A Note on Mother's Day

As I paid for my coffee on Mother’s Day 2017, the cashier said “happy mother’s day.” Immediately, my heart became as icy as the cold brew in my hand.

How dare he say that! I thought. He doesn’t know what I’m [or anyone else he’s saying this to] is going through. I got the first taste of what Mother’s Day without a mother would look like, and it was even more bitter than that dark roast.

My heart remained in the pit of my stomach as I wandered aimlessly around Madison Square Park, attempting to untangle the pain of that anticipatory grief.

I bought a little What I Love About Mom book and attempted to fill it in under the dingy lights of the NJ Transit train that would take me to her bedside. In between tears, I wondered how I’d ever find the answers to what I didn’t yet know how to fill in.

I gave it to her, and she read a few pages and then pushed it away like the toast she also didn’t want to finish—both, too painful for her to swallow. I didn’t realize it at the time because we never talked about it, but she had to know, too, she was dying.

Later that night, my dad brought me back to the Ridgewood train station. As I watched other adult children in their 20s and 30s say goodbye to their moms before also heading back into the city, I felt a deep, deep pang of envy. That their moms were there, that they were well. (Or at least well enough to be at a train station, not in a hospital bed.)

Although my mom was still alive, I already ached for Mother’s Days past, the Mother’s Days I wouldn’t have with her as a mom, the potential Mother’s Days I wouldn’t have with her as a grandma.

In some ways, I miss that fresh pain. She was still alive. Part of me even misses that fresh pain of the first Mother’s Day where she was no longer on this earth; at least it meant it hadn’t been that long since she’d been on this earth with me.

As I counted back on my hands to double check how many Mother’s Days this will be without her, I felt a pang in my heart when I realized that I had to use both hands to count. This will be the sixth Mother’s Day without her on this earth; the seventh Mother’s Day that she wasn’t able to celebrate.

What the fuck?!

That’s a lot of Mother’s Days I’ve already spent without her.

Of course, I am so lucky to have had 34 years with her and to have someone I can miss. I know that. And it felt too early. There’s so much she didn’t get to see.

AND. Holy fucking shit am I proud of myself.

Shortly after this painful Mother’s Day when she was here and also not here is when I first started to want to die myself. I did not want to imagine a world without her in it, because I thought it would be too painful. I thought that I would walk around a giant, gaping open wound for the rest of my own earthly days, and that I would not be able to exist like that.

And yet. Six years later, here I am living an incredibly full life, thriving even? I absolutely clawed with all of my might to get here, and I’m really proud of that, and the life that I lead now. I’m proud of myself for how I show up for others in my work, and, even more, how I am finally showing up for myself. Realizing I deserve this love, happiness, success.

AND SO DO YOU!

I’m spending today and this weekend connecting with myself, with my mom, with the ones I love. Whether this Mother’s Day is hard for your because of a death of your mom, estrangement, your own difficulties in your motherhood journey, I see you, and I love you. You’re not alone.

If this is your first, fifth, fiftieth Mother’s Day without your mom, here’s something I wrote a few years ago about tips on how to handle it.