Wish you were here, Mom

When Mother’s Day approaches on the calendar, I get a little anxious. No, I’m not worried my husband and son will attempt to make me breakfast in bed (though I wouldn’t complain if they did); rather, I worry how I will balance the grief that simmers just under the surface at all times at having lost my own mother with the unadulterated joy and pride I feel in being a mother myself.

I know I am not alone in feeling my grief bubble to the surface on days such as this. At an event a couple of years ago I heard Henry Louis Gates, Jr., describe his grief at losing his mother as “still as raw and as fresh, almost, as it was when it happened”—in 1987. “If I let myself go there,” he said, “I can start crying in about two seconds. It’s like a stream flowing under this carpet—it’s right there, and I can tap into that grief at any moment.”

Ah, yes. Me, too.

When remembering lost loved ones hurts

I used to love browsing the Mother’s Day cards in the drug store, finding one (or two or three) that captured my heart for my mom—now, however, that aisle is a trigger for a feeling of aloneness. That hollow sense that descended upon me immediately after my mother died returns, and I momentarily feel like my skin is made of eggshell.

I don’t allow myself to linger in those moments (self protection, no doubt), but I have learned that if I allow them to prompt me to visit with my memories for a while, I am the better for it.

When friends or family lose someone they love, I always urge them, at some point, to let their memories provide comfort. To relish the stories they hear from others who knew their loved one. To keep their loved one’s spirit alive. On occasions such as Mother’s Day, I must remind myself anew of this advice.

A few years ago, on what would have been my mother’s 70th birthday, I shared an unusually long update on Facebook about what I was feeling. The responses both public and private from my circle of friends were overwhelmingly supportive, as close to a warm hug as I could get from social media.

Because a number of people expressed gratitude for my words that day—for recognizing my prolonged grief as their own, for glimpsing something universal in my very individual experience—I decided to share the post in this broader setting.

For all of us who have a conflicted relationship with Mother’s Day, know this:

Our mothers live on in our memories, as joyful and as painful as that may be.

Facebook reflections

From my March 16, 2017, Facebook post:

Today my mom would have been 70. It’s hard for me to fathom. And yet how easy it would be to let myself go there—to imagine that she’s been with us these past eight years, grandmother-ing [my son], supporting and guiding and loving me on weekend overnights and hours-long phone calls, making [my husband] chocolate cream pie.

I don’t let my mind go there, ever. I don’t usually imagine her in my kitchen browning oxtails for barley soup. Or sitting on the floor near our fireplace Christmas morning, relishing in her grandson’s joy over opening his piles of presents. I never think of her sipping tea in her bathrobe at my kitchen table, in my home she never ultimately saw. I especially never allow myself to feel her arms tightening around me in a meaningful hug.

My mind never goes there because my heart couldn’t take it. It would be overbearing, distracting.

There are moments that come unbidden, though, thoughts that my mind could not squash because they are made exclusively of feelings, that simply hollow me out some days: When instincts alone move my hand to hover over the phone to connect with her. When I realize anew she is gone (I had not forgotten, exactly, just not remembered, right then, that the worst had happened).

I would have guessed eight years ago that those times would have come when something sad or even a tiny bit bad had happened—when I needed her. But I would have been wrong.

Every time I have been so in the moment that I have *not remembered* that she is gone—every time—has been when I wanted to share my joy with her.

Those who knew her will recognize that, while she was one of the most supportive, least judgmental, and most generous souls to have crossed their paths (oh, the stories I could tell!), she was also gracious and grateful beyond measure—and sharing joy with her always multiplied one’s own joy.

I lost my mom when my only son was just three months old, and it was an unexpected blow to bear. And yet it happened in the midst of the most substantial, indescribable joy I had ever experienced: motherhood. I have been blessed with many great things in the years since, and I am forever grateful (a lesson learned well from her). If only I could share those joys with her. If only I could express my love for her, impossibly amplified since becoming a mom myself. If only I could imagine her as my friend walking this earthly path with me, still.

I don’t let my mind go there, not most days. But today, on what would have been her 70th birthday, I will. I am going to imagine, for just today, what it would have been like. xoxo

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And on Mother’s Day, if you, too, have lost your mom, may you join me in “going there”—ruminating on our moms’ lives and love, visiting with their memory and spirit…

Related Reading

• Holiday Grief: We may yearn for a lost loved one even more during the holidays, but know that shared memories are a balm to the soul, and that grief is another form of love.

• Allison Gilbert shares a multitude of specific ways to keep lost loved ones’ memories alive—to actively remember them—in her book, Passed and Present.

• Notes from a Funeral: Reflections from a funeral on remembrance and grief: sharing memories about lost loved ones to heal—and why we don't honor our families through story sharing now.

• See how the first legacy book I ever created honored my mother—and eventually inspired Modern Heirloom Books.

NOTE:

The introduction to this post has been updated for timeliness on May 12, 2023. (Original post from May 9, 2017, included details about workshops and talks that have since passed.)

A gift to myself on my 50th birthday

A look back at birthdays past…

I am turning 50 tomorrow. I don’t feel any of the pangs of “ugh” or “oh no!” that some of my friends have told me about upon hitting the half-century mark. On the contrary, I feel at peace and quite content to have reached this milestone, and excited about what’s to come in the decades ahead.

I don’t want much in the way of physical gifts (a box of chocolates would be nice ; ). One day recently, though, when I was on the massage table (where some of my most productive thinking happens!) I did hit upon something I truly want: to feel a connection to my mom.

Of course, I do feel incredibly connected to my mother, who has now been deceased for more than 10 years and who I think about with love every day. But I am missing her more viscerally than usual; I feel the hollow within so deeply, and crave…her glance, her hug, her presence.

My birthday wish: stories of mom

So I decided to ask for this on my birthday:

For anyone who knew my mother, could you please take a few minutes to share a remembrance of her with me? It could be a tiny moment or a big one, a faint glimmer of a memory or one you hold dear… Honestly, hearing stories of her through your eyes is a gift unlike any other, and one for which I would be most grateful.

For those who did not know my mom, please take the time to share memories of a lost friend or family member with another loved one! I have goosebumps thinking of the unanticipated joy you may bring to another, and the generous act of sharing your story will be rewarding for you, as well—I promise.

Whether the person you are remembering passed away a day ago or 50 years hence, the remembrance will be welcomed as a gift. It is my sincere belief that stories heal, that memories shared feed our souls, and that the legacies of those we have loved and lost are written upon our hearts.

With love and gratitude,

xo, Dawn

…and more recent ; ) I am grateful for my blessings on the eve of turning 50, and reflective on the past.

“It is my sincere belief that stories heal, that memories shared feed our souls, and that the legacies of those we have loved and lost are written upon our hearts.”

Notes from a funeral

When a loved one dies, the world around us ceases to exist for a time. We may post an obituary to Facebook and share beloved photo memories of the deceased, but we are going through the motions. Moving forward, as we must. There is a haze about our very existence.

I have found that it is in the months after the sympathy cards cease coming, after friends and family drop by to check on our welfare, that the weight of grief settles.

Losing a loved one

This week I attended the wake and funeral of a beloved family matriarch. Gloria was my in-law, ever-present at family gatherings big and small over the decade since I had joined her extended family. I knew her as a doting great-grandmother, as a grandmother with a surprising sense of humor, and as a compatriot to my own Nanny when she was alive.

But I learned more about her as an individual in the past three days since she passed than I had ever known before. 

There is something wonderful about that, and something equally sad.

It’s not a revelation to notice that our loved ones’ stories are often buried treasures. It does sadden me, though, to notice again and again that often those stories remain buried.

At the end of a life, we are able to look back at said life in its entirety. It is natural and wondrous to talk of the milestones that marked a person’s journey.

Why don’t we reflect on our lives while we are living them, though? 

The simplest and best answer I have is that we take our time together for granted. We live in the present moment—as well we should!—and flow with the fast-moving currents of time. We go from one baby shower to Sunday family dinner to the next, wielding a camera and smiling as the kids play, chatting over coffee and dessert before we head home and get invited to do it all over again soon.

The gift of remembrance

We may feel abundant love, even great gratitude, for our family members. We know them as they relate to us, but less often do we ask about them as a person unto themselves! What did Grandma do before she became a mother? What were her parents like? What games did she play as a child? Did she get good grades in school?

The nature of family gatherings changes for a while after a loved one dies. The person’s absence is palpable; they should be here. Our supreme awareness of their absence invokes sadness, for sure, but it prompts storytelling, too. Memories of even the smallest moments, once shared, provide comfort and connection. Stories are a balm to our bruised hearts.

In the aftermath of loss, we are surrounded by others who share our grief. We are not shy about remembering—out loud—our loved one. We tell stories, and relish when we hear stories we had not heard before. When we learn something new, no matter how small, about our deceased loved one, we grasp it tightly, cherish it as a most special gift.

We seek, and find, connection in those also connected to our loved one.

Remembering, always

During his eulogy of the deceased, the priest thanked the gathered family members for “sharing Gloria with us.” This phrasing struck me: She was a faithful church attendant and community volunteer; she had friends from all stages of her life; and yet, she belonged to her family.

For those who knew and loved Gloria, may your memories of her continue to provide comfort and even joy amidst the gaping sadness of her loss. Don’t stop sharing those stories. 

Your perpetual remembrance is a celebration of her love and life. Be strengthened by her spirit, and know that you are her legacy.

And for everyone who loves someone: Ask them questions. Discover their stories. Now, while you can share in the emotions and relive the memories together. Celebrate your loved ones’ lives while they are being lived as much as you undoubtedly will when your loved ones are gone.

Remember, celebrate, and connect. Create a legacy together.