My mother's face

My mother was not Mary in my book MOTHER. She was not one of the church ladies, or even Cathy. She did not really socialize beyond our large Italian family. She rarely left her kitchen where she kept a bottomless pot of coffee on the stove, and fed everyone who stopped by. She was an energetic woman who could crochet, knit, sew, and cook, but she lived the life of an Italian daughter and wife, and dreamt of a sit-down job working for the phone company. She encouraged marriage and children, always fearing for my safety when I worked in New York City.

I had a few false starts in my life, one of which led me to work in a convenience store to make extra money while I was producing a local cable show. The cable show ended but I kept the other job, stocking milk and doing the six-to-twelve shift so I could squeeze in some writing time. My mother visited my furnished apartment which was “too dark” for her taste, and insisted my father wallpaper the kitchen as soon as possible. I think she thought I was sad, because she kept giving me her plants whenever I visited her. Finally, one day I received a phone call from her wanting to know why I didn’t go back to New York City and get a real job and work on my writing at night. I knew I must have seemed pretty pathetic for my mother to even suggest my going to the city. But she had seen energy in me when I worked over there, and even if it made her sick with fear, that was where she thought I belonged.

NY buses didn’t come and go frequently from where I was living, so I drove to my parents’ house to catch one. It was the dead of winter, and the temperature was in the twenties with a brisk wind. I was standing on the corner across the street from my parents’ house watching my mother watching me from behind a curtain. As the minutes passed and I grew colder I longed to get back in my car and head home. I had been as sad, tired, and discouraged as she imagined. I had given up and I was okay with that. But there was my mother’s face, and behind that face the hope that I would just get on that bus, take a step, claim some amount of happiness. And when I’m close to feeling defeated I picture her face peering behind that curtain and know I can’t give up, I still can’t disappoint her.

Welcome

I am so pleased to welcome you to the Mother blog. I lost my mother to emphysema, some seven years after her doctors told us she had six months to live. I admired her determination to prove the doctors wrong, but it was difficult being constantly on alert, never knowing when her life would be over. She didn’t want to die alone, so my family eventually kept a four day vigil, because even when the doctors told us she wouldn’t make it through the night, she lived a few more days. We sometimes had as many as twelve people at her bedside, and took shifts throughout the nights. She passed away in the company of five family members, but I wasn’t there at that time.

Shortly after her funeral I learned I was pregnant with my son. I truly consider that pregnancy a gift from God, because it allowed me to focus on the life growing within me. The first year was difficult. The grief would be triggered by something as innocuous as the smell of flowers as I passed shops on the sidewalk, a song playing on the radio, an article of clothing that reminded me of her. Suddenly, I’d be crying. I didn’t know what to do with the feelings. I wanted to speed it along the way I would when I had a break-up with a boyfriend. But it wasn’t as simple as cutting my hair, cleaning out a closet, or distracting myself with upbeat music. Perhaps, as much as I hated feeling the loss, I really didn’t want to let go of the pain.

I don’t think I really understood grief until I lost my mother. A lot of what I went through is in this book, the crying in the night, the lack of energy, the feelings of loss that come through both Mary and Cathy. I was especially touched by the kindness and compassion of strangers I met along the way, and found that this experience was not unique to me. I thought that was worthy of writing about. I hope you’ll agree. Please write me about your mothers, and the people who have touched you with their kindness.

Linda