Eight Years With, Eight Years Without

Eight years ago today my mom died. In an instant, a car crashed into another car and she was gone.

I had just spoken to her a couple days before. She was on a road trip with her best friend celebrating her 60th birthday weekend and had called me from a baby shop, excited to tell me about the crib bedding she had found for my soon-to-be-born baby girl. Using verbal imagery, she exuberantly tried to sell me on this expensive, over the top crib set from a store hundreds of miles away; something that I could not return or exchange if I didn't find it as perfect and dreamy as she did. As she was not known for her practicality when it came to shopping, I gently declined it before a bad cellular connection ended our call prematurely. No goodbyes were exchanged. I didn’t bother trying her back, figuring I would just talk to her the next day, not knowing that would be the last time I would speak to her.

I couldn't reach her the next day on her birthday, and had to leave my wishes in a message. She didn’t call back, probably having too much fun to bother. The day after her birthday, I got a call from the road, but it wouldn’t be from her. Instead it was from the officer on the scene of the disaster she had just been in, saddled with the duty of telling me “your mother didn’t survive the accident.” Six months pregnant and shellshocked, it was the darkest day of my life.

I’ve now lived the past eight years without my mother, and those same eight years with the void she left… Eight years with my daughter and the overwhelming happiness, intense love, and joyous fulfillment of being her mom, and eight years without my most loyal supporter and eager babysitter-to-be… Eight years without hearing my kids call my mom “Grandma,” and eight years with a pervasive sense of loss… loss of the vision of how I expected my life to unfold, loss of the delusion of control over my life and what may happen in it, and loss of an emotional bond that was so embedded in the fiber of my being that I have had to fight and flounder to find my way to live without it.

Yet, my mom was not my hero. She was not someone I emulated or wanted to be like. She was fragile, she was damaged, and she was, at times, hopelessly hopeless. Her life disappointed her in a way that she found hard to manage, hard to accept, and hard to overcome. She had an extremely rough time of it, not because she had a wholly rough life, but because she perceived it as rough and received it as rough. Her perspective skewed heavily to the glass half empty and try as she might, she rarely was able to get that damn glass full. 

My siblings and I grew up under the weight of this, which shaped us and cursed us with ingrained habits and programmed behaviors developed throughout our childhood that we have had to work (and still work) to overcome as adults. It is the reason that, in my 20’s and 30’s, I focused my energy on how not to be like her. I have since realized that the more you concentrate on what you don't want, the more you draw it to you. So I don't do that anymore.

But it wasn't until my mom died that I fully realized most everyone else she came in contact with had a very different perception of her. I know they had to have seen her dark side, but I think most of them chose to focus on her more endearing qualities, maybe because she often was just so fun to be around. She was cleverly sarcastic, generous to a fault, wickedly daring and inappropriately funny. She was always up for a drink, a smoke, a laugh, a party, an adventure. Adored by her friends, treasured by her colleagues, and loved by her family, my mother succeeded more than she failed in lighting up the lives of those around her with her charm, beauty, and intoxicating likability. This was never more apparent than on the day of her memorial, when the chapel was bursting at the seams with people from all stages of her life, all there to mourn the loss of one of the kindest and most lovely spirits ever to walk this Earth.

I wish she could have been there to see it. To see all the people whose lives she had forever touched. She would have loved it; and for a day or so afterward, she would have felt like the luckiest woman in the world. 

Sometimes I feel she was laid to rest when she was to spare her of all the pain and disappointment she so often felt. I like to believe she was truly happy in the moment she left us... on an adventure, discovering new places, escaping her troubles and enjoying the present - free from the pain of the past and worry of the future. Just living it up. Living it up to the end. If you knew her, you would agree that that may have just been her perfect ending.