A Motherless Daughter

I'm reading a book Don got me called "Motherless Daughters" and­­--though really, really pertinent and helpful--it is, of course, really, really depressing. I knew before I lost my mom that I would feel the pain for the rest of my life--and reading these stories about women who didn't handle their grief until they got married or had their first child really hits home. One of my first reactions to the news of my mom's grave condition was "how can I ever be a mother without mine?" She was the first person I went to for advice in life and the person who would listen to me as I talked things out (not even offering advice, but just letting me work things out on my own and then cheering me on when I finally did). I always assumed she would be there to answer what still seem like truly daunting questions regarding pregnancy, birth, child-rearing, etc. I made damn sure she was there for my wedding, but I know I will really need her when my time comes to enter motherhood. I live with the understanding that the moment I discover my first pregnancy will be intimately painful because that exciting news will also bring the crushing reminder that I am in it alone. I will, of course, have the best and most supportive partner to experience it with and a plethora of supportive women willing to step in where my mother cannot. This is invaluable to me. But I will still need and want and miss my mother.

Losing your mother is not an event. It isn't something that happens once and is recovered from--it is a state of being. I am, right now, still losing my mother. I am and will forever be a "Motherless Daughter." She will never be on the other end of the line when I need to call for reassurance or guidance or just to shoot the breeze. She won't be there to celebrate my first home purchase. She won't be at the hospital when I have children. She won't make her fudge each Christmas or call me on my birthdays. I may not cry each time one of these milestones (or everyday moments) occurs in the future, but I will recognize her absence and feel it. And mourn it. Forever.

This is truly helpful, the talking about it part. Reading about grief while experiencing grief helps put into context why you’re feeling a certain way or how others might be expecting you to be coping, etc. I’ve realized, and this isn’t surprising to me or to anyone who knows me well, I am blessed with an innate and useful tendency to communicate my feelings. Many people bottle their emotions in times of grief, try to move on quicker than they should, or think that showing pain and sadness weakens them or calls too much attention to them. I have cried in public too many times to count since this whole thing began. I talk to whoever will listen. I tell stories about my mom. I write about her. And I even write to her… In that respect, I am doing alright. And I thank you and everyone who has ever taken the time to lend a compassionate ear, to read my poetry, or to send me a card, text, Facebook message, whatever. It all matters. It all helps.