A Letter to My Mother

Today (May 4) marks the 10-year anniversary of when my mother lost her battle with a brain tumor and passed away. But 'lost' really isn't the right word. For my mother, a woman of great, great faith, who seemed to have a direct line to God, she would say she won. She believed, as I do, that our last breath on Earth is immediately followed by our first breath in Heaven. In fact, in a letter she wrote to her family, ironically written one full year before her diagnosis, to be read after she passed away, she said "Do not weep for me. I am more alive now than I have ever been."

I have no doubt that she is.

But, the peace of where she is does not ease the loss of her not being here. Not one day has gone by in the past 10 years where I haven't mourned her loss again. Not one. Sometimes it's more like a dull ache, and sometimes it feels much deeper.

While there is much that I miss about her, my biggest heartache is that she didn't get to meet my amazing husband, and she didn't get to see my sweet son, who would undoubtedly have captured her heart. She loved my nephew Hunter with such a fierce passion and intensity, and it pains me that Reagan will never experience that.

Still, I believe the veil between here and there is very, very thin, and I believe -- I choose to believe -- that she gets glimpses of our lives. While I know our richest moments here are pale in comparison to any moments on the other side, deep in my heart I know she sees at least some of what we experience.

I can't pick up the phone and call her anymore, like I used to do multiple times a day. I can't send her an e-mail or a card or sit at her kitchen table or take her out to lunch (where she'd insist on picking up the tab anyway). But I can write to her. And so, to commemorate the day that was at once my worst and her best, I offer a letter that I hope in some way finds itself to her.

Dear Mom,

Happy 10th anniversary! I know time doesn't exist in Heaven, at least not like it does here, but for us, it feels like a big day.

I miss you. That is an understatement, but suffice it to say, I miss you. A lot. But I have no doubt that you are in a much, much better place, and I know our separation, while excruciating for me at times, is temporary.

You would love my husband, Johnny, and my son, Reagan. You'd love both of them, so much. Johnny because he takes care of me so well. He does a lot of the housework, he makes my coffee and breakfast every morning, and he supports my dreams and passions. We share a love of a lot of things, including road trips, good desserts and cooking. His culinary skills are pretty impressive. We have many things from your kitchen, and I always smile when I see him using something that your hands once touched. Those pots and pans could tell a lot of stories.

You would be completely enamored by Reagan, without question. He's two now, and such a joy. Even when he's fussy (which is very, very rare), he's cute. And when he knows he has done something wrong, he is quick to say "sorry," often without any prompting from me. He has a very tender heart, and likes to pray to Jesus -- sometimes multiple times while we're eating. For a long time, he looked almost exactly like my baby pictures, but now he's starting to look more like a mix of both of his parents.

I'm so proud to be his Mommy, but it is frustrating to me that I have to do it without you. I always imagined you would help guide me through the process, from his frustrating colic soon after he was born (I remember you telling me I was very colicky, so maybe it's payback), to teething and potty-training, and on and on. When he does something cute, like tries to 'hide' while saying 'Hi Mom! Hi Mom!' when I pretend to be looking for him, or when he talks to himself in his crib when he's supposed to be sleeping (and then makes himself giggle), I wish every single time that I could pick up the phone and call you to tell you about it.

I have no doubt you already also love our new daughter, even though we haven't met her yet. We are, of course, very anxious to bring her into our home, but I keep reminding myself that God's timing isn't ours.

You already have two grandchildren in Heaven -- children we weren't given the privilege of meeting here on Earth. I'm sure you're loving on them, and it comforts me to envision all of you playing together.

I have to confess that we didn't listen to a couple of the requests you wrote in your letter for your funeral. We did use the music you requested, and Pastor Alvin talked about the topics you wanted covered in his message, but we did have a public viewing, and while you wanted it to be a celebration of life -- and in many ways it was -- there were a lot of sad people there that day. Sad because you left such a mark on so many people, and they grieved that they wouldn't have the chance again to sit with you, talk with you, spend time with you. People came from all over to pay their final respects. You would have been embarrassed by all of the attention. Everyone from childhood friends to recent friends, plus so many people who were friends of Dawn and I and knew how much our hearts were hurting, showed up to pay tribute to your extraordinary life.

Per your wishes, we did not purchase an expensive casket that, as you said in your letter, "would just rot in the ground." But I did not sing at your funeral. Dawn and I both spoke, but the idea that I could actually sing at your funeral was, well, a bit beyond my abilities that day. All in all, though, I think you would have been pleased with how your life was honored.

We buried you the day before Mother's Day. For many years, that day was the worst day of the year for me. Now that I have a son, it is a bit better, but truth be told, I'm always glad when the day ends. While it's a reminder of what I have, it's also a reminder of what I've lost.

No one will ever replace you. No one. But regardless of how old you are in life, you still need a mother, and a few woman have stepped in, in some form or capacity, to try to fill that hole in my life. Of course, your sister Millie is at the top of the list. She has endured so much sorrow, including losing her own son Dwayne to cancer only 17 months after your passing, but she is always willing to talk when I need to, and she dotes on Reagan whenever we are home in PA.

So many other women, too many to mention, have stepped in on your behalf. And they've done a great job. But while I'm so very, very grateful for each of them, they will never replace you. They could never replace you.

The day before you passed away, you couldn't talk because of the tube down your throat, but you could nod and shake your head. I asked you if I would be ok without you. You smiled, nodded, and squeezed my hand.

The truth is, you were right, and you were wrong. Life goes on, and I'm truly happier than I've ever been. Life feels so sweet and rich, and I marvel sometimes at how well my life has turned out.

But I'm never going to be really ok without you. I will always miss you. I will always wish for one more day with you. I will always wish things had turned out differently. I will always miss your cards, your phone calls, those long talks at the kitchen table, your amazing food and a thousand other things. There's an ache in my heart that never completely goes away. Sometimes I can think about you and smile, and even laugh as I recount things that seem funny now -- like how you always took the smallest piece of pie so there would be more for other people, or reusing something over and over again to not waste money -- but sometimes, unexpectedly, I still feel a wave of sadness over your absence.

I try, and I will always try, to honor your life by living life well. If I can become even half of the woman, wife and mother that you were, I will count my life a success.

I love you, Mom. See you on the other side.

P.S. Say hi to my babies for me.

The Work of Grief

 (freedigitalphotos.net)

In one four-week period, starting the Saturday before Christmas, I attended two funerals. One for a 52-year-old man, and one for a man who was 83. Both men lived life well. Both left loved ones behind, who will forever bear the scars of their absence. Both men of great faith, who faced death without fear.

I know the sting of grief. A bit too well, if you ask me. My sweet mother fought a brave battle with an acoustic neuroma, a brain tumor, before she passed away in May of 2004 at the age of 62. For more than four months, she faced numerous surgeries, hospital stays, and lengthy recuperation times at home, as well as a brief stint in a rehab hospital.

Her death, after so many highs and lows, shook us all, her family and her many, many friends. The grief came, and still comes almost 10 years later, in waves. But while there's not a day -- really, not a minute -- that I don't miss her, and wish to rewrite history, I have emerged  in many ways stronger through that experience.

There are so many things I didn't know or understand until I went on that journey with her. I learned so much about what to do and say, and alternately, what not to do and say.

I read an article by David Brooks called The Art of Presence in the NY Times (read it here), that really impressed me. In his article, and a blog by Catherine Woodiwiss that he references, he talks about what to do, and also what not to do, when someone you love is grieving.

I loved the points that were made. They were good. Indulge me, for a moment, the opportunity to expand on some of them, and add a few of my own.

Show up. Just, be there. I have so many wonderful memories of people who appeared at the moment we needed them. And here's the thing. They literally just showed up. We didn't call them and say, "Oh, by the way, my mom is going to be in surgery for six hours, and we'd like you to hang out with us." But, for each of her three surgeries, we had a waiting room full of people. Some expected, and some not. One of my dad's former employers, whose own son had a brain tumor as a child, appeared in the waiting room. It was Good Friday. He had plenty of other things to do. I hadn't seen him in years. Literally, years. But his presence was so welcome.

I could list so many examples of people who were present when we needed them, and to list all of them would fill up way too many pages. But my heart is warmed when I remember the friends who sat with us, the friends who came to the viewing and/or the funeral, the friends who visited and didn't let us languish in our grief alone. From the friend who flew across the country to be with me, to the childhood friends who I hadn't seen in 20 years who still showed up, their presence mattered to me.

Do something. When a family friend was going through a crisis, I called and asked if there was anything I could do. She said they needed toilet paper. Of course they did. Because while their son was dying, life was still going on for the living. So I went out and bought them a huge package of toilet paper and dropped it off.

I remember friends, after I returned, who didn't know my mother, had in fact never met her, but they brought me a HUGE pile of groceries. I mean, bag after bag after bag, filled with everything from produce to pantry staples to a few gourmet things.

During a family crisis, it feels like life should stop, but it doesn't. There's still laundry that needs to be washed, food that needs to be eaten, plants that need to be watered, bills that need to be paid, animals that need to be taken care of. So do it. Just, do it.

Don't say, 'Call if you need anything.' Until my own experience with my mother, I said this all. the. time. But now that I've walked through the valley of grief, it's my least favorite phrase, even though it is said with the very very best of intentions. It really is. But here's why it rubs me the wrong way: When someone we love is suffering, we want to help, but we don't know how. So we say, 'If you need anything, call,' and then it makes us feel better. We rationalize our lack of action as, 'Well, we said to call if they needed anything, and they didn't call, so they must be ok.'

The truth is, they probably need so much more than they can articulate. And, in my experience, when I needed something -- food, someone to talk to, an errand, whatever -- I was too consumed in my own sadness to even think clearly who to call. It's not like I could think that I didn't have any more clean clothes, and so-and-so offered if I needed anything, so I'm going to call them and ask them to do my laundry. It doesn't work like that.

We say it to make ourselves feel better, but that's all it really does -- make us feel better. So instead of saying it, do it. Gift card, groceries, a dropped off meal, a thoughtful card are all far better options than waiting for the person swallowed by grief to pick up the phone.

Remember, it's not about you. Grief is a common emotion. Most of us have experienced something tragic, or the loss of someone precious to us. But, while we may have walked through that valley, using someone else's grief to unload your own sorrow doesn't really help. In fact, it can make it a lot worse. There may very well come a time when you have the opportunity to share your experience, but that time will be in the distant future.

Let them have their own time to grieve. Last year, a dear friend lost his father, and posted it on Facebook. I was surprised, and saddened, at how many people posted their own stories of loss under his announcement. That's not the time.

Along those lines, be mindful of your words.

I distinctly remember someone saying to me, not long after my mother passed away, "I know exactly how you feel. I haven't spoken to my mother in five years."

Um, yeah. That's the same thing.

There really isn't an appropriate response to such a thoughtless statement. We were, thankfully, interrupted in that moment, so I didn't have to respond. But, those comments happened a lot. I had someone tell me I should be thankful she didn't suffer longer, because her mother suffered for years. I had people tell me it was God's will, for the best, blah blah blah blah blah. I even had someone suggest that my mother had sinned, which is why God didn't heal her (true story).

But here's the thing: people almost always say the wrong thing for the right reason. They don't intend to be hurtful, of course. They intend to offer words of encouragement. So however misguided those words might be, I had to remember that their intention was not to harm.

We say the wrong thing, or don't say anything, because we don't know what to say. But it's really very simple. The only thing that needs to be said is, 'I'm sorry.' That's it. Two words. Three syllables. 'I'm sorry.'

Remember. The pain doesn't end in a few days, or weeks, or even years. In Woodiwiss' blog, she talks about how some people are firefighters and some are builders, and both are needed. Some people will respond to the immediacy of the situation, and some will stay long after the funeral. Both are important.

Grief is a marathon, not a sprint. I shared with someone, about a year after my mother died, that I was really missing her, and she said, "You really should be over that by now."

She hadn't yet lost anyone close to her, so I forgave her completely inaccurate and foolish comment, but the truth is, grief is the gift that keeps on giving. Long after the sympathy cards stop, long after the phone calls cease, long after the funeral flowers have withered and died, there is still an empty space left behind. Help fill that space. Remember. Remember birthdays and anniversaries and moments.

I have a close friend, who never met my mother, but allowed me to talk at length about her several years after she passed away, when the loss of her in my future felt especially poignant. I still treasure that gift he gave me.

Now that I have lost someone close to me, I'm much more aware of the needs of others who are grieving, but it was something I had to learn. I cringe at how careless I might have been to my friends who were grieving, and I was unaware. But if there's a silver lining in all of it, if there's a treasure among the pain, it's that after we experience our own loss, we are better equipped to help others.

"At some of the darkest moments in my life, some people I thought of as friends deserted me - some because they cared about me and it hurt them to see me in pain; others because I reminded them of their own vulnerability, and that was more than they could handle. But real friends overcame their discomfort and came to sit with me. If they had not words to make me feel better, they sat in silence ... and I loved them for it." ~ Harold Kushner, Living a Life that Matters