It happens the same way every year. I don't remember the day my mother died until I look at the calendar. I am writing, "6:00 dinner reservations," and see that the date is December 30. One year I wrote, "Dumplings, 2:00." I was unsure whether to keep the date with friends, because of the date on the calendar.
It happens the same way every year. It is not a date I remember until I am making plans for the day. Writing on the kitchen calendar. Frozen for the tiniest second. The day my mother died.
I was not there. At her insistence, I was not there. I wish I didn't know that. But my brother felt I should know. When Mom was dying, I asked her if we should call you. She said "no." She didn't die that day. She died a couple of weeks later, alone. The doctor from the nursing home called. My brother had added me as an emergency contact. I would have been the last person they would have called if they had known how my mother felt about me. In fact, I was the last person they called, but the first to pick up the phone.
I had the flu that year. Maybe it was the fever that made me think the doctor on the phone had a Swedish accent. I pictured him tall and blonde and capable. It won't be long now. I thanked him.
When the Swedish doctor finally tracked down my brother, it was too late. She was gone. I comfort myself by imagining that the Swedish doctor stayed with her until she took her last breath. That he spoke to her in his thick accent, maybe telling her a story as she passed over to the other side.
It has been fifteen years.
I write about my mother to unravel the tangles. To separate the woman who barred me from her life and her death, from the woman who had warm brownies waiting after school. No matter how hard I pull at the tangles, I end up with a bigger knot. My mother didn't let people in, and I was no exception. Sometimes I think I have untangled one of the threads and I find myself with a tiny bit of understanding. For the most part, now, as when she was alive, my mother remains a mystery to me.
It happens the same way every year. I am writing on the kitchen calendar. This year, a dinner reservation at 6 with my own beloved daughter. I will think about my mother today, but there will be no answers. I will put the tangled knots and the loose ends away for another year.
TIP:
Enter the amount, and click "Tip" to submit!
Cathy GF
Emily Conyngham
Chicago Guy
Susan Mihalic
Stim
Firechick
Salon.com
Comments
r.
Just know you are loved by many and save those memories close to your heart.
I've come to realize mothers and daughters can be the most difficult relationship to understand and when either passes on, their spirits stay behind to remind us of their purpose was more than can be defined by their existence.
This is such beautiful writing and a poignant, heartfelt, lovely piece.
Happy New Year to you~
Happy New year and huggggggggggg
I wish you and the Hs a warm and healthy New Years.
I had this type of relationship with my father.
My experience has been that regardless of how I pulled at the threads no wisdom came from it only more knots with no answers.
The only recourse is that I not foster that type of relationship with my own children.
Six years later on the anniversary of my father’s death I tell myself that a cycle has been broken and I can get past that moment without falling apart.
~R~
"to unravel the tangles"
indeed...
I know my mom would love us to have one of those heartwarming Hallmark television relationships, but that's never going to happen. And it's never going to happen because she's an emotional minefield, driven by fear and full of rage, which has all too often been directed at me. It's in my best interest to keep a safe distance. What's sad is, she seriously does not understand how destructive she is. She is, in a word, narcissistic.
In a way, I'm fortunate, because therapy helped me understand my mom's erratic behavior and helped me figure out a way to manage some sense of a relationship. For you, your mother will always remain a mystery. As much as my relationship with my mom pushes me to the edge sometimes, I still have one. I imagine not knowing exactly why your mom cut you out of her life without explanation must have been (and still is, maybe) very hurtful.
My relationship with my mom has made me work that much harder at developing a healthy, loving relationship with my own daughter. It seems to me you're doing the same thing. What we can't have with our own moms, we build and nurture and create with our own daughters.
You'll be in my thoughts today, Joan.
r.
Lezlie
It's been 21 years since my mother died, and I have similar moments. I felt like I had few answers until my uncle uncovered the clues that led to this story, which didn't fully come to light until his research of the last two years. Sometimes mothers want to remain a mystery, whatever the reason.
I hope that you keep that dinner reservation. Whatever little bits you can untangle today, my wish is that you'll find some additional measure of understanding and gain some peace from that. May your mother's mysteries be more innocuous than my mother's and grandmother's.
When I think of your writing, Joan, the word "grace" comes to mind, in every possible sense of the word.
"tangled knots" are something I understand.
Enjoy your dinner.
I so wish your Mom had been brave enough to be happy, let go of enough to be happy...
What a wonderful daughter she missed too much of -- I'm just glad you keep writing, it's such a gift to read your stories.
Happy New Year's, Joan, to you and yours : )
Much, much love to you, Joanie.
And what Jaime says. I hope you had a wonderful dinner!
I don't know when my dad died, exactly. It was in the spring. I remember because of all the azaleas. But the date wasn't important. Just the spring.
r