I had an experience recently that threw me back into being a kid again: my mother passed away. She lived a very long life and, at 95, was more than ready to be done. As her 96th birthday approached, her comment was “Gross”. My sisters and I, and her beloved granddaughter and great-grandson, were all there for her on Mother’s Day…and she passed peacefully the next morning.
Which leaves me with the next phase: Grieving. I am not sure I know how to do this. I’ve lived a long life so far and this is not the first time someone in my life has died. I see stories of death daily. This is not a new concept. So why does it feel so foreign to me?
One thing I have realized is how much I looked to my mom to see what was “the right thing to do”. I was always the “good girl”, quick to pick up cues as to how to behave. She’s not helping me much on this one now. Or is she?
My mom was the youngest child, with a father who was the high school football coach and a minor celebrity in their town. She was a friend to many, with childhood friendships that lasted until their death. She was funny and smart and we often said she could have been a doctor or detective or handyman with her analysis skills. When she was a child, she found her expression through dance, modern and ballet, and had dreams of becoming a Rockette. She thought she was halfway there when she met a handsome guy from NJ, but quickly realized he preferred living in MI. Her family was her everything, and she was a devoted mother and wife. When her children were off on their own paths, she decided to go back to work, following her passion for sewing, and started her own alterations shop at 50 years old.
There were several life lessons I learned from her, but two stand out for me. One was when I was graduating from high school. I had worked since I was 16 and she told me to take the summer before college off. “You’ll be working the rest of your life – take this time and enjoy yourself!” What a gift, and a great lesson!
The second was when I was about to graduate from college. I had one semester left, and that would be spent back in my hometown doing my student teaching. After being on my own those college years, I could not fathom how I’d live at home with rules and expectations. I secretly looked for apartments, and found a couple I liked. When I finally worked up the courage, I went to tell her. “Mom, I think maybe it’s best I get my own apartment when I student teach.” Before I could go on with my well-rehearsed justification speech, she said “Great idea! Do you have a place in mind?” And with that, she encouraged me and gave me permission to be independent and do what worked for me.
Fast forward, I was now living in NJ, just outside NYC. My parents would come visit a few times a year and you could see my mom come alive when we went into the city for a play. She loved the energy of the city and I could see the girl with the Rockettes dream come alive. Through the years, she would be so interested in my stories of adventures in the city, the many concerts and plays I’d see, a celebrity encounter I may have had. She was, in a sense, living vicariously through me.
After she passed, and we’d made all the arrangements, I got in my car and drove the 13 hours back home – and got home in time to meet my son for a concert. And it did not feel like a strange way to grieve.
I am not finding myself overcome with tears. I am not dressing in black out of respect. A part of me feels I am not “doing this right”. And then I think about my mom. THIS is what she would want me to do. To quote her, my moping around would be “gross”. She taught me to enjoy my life and to be there for my family. That is what I will do.
My grieving will morph, I’m sure. But for now, I choose to instead honor her – and try to carry on the mantle of being the strong matriarch who loves life, and makes the most of it. I think she’d like that – and I would too.
