I almost did.
Forget about my mom, I mean. I didn’t really forget about her, but when I think about the loss in my life, it’s my sister and my dad that generate the kind of punch in the gut emotion that I associate with grief. My mom died first…and her death set in motion the events that had us bring my Dad to Connecticut and leave their shared lives in Florida behind. When Richard and I assessed the belongings in the little apartment, we couldn’t bring everything, so I went to Wal-Mart and bought a purple plastic crate and put Mom’s special mementos in it; her “good” jewelry, some fancy sweaters, her cell phone and charger—because it still had her voicemail greeting on it-- and lots of greeting cards and notes and bits of paper with her unique writing and oddly—some plastic curlers. I tossed other things in there as we packed books and china and framed pictures that would eventually end up in my garage. But the purple crate went up to a bedroom closet so it could be close by in case I wanted to go through it.
I rarely did. Over the years, more boxes got stacked on top of the purple crate, but not much perusing of memories. During the time that dad was with us, I felt grief poking around, but I didn’t experience the gush of loss for my Mom that I expected. It’s not like I didn’t miss her, but it felt like she left this life on her terms, her call. I remember one night before she died, she and dad were both on the “Second floor”—the rehab facility that was built into their retirement residence; having been discharged from the hospital within days of each other. I was staying in their apartment one floor above. It was the middle of the night and Dad called me from their room saying Mom was upset, so I ran down the stairs to find out what was going on. I got him settled back down, but Mom was still wide awake—not upset—more like disquieted. I sat on her bed with her and we chatted; she seemed distant, but not impassive. I mentioned that having Dad in her room as they were both trying to recuperate, might not be the best plan… she begrudgingly acknowledged that it had been her idea. Then she looked at me and said, “You’re a gem.” Mom was always loving and kind, but neither of my parents were effusive in their endearments. Also, these were the days that we now know were mere weeks before her death and she was often anxious and almost paranoid—at one point she thought I was trying to harm her when I brought her to the dining room in the rehab unit. So, “you’re a gem” reverberated in my heart and found a permanent place in my soul.
I know this because about a year later, I was browsing at a Barnes and Noble bookstore and I was drawn to a bin of brightly colored books—they looked like calendars or those chunky inspirational gift books. There, sitting on top of the pile, was a box of notecards that said, “You’re a gem!” I suddenly felt a stab of loss that my mom wasn’t around anymore. It felt sudden and unfamiliar, I was grateful for the message, but there wasn’t much I could do about it. It had been like that since she died; taking care of dad, losing Susie, a pandemic, losing Dad…there was a lot going on that I had to attend to. I could hardly grieve my Mom, who had died years earlier…I must have processed that by now, right?
Nope. That’s the thing about grief…it is not a timeframe; there are no quotas. If hope is the thing with feathers*, then grief is the thing with cobwebs. Its strands are sometimes invisible, heavy with dew, massive and unending or delicate and intricate. The web of grief can ensnare you when you don’t even know you’re walking into it. Like when you open a purple crate in your closet looking for a Christmas decoration.
I found it—the decoration—actually a sweater Christopher needed for a party. Then I found a red shirt and a black clutch, both of which I had just been telling Annie I needed. As I pulled aside stacks of cards from Mom’s last birthday, the ones I always meant to respond to, and moved those curlers over, I found what felt like a slim book, wrapped in tissue paper. I hadn’t remembered this, nor if I was the one who had wrapped it. I opened it carefully and found a book of poetry that was clearly from decades ago. The inscription confirmed it-“To Helen. Christmas 1914. From her Mother.” Helen was my Mom’s mother and the delicate and frayed pages contained inspirational verse and poems. Slipped inside next to one poem was a picture of Mom and Dad, smiling at the camera. And the title of the book? Forget Me Not.
I won’t, Mom.
*From “Hope is the thing with Feathers – (314) by Emily Dickinson
Pattie is always nearby in my thoughts. A special friend!
Ohhh Moms…..,Lovely