Re-Membering Mom - Reflections on the 9th Anniversary of Her Death

I once read the title of an article for "Mother-less Daughters" about a woman whose mother had died and how hard it was raising her children without her mother and being "motherless." I did not actually read the article because I don't identify as being without my Mom. Mom's time on this earth was so impactful that she is still influencing my parenting, still an influence in my role as a wife and school counselor, and still a part of nearly everything that I do. The idea of re-membering, or giving our dead loved ones a membership card back into the club of life, is also an area of grief counseling that I subscribe to, and have conducted some research in. You can read some of that here, published under my maiden name DeWitt. In a nutshell, "re-membering" practices seek to foster and keep a close connection with our loved ones who have died. Rather than our society's individualistic (and harmful) ideas of "letting go" and "moving on," re-membering actively works to weave them into our lives. Our relationship with a person does not die when they do and can continue to develop and change over time. After their passing, we can even uncover and learn new things about them. I loved this idea before losing anyone, as it comforted me, knowing I never had to forget. While my children never met my Mom, they very much know their Nana Lala. Here are some of my reflections as I get through the 9th anniversary of her death.

While some people seem to be conduits of judgment and stress, my Mom exuded calmness, support, love, acceptance, optimism, faith, and joy. She was always happy, content, and calm, even when times were tough, and even when she had every reason not to be. When things didn't go according to plan, she stayed the course in a joyful way, certain that better times lay ahead. Was she ever angry, stressed out, or not content? If she was, she never let on. But truly, I don't think she was. While some people may not be happy with their meal, she was just always thankful she had a meal. She loved my father fiercely and unconditionally. She believed in him, supported him, and, most importantly, enjoyed him. She adored her son Glen and also loved him unconditionally. She never lost her temper or spoke ill of others. She never vented I sure did, and she would listen...but those conversations were never generated by her. When I did complain or vent about a person or situation, she often presented a counterpoint of view, always encouraging me to look on the bright side of life and be optimistic. Or, she would simply listen without providing feedback, which sometimes can be the most valuable of all. "Oh, Meggy," she would say, followed by a warm hug. I even asked her friend Stacy, a few years after her death: "Did Mom ever vent about Dad?" thinking that perhaps she did - must have - and chose to confide in a friend rather than sharing with her child. "No, never. She never said anything disparaging about your father, ever." Mom believed that most people are fundamentally good, and for those who weren't, she still found some good in them. She had infectious laughter, and my Dad really had a knack for making her laugh so hard that she would actually cry. I was able to do that sometimes, too, though not as often as Dad did. 

My husband made her laugh, too. I'll never forget the time after she moved in with us, and she had been released from rehab following a seizure, the result of her brain cancer taking over. She had lost much of her mobility and strength during the lengthy stay, so they sent someone to the house for physical therapy. Before they arrived, Nathan went outside and rang the doorbell. I opened the door and let him in, but he was now Hans, who was there to "Pump you up!" with his thick Austrian accent. She laughed and laughed. Or the time he told her we could watch some of his home videos. "How about this one, Paula? It's called Nathan - the potty training years, ages 16 through 18." Ahhh....she sure did have an amazing sense of humor. And she loved his.

As my favorite investigative journalist would say, She lit up a room. But Mom not only lit up the room she was in. She also had the rare skill of making you smile remotely, from a distance, at the very thought of her. Still, to this day, thinking about Mom brings a smile to my face and makes me feel good, in a deep-down, fundamental everything's-gonna-be-alright sort of way. And with the passage of time and the subsiding of the initial, intense grief, I'm able to have more gratitude and happiness when I think of her. The pain and sadness have stepped aside, making way for gratitude that I had her, rather than the unfairness that she was taken too soon. She was my Mom. Of all the Mom's in this world, I had her; the very best. How fortunate am I? And how fortunate are my children that she was mine? For surely, I would not be the type of woman, nor the type of wife or Mom if God had not gifted her to me. When I love them, it is because she loved me.

It's been 9 years now since she died. Nine whole years. I was six weeks pregnant with my first child, and we had just heard her heartbeat when we lost her. I believe that the timing was not a coincidence. God ensured Autumn's heart was beating before he stopped hers. A week or so before that, she said, "I'm going to hold that baby." She believed she would, and that belief got her through that day and the next. Denial? Perhaps, but she had a goal, and rather than looking at the fact she was not going to see her grow up, she found contentment in the possibility of holding her first grandchild. She cherished children and had the patience of a saint. I spent a good eight months following the birth of Autumn feeling so very sorry for myself. She should be here, I thought, sharing in all of this. And she would have been right there alongside us. Rather than running out of sick days and having no close family to help watch our children, we would have built her a little cottage on our property, and she would have popped over for morning coffee and helped, tidying and chatting as she did. She would not have done it out of a sense of duty nor obligation but because she wanted to, because it brought her joy, meaning, and fulfillment. I pictured that cottage and attached scenarios so often in those first few months of being a new mom that as I write about it now, it's almost as if it existed... as if it was a real place. How I wish it was. 

But living in that sadness and self-pitty was not healthy or productive, so God found a way to shake me out of it when Autumn was eight months old. My doctor's office called me following some biopsies of moles and wanted me to come to the office for the results. "No, it's okay - I routinely have basal cell or squamous cell carcinoma, so you can just tell me over the phone," I said as I pulled into Kids Kastle to pick up Baby A. They would not. Imagine our shock and horror when I was told I had melanoma, a deadly skin cancer. And It was not in the beginning stages - I was stage 2a. When I met with my oncologist, he happily reassured me that I had a 5-year survival rate of ...I forget, but it was something like 70%, and I was actually supposed to be happy about it. But then, after a month or so, we were called and told that I did not have melanoma. They had mixed up the biopsy with someone else. 

How many people who are told that they have cancer pray for it to be a mistake? A bad dream. A mix-up? How many barter and pray and make a deal with God that they will do anything - absolutely anything- for it not to be true? In the time when I thought that I had cancer, this devastating news completely shifted my perspective. Oh sh*t, I thought. I have been feeling sorry for myself for having lost my Mom when I was too young...but this precious girl of mine may lose her mother when she's just a toddler, I thought. I wanted her to have a mom. When we were dating, I had experienced bouts of jealousy. Yet, at church one day, I fully imagined a woman I spotted in the choir as a good prospect for my husband to marry. She seemed pleasant and probably nice, with the right amount of homeleness. Not too attractive and not too much fun; the perfect fit. But I knew she couldn't love this little Bean as much as me; no one could, and I so desperately wanted to stick around.

This entire experience was just what I needed, really. It was as if someone grabbed me by my shoulders, shook me, and yelled, "GET AHOLD OF YOURSELF! You lost your Mom, but it could be worse! Don't believe me? I'll show you!" And then they punched me in the face. Now that I'm on the other side of it, I can say that it's a service I would have paid for if only there were an unethical company out there like that (please email me if you are interested in forming a partnership). Since then, I still allow myself a bit of pity now and then. But it is much smaller and way less frequent. Mostly, this misdiagnosis has caused me to dive head-first into loving the heck out of these two beautiful souls and making their lives as amazing as possible.

And Mom is on my mind daily as I grow into my role as the mom of an 8 and 5-year-old. While I am more strict and directional with my children, one thing my parenting has in common with hers is the fundamental foundation of love, support, and optimism. Because of her, I always work to not only see the glass half-full but, more importantly, to help them see the entire world that way. Optimism is not just a state of mind; it's a superpower that has the remarkable ability to surround us in comfort and gratitude. Optimism transforms how we perceive and navigate life's challenges, and while my optimism comes from her, it is still something I actively work to cultivate. Was Mom in denial about things? Not just her cancer but as she went through trials in her life, such as my father losing his job and losing their home? No, as I reflect on it now, I do not think she was in any state of denial. With optimism, we still acknowledge that setbacks and hardships are a part of the human experience; we just don't let them get to us. Instead, we recognize our innate ability and strength to overcome anything and know, as Mom did, that it will be alright in the end.

Where did all of Mom's joy and optimism come from? Perhaps it was a gift from God. My Mom spoke of being a child at Mass in Christ the King Catholic Church in Reading, England when she was about 6 or 7 years old. Remarkably, this was where my parents were married years later (August 9, 1969), and my children and I participated in my Aunt's wedding last year. Anyway, I remember my Mom telling me how, as a child, the Bishop was visiting, and it was a very big deal, complete with all the pomp and circumstance. As he was proceeding down the aisle, he saw little Paula and stopped the procession. Instead, he made his way into her pew. She was deep in the narrow pew, and if you've ever had to use the restroom or leave and come back during a service, you know how awkward this is, as it is a narrow space with everyone sitting, and she was not sitting at the end. Everyone was stunned and looked on as he put his hand on Mom's head and looked Heavenward. He said a prayer and then returned to proceeding down the aisle and his duties. At the time, my maternal grandmother said that he did this because he knew that she would have a cross to bear in life, and he was giving her the strength that she needed for it.

While I have no way of knowing if Mom's strength and optimism truly were gifts from God, it sure makes sense to me. Mom had a contagious level of optimism that affected everyone she met. Uplifting family, friends, and even strangers, Mom's positivity has a ripple effect that continues today, even touching her grandchildren, whom she never met, and generations beyond them, God willing. She knew, and I always strive to remember, that we can find contentment and gratitude no matter the circumstances we face.