Every year about this time, I am reminded of my mother's passing. It's not just dates on the calendar; it's the grey skies, the dead grass and bare trees. For some reason, instead of getting easier, it seems to get harder each year. But in a different way than in the past. I've blogged about her before but I've decided to finally go a step further with my grieving process.
I've made no secret that I see a therapist. I started because chronic illness takes a lot out of me physically and mentally. I needed some coping mechanisms as my old habit of bottling things up and drinking really wasn't working for me. Therapy has progressed to include other things: my first marriage, my mother's death, etc. This year my counselor wants me to write my mother a letter, to let her know how I've felt all these years with her gone and what I wish we could have done had she lived. This is extremely hard for me to do.
For many years I've contemplated sharing some letters that she dictated to us kids while she was in the hospital dying. I've always felt that some things were too personal to share, even for me. However, given the extremely difficult task laid out before me, I think it's time. She didn't write these herself, they were dictated to a friend of the family.
First, a letter for all four of us kids:
"To all my kids:
I want you to know that I never spent much time talking about the spiritual side of life. I never thought about it much, but I know now that there is much more to life than we have been aware of. I want you so much to learn about the spiritual part of your lives. I know that we will all get there in our own way and I know now that this is the most important part of our lives."
I guess this sentiment that she expressed in her final days is what has propelled me to find my own relationship with God.
She also dictated a letter to each of us individually:
"Dear Becky,
I love you with everything that is in me probably especially because I am dying. I want to strengthen that bond with extra love. I think you will hurt a lot, but in the end it will make you strong and my love for you will help you to overcome your grief. I've known this for a few years now that I would have to leave you early so giving you more love has been important. My life was made richer by your ability to openly express love and affection.
Love, Mom"
My mother's friend also wrote her eulogy, of which I have a copy. I haven't scanned this but will transcribe it here:
"Dear Lois,
As I told you on Saturday, when we rode down together in the ambulance, I have grown to be very close to you. I have been very impressed by your regard for other people. It wasn't a blind regard - it was carefully balanced by a sense of justice. I am very much aware that the fullest expression of your regard held a warmth, love and kindliness that touched ones very spirit. This, despite the pain of your illness and the burden of your medication, poured forth to others until the final moments of your existence on this earth and has been felt since your passing into the next world.
Your touch was not restrained; it conveyed a warmth and radiated an energy that also touched ones very being. There is no finer expression of ones spiritual connection with others than this.
Lois, your touch and your regard really drew people together. They were non-possessive and were nurturing. Best of all, on Saturday in the hospital, I saw that they were reflected back to you in the eyes, tears and touch of others.
The finest expression of your qualities, Lois, was shown in your relationship with your children. You allowed them enough space to grow to their fullest as individuals and provided enough limits and guidance so that they could be sure of the direction to grow.
Perhaps Lois, you would want others besides just your children to know what we talked about last - that you have come to believe that there is more to our lives than we know and that it is the spiritual part of our lives that is most important.
Lois, your life especially in your regard for others serves as a fine example to all of us as we strive to find the spiritual realities of our own existences.
You will be warmly held in our memories.
We love you and wish you well in your journey back to God!"
I guess there was standing room only in the church at the funeral. I don't remember this. I just remember wanting to hide in a closet afterwards when so many people were parading through the house with casseroles and desserts. I remember being angry that my mother had just died and people were thinking about food. And when everyone went away and my family was left to deal with it all, we all went our separate ways. Everyone withdrew into themselves, in a haze of grief and anger, and I was on my own to process the events through a seven year old's emotional maturity.
Going through this with Elsa here gives me mixed emotions. I look at her and see so much joy. She really does keep me going in times like these. And I also see in her face the features of my mother that I inherited: her chin, her lips. And I just wish so badly that she was here. I wish I could call her up and say, "Help me get this child to sleep! What should I do?" Or, "You'll never believe what Elsa did today, it was so amazing." But I can't do that and it hurts so much. For now I can only talk to her in my prayers and in my dreams.
So if you've read this far, I thank you once again. I have been on this road for going on twenty eight years. I hope that, finally, I am able to move to a point where I can think of her without such a profound sense of sadness.
Until next time....tschus.
