I lost my mother to breast/bone cancer on July 9th, 1995. It was 4:05pm by the clock on her nightstand. I was sitting on her bed next to her with my brothers and my father. My oldest brother was holding her hand and he was the one to check her pulse and tell us when she was gone. It's been fifteen years and I still remember every second. Even now as I write this, I can remember the distinct smell of her lotion that permeated everything of hers. I read somewhere that the sense of smell is a direct line to memories, and I have no doubt that's true. I would like to share some of her wisdom with you all. It's a bit of a self-indulgent project, since I'm not sure what benefit her story would be to others. But I love talking about her, so I will.
I have reached many milestones in my life since that day in 1995. I've graduated from college, gotten married, and had a child since then. And yet my mother, gone fifteen years, seems to have a bigger influence on me than ever. Having a child of my own brings everything in perspective. I have gone from being a daughter to being a mother, and now have the ability to see my childhood in a different way. Family is a complicated thing. I think it's hard to make the switch from child to adult and have your family see that. I'm still the little sister to my brothers and my father still acts like I'm 12 years old. He buys me a AAA membership every year so I don't get stranded on the side of road and sends me a $20 check on my birthday. My family slips back into the old ways when we get together. Subconsciously, I still sit in my usual chair at my father's dining table when I visit, even though I haven't lived there in 20 years.
A few years after her death, I convinced my father to trust me with our old 8mm home movies so I could have them digitized before the film rotted away. It was extremely expensive at the time, but worth every penny. I made copies of the DVDs for my family, but my grief made it impossible for me to watch them myself. About two years ago, my husband split the DVDs up into 15 minute sections and copied them as movies to my iPhone. I was finally able to handle watching them. Crying in the bathroom at first, huddled on the edge of the tub with my phone, but it got easier. It was wonderful. I am able to see events completely differently now, through the eyes of a parent rather than a child. I can now recognize and appreciate the efforts my parents put into giving us a good, fulfilling life. The most startling thing was the similarity between the adult me and my mother, and between the child me and my daughter. The physical appearance is very similar, of course, but the mannerisms and gestures are also almost exactly the same. You could put video of me at three years old clowning for the camera next to my daughter doing the same and they would be almost interchangeable. The same would be true of video of my mother then and me now. Even the look my mother gives my father while he's filming that says "ok, can you stop now and help me get the kids ready?" is the same look I give my husband that says "stop with the laptop and give me a hand here" It's eerie, but wonderfully eerie. I am grateful for this physical reminder that my mother is always with me.
I was 22 when my mother died, and yet it seems like I was just a child. I was home from college for the Christmas 1994 break and, as my mother and I were making cookies in the kitchen, she lamented that this might be her last Christmas. I instantly burst into tears and was angry at my mother for saying something absurd like that. She had been fighting cancer for over a year at this point. The medicine wasn't working, she had tumors in her skull and breastbone that couldn't be treated with radiation and yet, for some reason I didn't think she would actually die. She boggled at my complete denial of reality but, over sugar cookies, we talked it out and I was able to come to terms with what was happening. I couldn't sleep that night and wandered out to the living room and found her, as I had countless times before, reading a book in her rocking chair at 2am. And as usual, I sat on her lap while she rocked. I was 22, but a little girl who needed the comfort of her mother. I have my mother's chair now and I hope my daughter is never too old to sit in my lap while I rock.
Unfortunately, part of that dynamic meant that I didn't learn many things about my mother until she was gone. We had plenty of deep conversations, especially once I started college and was exposed to new ideas, but there were many things we just never talked about. Over the years, I've learned from my mother's younger sister some of the history that shaped my mother's life and I figured out other parts on my own.
My mother grew up in a poor, rural area. Her father worked the railroad and they farmed peanuts for barter with neighbors. As the story goes, my grandparents bought their land for $50 and built their home by hand, one room at a time. They were Southern Baptists and very strict. My father's family is Catholic and my maternal grandmother always referred to them as the "drinkers and gamblers." That still makes me chuckle because she was talking about wine and rummy as horrible sins. My grandfather was not a loving man and tormented his children. He was definitely of the "spare the rod, spoil the child" kind. Several years after her death, I found a drawer with my mother's writings and other personal papers. My mother went to a Baptist college in Mississippi in 1961. I knew she didn't stay long, but didn't question why until I found those writings. I had no idea she was a writer, but I found a bunch of short stories, almost all about the civil rights struggle. The most memorable was one about a white girl who befriended a black boy in the neighborhood and had to reconcile that friendship with her other friends and family. In the story, the girl couldn't understand how people she loved could treat this boy so badly for no reason other than the color of his skin. I believe this is the kind of thing that happened to my mother in Mississippi. My mother was always very spiritual. I used to say "religious" but I think "spiritual" is a better description because her faith wasn't about any specific religion, it was more about her relationship with God and her own feelings of right and wrong. I think she had a horrible time in Mississippi trying to square the teachings of the church with the brutality and hatred of people who also professed to follow those teachings. I'm sure she saw and heard despicable things from people who were supposed to "love thy neighbor." Shortly after her college experience, my mother broke from the Baptist church. The story told was that she met my father, who was Catholic, and because Catholics couldn't marry non-Catholics, they decided to split the difference and become Lutherans. But in retrospect, I think she wanted to leave the church and this was a reasonable explanation for her family. I marvel at the strength of character my mother had, to know that her parents were wrong and to follow her own path at the age of 20.
My mother believed people were generally good, so you should think before judging others. She wanted me to try to understand why people did what they did, and not assume their actions came from a bad place. I have to admit, I will never be as good at that as she was, but I try. Just because I can understand what motivates someone, doesn't mean I'm ok with it. She prized introspection and wanted me to think about my own actions, as well, so I would know my own motivations. My family never talked about politics outright. I literally had no idea that my father was a Democrat until my sister-in-law told me so last year. I knew my mother was, though, because as a little girl I once asked her the difference between a Democrat and a Republican and she said "Democrats take care of others while Republicans take care of themselves." What a perfectly concise explanation. She taught me that if people are hungry, as fellow human beings we should feed them. If they are sick, we should heal them. If they are cold, we should warm them. Assume people don't get in these situations on purpose, that they are doing the best they can, and need our help. Assume we could find ourselves in their shoes one day. She would say "There by the grace of God, go I." This wasn't politics to her, this was basic human decency.
I'm an atheist, despite my parents' best efforts, so I don't subscribe to the "grace of God" part, but the principles still hold. I want to ease the suffering of others. I want to fix injustice when I see it. I try to understand before I judge, even though that part is difficult for me. I can understand why some people hate those who are different. I can understand why some people are unwilling to help those who need it. But that doesn't make it ok. So I need to work to change their minds or work to take the power to harm out of their hands. This is my mother's legacy. She would expect nothing less from me.
Edit: Rescued! Thank you for your lovely responses. I am so happy for the opportunity to share my mother with you all.