Motherless Daughters (and Sons)

My mother with me.

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about some friends who became motherless daughters in recent months and about how I’ve now lived long enough that I know way too many motherless daughters and sons. Of these recent members of this club, one is younger than me. Her mother, who was probably near my own age, died suddenly, and from my friend’s perspective, way too young. My friend is angry and is waiting for some sort of “sign” or for her mother to appear in her dreams. Other new members are my age (or nearly) and lost mothers who were in their 80’s. Then there’s the members whose mothers died when they were just kids themselves. Other mothers died when their daughters were just becoming women themselves. And finally what about the members who never knew their mother because she died before they had a chance to know her, or because another mother adopted and raised her? 

All of these daughters have a story to tell. I am sure that I am extra sensitive to them right now as I enter the world of the grandmother. I just wish there was something I could say or do to help these newest members of the club. But I know they all have to find their own way through their grief. I know things that they don’t know yet and I wish I could be there for them at just the right moment to say “Yes, that is a real feeling you are having. Go ahead and feel it.” I know that grief can sometimes look and feel like anger. I know that sometimes grief eases up and then comes back for a second, third, fourth, tenth, fiftieth attack — usually at just wrong moment. I know that you never “get over” your grief; you only learn to control it or maybe if you’re lucky you figure out a way to do something useful with it. 

I know that even if your mother-daughter relationship was not all rose-colored; even if there were times you referred to her as “The Bitch” and could hardly wait to get out of that crazy house; even if you had a really unhealthy co-dependent relationship; or if you view her as a saint who was flawless: I know that becoming a motherless daughter or son is a defining event in our lives. 

In 1994, I read a book called “Motherless Daughters” by Hope Edelman (http://hopeedelman.com), and I gave copies of it to people I knew who were already motherless daughters. I felt confident that it prepared me for the eventual day when I became a motherless daughter. Of course I didn’t expect that to happen for a long time and didn’t know I’d become a fatherless daughter first. At the time, I was the mother of three daughters myself and had a decent relationship with the former “Bitch” now that I understood what she was going through during the years I referred to her so fondly. She was a wonderful and loving, though strict, grandmother. 

My brother and I with our mom, grandmother,
 and the first grandchildren.

When my father died in 1998, she already had her first broken hip and within a few years had her second hip surgery. As if my father’s death wasn’t enough, my sister died two years later. Her grief really sucked the wind out of her sails. Then my mother was sidelined by triple by-pass surgery while visiting me, and a few years after that, by pulmonary embolism; and she finally moved into an assisted living home where she died in 2009. I’m not even sure how many times I flew back and forth across the country to do what I could to help. She had so many ups and downs and more than once reached a point where she would have chosen death. In fact, after the pulmonary embolism, she refused treatment and went home under hospice care. I suppose her heart was working too well because she survived, just as she had before.

Every time I left her, I felt like I was saying my final goodbye. Once, as my daughter and I stood at the door to leave and called out our traditional parting words, “See you tomorrow!” she waved weakly and said “In your dreams.” 

My mother with her first-born granddaughters, 
at the rehab center before going home.

When I was leaving to return home after the triple bypass surgery (I had flown with her across the country after her months in rehab here) I laid down next to her on her bed and told her thanks for letting me help her get through the awful experience and thanks for being my mother. She hated it and recoiled when anyone said nice words about her. She raised her hand to shut me up and said “Stop.” A few years later, I stayed with her after the pulmonary embolism. When it became clear she no longer needed hospice care, she was pretty angry about surviving and about having caregivers. I knew she was ready to check out but her heart was working too well, thanks to the bypass surgery. However, my tour of duty was over and so I packed up, said “See you tomorrow” and went home. I felt sure I’d never see her again.

But she rallied and we had a few more visits. Then five months before she died in the assisted living home (where I had helped move her on one of my visits) I sat in the incredible leather chair my brother had purchased for her and took a nap while she napped. When she woke up, I showed her my web site about her and my father during World War II. I read my dedication page to her, and I cried. She put her hand up and though she could hardly speak, told me to “Stop.” I sat on the edge of the bed and explained that I wouldn’t be able to get back for a visit for a few months — hoping that she’d get my message that I knew this was my final goodbye. I knew she was fading away and was ready to go, but I needed to tell her one more time that I loved her. I sat there for a long while, giving her updates on every member of the family. She was asleep when I finally got up to leave. That is my final image of her.

There is so much more I could write and I suppose I will eventually. It’s taken me five years to write this much. And I guess that’s what I wish I could express to my friends. Take whatever time you need! Get some therapy if you need it for your grief and anger, especially if you find that your reactions to everyday life are out of proportion to the activity around you. My anger after my father’s death nearly ruined me. Don’t worry about what you imagine others think of you as you experience your grief, but do worry (and get help) if you find that you are reacting inappropriately to people. Don’t worry if she doesn’t appear in your dreams. In fact, don’t have any expectations. There are no rules about grief—only the unrealistic expectations we put on ourselves.

In the five years since my mother died, I’ve done many things to remember her. I’ve re-built my World War II web site, which means I live with her in my thoughts every day. I work on the family genealogy on a weekly basis, which is of course, more time spent with her. Now that I'm a grandmother, I think of how generous she was with her time and love for me and my babies, and all of her grandchildren.

My friend whose mother died recently and suddenly, hopes for “a sign” from her mother. I can’t say that I’ve had “signs” from my mother but I have experienced that feeling regarding other loved ones who have died (see http://honeylights.blogspot.com/2014/01/the-story-of-lady-slipper.html) and I learned that it didn’t happen at the times and places I expected or wanted. I think my mother was far too practical for such things as giving me a sign or even for appearing in my dreams — in spite of her prediction when she replied “In your dreams.” She hated it when I cried or got sentimental. She really hated it when someone told her how wonderful she was. If she were to appear to me or give me a sign, I’m pretty sure she would hold up her hand to me and say, “Stop!”

My mother with her four surviving children and spouses,
 and her 12 grandchildren.