first grandchild) and for a newly arrived nephew. After this, the priest
from our local parish administered last rights – or as us Catholics call it,
The Sacrament of the Anointing of the Sick. Whatever we called it, we knew it was a crushing sign of
her inevitable death. She was on morphine. Her organs were shutting down. She
was dying.
I was brought back to this moment recently on a walk home
from my daughters' elementary school. It was a beautiful morning – warm, sunny
– just like that Mother’s Day 1987. As I left the playground after the 9 a.m.
bell, another parent introduced me to her mother who was visiting from out of
town. We shook hands cordially, and after exchanging a few words I began my
short walk home.
I walked along the sidewalk under a canopy of trees – all
just blossomed. Like a blow to the head, the weight of the beautiful fragrance
overwhelmed me. I literally stopped and stood paralyzed – sobbing, more tears
rolling off my cheeks that I can ever recall. It was the trees and that scent that brought me back to that bedroom on May 10, 1987. But it was also
the simple realization that introducing my mother to someone – a new friend, another
parent, my daughters – was something I’d sorely missed and would never experience again.
Trying to "Move On"
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| Christmas 1965 - Mom and Me |
My plan was plain and uncomplicated: I did anything I could
to distance myself from any shred of familiarity that would force me to
confront the pain I felt at losing my mother.
Fortunately, something wonderful happened – several things,
in fact. I married a wonderful woman, and in 2006 and again in 2008 we became
parents through the adoption of our two daughters. Our lives have changed –
like all people’s do when they enter parenthood. For me, Mother’s Day has
changed too. It’s joyful again. We have new traditions: a lazy morning,
flowers, cards, possibly a brunch. It’s a day of smiles and optimism.
Nothing ever changes the past, of course. There’s no
replacing a lost mother. The pain sits beneath the surface of my skin every
single day. I don’t expect that will end. But what I’ve learned in a very
tangible way is the truth about being present in my life.
The Time to Be Happy
Being conscious of loss – and how people we love most in the
world can and will leave us, quite often before we want them to – has made me better
at focusing on and being present with those I love. Amidst the numerous other distractions in my
life, I try (and do struggle at times) to focus on what’s most important,
which is the people that I love.
Loss has also made me strive to live by a
phrase that my mother used often. She would write it in cards that she
gave us. She had a thing for cards, my mom. Her writing desk was filled with
them – thank you notes, birthday cards,
envelopes, pens of all colors, stickers and stamps. She was famous for
her notes of appreciation and, quite often, inspiration.
She wrote to my 2 brothers and I, “The time to be happy is
now.” It’s absurdly simple, but poignant for me, particularly as I approach 50
years old. So often we say to ourselves that happiness is coming. It’s down the
road a bit or just around the next corner – when we pay off the house or take that
special vacation. That's when we'll be happy.
It’s just not true. Happiness is not a destination. It’s an
attitude we adopt. Sitting here 28 years from the last day that I saw my mother
fills me with sadness still – no question. But sitting down at the desk where
she wrote all of her notes to now write down these thoughts, I’m smiling.
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| Thanksgiving Dinner 1985 |
I am looking at a picture of her and me from Thanksgiving
1985, a few months after she got sick.
I’m smiling at this picture of us, thankful for her life and the 21
years I had with her. I’m grateful for the many gifts that she gave me,
particularly in telling me repeatedly that the time to be happy is now.
She’s right. I’d give a million dollars to tell her this in
person today – to tell her that I get it now. But since that’s not an option,
I’ll choose to pass it along to you – hoping that your day has been happy
like mine and that days after today are filled with as much joy as you can possibly create.
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