And It Happens Every Year
This is a weird time for me. Every February, the bitch of the month I really despise, I ground a lot of this to the fact that tomorrow is the 9th anniversary of my mother’s death.
I go through this every damned February. Now, you must understand as I write this annoying autobiographical pause, that my mother was my best friend. She, Homer and I were extremely close. We did a lot together and she was a good mom if I say so myself.
I may be 41, but you never get over losing a parent. The cancer she had was really horrible and we saw this lovely, vibrant woman disintegrate before our eyes over a period of 14 months.
We said goodbye a hundred times a day in little ways. I said goodbye the last time I saw her play the piano (she was playing Mozart) because I knew it would be the last time. I said goodbye when I noticed she wasn’t comprehending what was going on a television program she liked and that her mind was playing tricks on her and she was seeing something very different than what I was seeing. The cancer metastasized into her brain in messy tumors that cut into her cognitive ability so it destroyed the mind and the body.
I can’t tell you how many times I would watch her and know that something she was doing was for the last time. And each time, I said goodbye in my heart.
You have no idea how many times I said goodbye. It was a gift, I know that because so many people don’t get to say that word to their loved ones. But it didn’t make it any less hard knowing she was dying. Waking up in the morning, knowing my mother was dissolving in front of my eyes, and that this beautiful woman was evaporating because her body, as all bodies do, was betraying her and there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it but love her.
Yesterday, Scout, who is one of those people that is very kind, asked me if I wanted to talk about it. She’s been around me enough to know that February, the bitch of a month that it is, is clearly a time where I go through reflection, fear and the rest of it.
I declined when she initially asked, because it still hurts. It’s still weird to talk about the that time in my life taking care of someone who was terminally ill. It’s hard to explain in words the depth of that hurt. It’s hard to explain that there wasn’t a choice because it was my mother and that I wanted to save her.
But later in the day, I did start talking to Scout about it over a beer and it was like I couldn’t shut up. It was one of the first times I actually talked to someone else about my mother’s last moments. There were no angels singing, there was no sense of purpose to it all and I’m not going to romanticize it. It was death. Very straight forward, her small ravaged body tired of radiation and chemotherapy, her body tired and her spirit, although not broken, bruised. The nurse told us to tell her to go and we did. And it wasn’t pretty or beautiful or any of those things you see in the movies.
Her body stopped. Because she died from respiratory failure, it was messy.
And she just died.
And then immediately, before we knew what was going on, the nurses came in and life at the hospital began in a surreal slow motion that to this day is hard for me to talk about. My mother turned green. I wish I was joking, but I’m not. There was so much radiation in her body that she just turned this green color. The last thing I said to my mother’s dead body was “Mom, you’re green.” I smiled because she would have appreciated my half-hearted attempt at a joke and walked out of the hospital room and walked into the hall looking for my father who I was going to ride home with.
I didn’t cry right then, I waited. I think that is why I cry about it every February because I didn’t really cry then. I went into action mode. There were things to be done. People to call, arrangements to make, a father to heal. People came, they hugged us and I smiled all through it because funerals, I have discovered, are for other people more so than they are for the family. There was no time to comprehend that my mother, a woman I adored, wasn’t coming back.
And that I was on my own. No more words of advice, no more kicking my ass for being an idiot.
There was a nothingness. A hole I still have trouble filling.
Grief is an odd, choking thing, isn’t it? I’m crying now because it’s been nearly a decade, a fourth of my life, that I haven’t had my mother and I miss her.
She was only 54 years old. And so I’m sort of stuck this week because I still grieve as does Homer.
So in honor of her for the next couple of days, be kind to each other. Say something nice to someone. Just be well.
We’ll be back to our regular programming here at the ‘coma in a little while.
I’m amazed at the level of feeling that this post evokes. I lost my mom over 20 yrs ago, & I still forget on Mother’s Day, thinking, ‘Oh! I’ve got to go buy her a card.’ Your bond w/ her is for a lifetime. Thank you for sharing this intimate part of your life w/ us..
Thank you for sharing this very personal experience with us. I am writing this with tears because so many of the feelings you are experiencing I am relating to so much. My dad was taken tragically (also at age 54–way too young) back 15 years ago. There are some days that it feels like I haven’t seen him in a lifetime, and yet others it feels like yesterday. Some anniversaries I feel like rushing through the day and staying very busy, and others I want to stay in bed and just grieve deeply. Just remember that it’s ok to revel in your grief and press through the pain. There is no set “formula” that you are supposed to follow that is “normal” grief. Let it take you wherever you need to go at this time. Most of all, take care of you. Be kind to yourself. And know that there are friends who will be thinking of you and sending their empathy your way.
Hugs.
Okay now i’m crying as I walk into our Tuesday meeting. Thank you for sharing this. I truly dread the day I lose my parents – I dread it so. I’ve reached the point where when I hug one of them, I linger just a little bit longer. I try to make sure I tell them I love them every time we speak.
Hi,this is my first visit to your blog.I am so sorry for your loss and can totally relate.I lost my Mom 5yrs ago and miss her terribly.The day that she was diagnosed was the day that I began grieving.Every time she would do something my mind would tell me that this was the last time that I was seeing her do whatever it was that she happened to be doing.It was a long and painful time.I feel like I was lost in a dark and lonely fog and it took me way too long to find my way out.I think I cried more from that defining moment than I have ever cried in my life (which was really difficult for my husband and child because they had never seen their “rock” crumble before.)They say that time heals all wounds and with each year it does get a little easier for me,but there will always be an invisably silent collateral dammage beneath my smile .Now if could only remember that when I am about to flip out on the idiots that get in my way…Have a sweet day and keep the memories alive.
I’ll be thinking about you tomorrow. Heck, I’m always thinking about you, but this time it’ll be something other than, “Man, I could sure use a Bass with NC about now…”
Thanks for sharing. You rock!
I cry about it every February because I didn’t really cry then. I went into action mode.
And your face still hurts, sometimes, with the memory of the “yes, thank you, thank you, we’re all right, thank you” rictus you wore in public from that moment until y’all finally got home from the cemetery and pulled off the mourning clothes and fell around in the den, doesn’t it? I think that’s where I got the wrinkles I have around my eyes. They’re not laugh lines. They’re fake-smile lines, and they’ll be 17 years old in September. They stay damp through most of that month, sure, but at other strange times as well. It was only two years ago that I could hear Bing Crosby sing again without getting hysterical, for example.
Sweetheart, I’m glad you got to say goodbye, but I’m so sad that every time you said it, it tore off another a little piece of you. That’s just not fair. Especially since your mom did a fantastic job of raising you girls, and I believe she’s still beaming with pride over what you’ve continued to accomplish. (She’s probably still snickering over that “green” comment, too. I said a coupla things to my dad as he lay there dead on the gurney that made the paramedics crack up, too.)
I send hugs to you and Homer and your loved ones, today and every day.
You said this morning that every year like clockwork you write something in honor of mom, and every year like clockworks I read it and cry like a crazy person. You really are a beautiful writer. You always seem to look in my heart and say all the things I can’t. Mom would have loved the tribute.
This was beautiful, and very timely for me. I can’t imagine losing a parent – whether suddenly as DH just did or over a period of months either. Either way it still sucks. DH’s mom was 53, way too young to go. She had so much still left to do. But we don’t get to choose when we leave and those who are left have to figure out how to deal with it the best way we can. You and your sis are lucky to have each other so close, to lean on and remember your mom together. Death is a reminder to me to live each day to the fullest and say “i love you” as often as possible.
Big Hugs…
[...] Newscoma moved me to tears: I may be 41, but you never get over losing a parent. The cancer she had was really horrible and we saw this lovely, vibrant woman disintegrate before our eyes over a period of 14 months. [...]
It’s so hard for me to even think about a parent dying. My heart breaks for you, but I’m glad you decided to use your writing as catharsis. That’s a gift to all of us.
Beautiful post. Thank you for sharing it. She’d be proud.
“Grief is an odd, choking thing, isn’t it?”– Truer words were never written.
Nicely done.
I don’t know that I’ll have the capacity to deal with it when I’m faced with such.
Best,
Ryan
Just Beautiful.
I relate all too well to this. On May 31, I’ll be having the same kind of day you’re having today. It will be the second anniversary of my Dad’s death.
So I’m very sorry for your grief. But I think your Mom would be proud of having inspired a piece like this one.
And “Mom, you’re green”— I’m with you in thinking your Mom would have appreciated that. My Dad, wherever we go after we die, probably chuckles about the fact that his final words, instead of something wise or witty, was actually “Oh shit”.
February 19 was the 15th anniversary of my dad’s death. There is not one day that passes that I don’t think of him. I am grateful that enough time has passed that the loss of him doesn’t sting like it did, although he’s still missed. I hope that makes sense. For me, he has turned into a beautiful and wonderful memory. When I think of him, I don’t think of the sick Dad anymore (he died of prostate cancer and like your mom, faded away over a period of about a year and a half). I see Dad at about 50,(he was 65 when he died and would be 80 now. Geez) doing his thing…I hear his laugh, his voice, I see him in the mirror more and more all the time, and my oldest son was gifted with being the spitting image of him and he gives me certain looks that just make me go “Wow!” That is such a gift. Because of the depth of my faith, I also have the hope and assurance that I’m going to see him again. It ain’t over yet.
My prayer for you is that as the years go by, those images of the end will fade and not be so prevalent in your mind. Losing a parent, as crappy as it is, changes you in a way and makes you grow in such a way that nothing else can.
Thank you for writing this, NC. I lost my own mother to cancer nearly 16 years ago at the age of 18, and this post reminded me of many bittersweet but treasured memories. I was in the room when she died, too young to really appreciate what her passing would mean for me but old enough to know that I would never be the same.
Like you, I miss her every day. July 1st is my February 28th. Thanks again for sharing all of this.
I just now got it finished and published, but I was working on the draft of what I just posted while it was still dark this morning and on and off throughout the day… kind of weird how you and I were pondering and posting in, not the same but similar, veins today.
Anyway, a big :: hug :: to you today, my friend. Will be thinking of you and Homer over the next couple of days, much.
I always thought it was not going to be all that difficult to get used to my dad being gone since, in a lot of ways, I lost him years before he was truly gone. It turns out that was a stupid expectation on my part. It’ll be four years this year since he died, and really the more years that go on it’s getting harder instead of easier. Being as used to people in my life dying as I am, I have been telling folks for years it always gets better eventually but in this case it turns out not to be true.
And I am still really kind of struggling with my grandmother being gone. That one’s been really, really hard. I didn’t predict that being so hard either. I thought I was big Miss Expert on Death before these two so close in my family happened and thought I knew it all, I guess that’ll teach me for thinking, huh.
You – and SQ, too – are not alone in this stuff and never will be. Big :: hug :: again. Hope the next couple of days into March pass quickly and peacefully up there.
[...] friend, Newscoma, has a touching post on the 9th anniversary of her mother’s death. I may be 41, but you never get over losing a [...]
Thinking of you. July 20th will be my February 28th from now on.
I know just how you feel. Your words are true feelings, Your mother would be honored to read them. April 27th will be my day of tears. She’ll be gone 7 whole years. She was only 43.
Anyhow, thanks for sharing and verbally expressing many of our own thoughts of lost ones.
I lost my Dad to leukemia 8 years ago on July 31st. I just want to tell you that I am sorry for your loss, that I can relate, and that you really captured the essence of your grief in your post. You are a wonderful writer – what a tribute to your Mom.
I lost my mother on July 5, 1995. I was 34 years old. A young 18 year old girl in my work lost her mother a few days past Christmas. She asked me when do you get over it, when does it get better. I told her never. Yes, the sharp grief fades, but it is always a part of you and not a day goes by that I don’t think of her and still need her.
Mary, your words are painful to read, but I think you are right. It may hurt, but I wouldn’t trade the memories I have for anything, even avoiding that pain. Your advice to your coworker, I think, was good even if it was tough for her to hear.
I hear you. Ever since my dad died, there’s this weirdness in everything that remained. Like most people, I struggled for many years to establish my differences from my parents and since his death, I see mostly how deeply tied to each other we are in my family and in the world in general.
My mom just marked her 82nd birthday, and while she has handled the loss of her 50-plus years partner, I know it pains her deeply to be alone. She is a most active person, always making new friends, trying new things and basically just living and overall, living well. Since my dad died, she and I have spent more time together than ever before. I learn new things from her about herself, about our family and about me too.
And yet always lurking there around the edges is that Time is not on her side. We don’t dwell on it in our conversations, but we do tallk about it. We look it square in the eye, but our thoughts are more about living and laughing and even just mundane things. But I know something I never knew before, which is that all those moments, little and large, will one day me simply memories in my mind. So I tell her I love her so often I know she wonders what’s up with me.
In the years since my dad died, so have most of his siblings. I often ponder on the many times we were all together, when life was longer and safer than an eternal summer day in the arms of childhood. I tell others now of those times in hopes of extending all those memories far beyond the time I have, to send it on and on.
Which all just means I loved your post. All who read it learn more about you and carry the memory of your relationship with your mom ourselves and will share it with others too. I do hate to hear that your heart hurts some when Feb. rolls around, it’s an unwanted marker on the road. But thanks much for sharing.
NC,
I just saw your post. I haven’t been on the blogs much lately with all the Democratic convention planning and organizing going on here in Memphis. Then last week I was lucky enough to do a 4 day intensive leadership training, and boy was it gut wrenching. Life changing. So had to decompress a bit.
My dad died on my 25th birthdy, 25 years ago last June. Thanks a lot, Dad, I used to think. My mom died on May 28 9 years later.
Both from cancer, both not yet 70. Even though the 16 month wasteaway of my dad was draining and depressing, the suddenness of my mom’s recurrence and death was worse. Plus, her actual death was so horrible. He died at home at peace. She died in the hospital, scared and in pain. Lots of $$ spent on therapy to deal with that.
Shortly after my mom died, a nurse’s assistant came in the room where she still lay and we were trying to get it together to pack up her stuff and call the funeral home, and I could tell she was about to stick her. I thought, what’s this, some postmortem thing? And then it hit me, she doesn’t realize, she thinks she’s just asleep. And I reflexively blurted out, “you know she’s dead.”
The look on that women’s face, as she looked from the syringe she was holding up at eye level down to my mother, I will never forget. She scurried out, and I felt sheepish for being so blunt and rude. As we were leaving, finally, standing at the elevators, the doors opened and she stepped out. I said to her, “I’m so sorry, I’ve been up all night, and my mother just died, I’m just not myself. I didn’t mean to be so rude.” And she replied, “Oh, that’s ok. Now you have a nice day.”
One of life’s little moments that is either insult to injury or a gift of humor and irony to help you lighten up. Not sure which. But that feeling of aloneness, you are right. So desolate.
Since then I’ve thought of opening a business, Moms for Hire, where people would pay to come over and lie on the couch while I fix them dinner and let them complain and whine and I’m totally sympathetic and supportive and nurturing. Because once your mother dies, there is nowhere and nobody to provide that for you.
As a mom, I would be so proud to have my son write such a tribute to me someday. You did good. And now it’s March and almost daylight savings time. Yes!
Thank you Desi. I appreciate your kind words.
My mom died 6months ago from a massive stroke. I havent gone through the holidays without her yet, i am scared that I will totally fall apart. I think my “bitch” month will be in November. Her birthday is the 8th and mine is the 12th, and to top it off, Thanksgiving. But I just want to say thank you. Thank you for sharing your feelings, and everyone else. It helps to see that I am not alone.
And yes, your mother would be so very very proud.
David,
Just to let you know. You aren’t alone.
Ironically, my mother’s birthday was November 8th as well.
I wish you well.
There are no words to fill the void of losing a parent. I am a 30 year old woman who lost my father 4 years ago and lost my mom only 3 months ago. The feeling of totally being alone in the battle is overwhelming. It is nice to know that there is support out there and despite how much it hurts life does go on.
I know how you feel. I lost my mom, my best friend a little over a week ago and I wasn’t there with her when she passed I was on my way but didn’t quit make it there in time but before I left my house I made my sister put the phone to her ear and I told her how she was and will always be my hero and the bravest woman I have ever know to fight like she did this horrible cancer. She was only diagnosed with Lung Cancer in nov. of 2008 and didnn’t even make it a year. Cancer is a horrible thing to have and a terrible sickness. My mom was tired of the chemo and radiation also. She was just up walking and talking one month ago still wanting her chemo and radiation to be done because you see she had 6 children who she said she was fighting for everyday with me being the baby one she always called me her babygirl and I miss her sooooooooooo much!!!! So I know exactly what your going through as my mom died of resp. failure aslo. But she wrote all of us letters and she said she did not want us to grieve this way but to keep thinking that one day we would see her again and she would say Welcome Home.
This post is actually comforting in a way for me.
Like many others posting in the comments, I lost my mother. I lost her almost 4 weeks ago. I’m only 20 years old and she was only 56. And like you, she was my best friend.
My mother won’t see me graduate from university. She won’t see me move out or get married and she won’t get to meet any possible grandchildren.
I think I find your post comforting because everyone I know still has their mothers. All of my friends my age do. Even my father has his mother. In fact, my mother’s mother is still alive. It just doesn’t make sense. It still doesn’t seem real.
I relate to your loss so much, though of course it’s a little bit different for both of us.
There’s so much more I could write. But even writing this little bit helps. And reading about your experience helps.
Thank you.
beautiful post! It made me cry. I lost my dad this past Jan.(2008) and then in April(2008) I lost my mom. I understand how you feel. I’m not sure how the holidays are going to be. There are the good moments and then there are the sad moments.
Thank you for your post. I am 43 and lost my Mother 16 months ago. It is the Holiday season and I am finding it hard to put on the happy holiday face. My Mother like your Mother was my best friend. My rock.
I wish I could have said good-bye but that damn cancer took her away earlier than was expected. She died in her sleep in her bed. For that I am grateful. She did not have to suffer the last stages of her cancer. I just wish I could have said good-bye and tell her I will see you in heaven. Like you I said many mini good-byes as she became weaker. I took what turned out to be her last trip to Washington DC. She was very happy and I am glad I was there with her. I will always treasure that trip and remember her telling me that she was so glad she went with me because for once she did not feel like a cancer patient but instead felt like a real person. Thank God I took her to my business trip!
I miss my Mom very much. Your post really touched me and brought out some tears I have been holding in. Thank you.