Dear Mom,
Dear Mom,
It’s negative two degrees here in New York today. You’d be so glad you and Dad had moved to a warmer climate. I’m playing the music from your funeral, which I’d forgotten was on my phone until Ode to Joy popped up yesterday while I was on the treadmill at Planet Fitness.
The grief counselor I saw this week asked if I’d written you a letter since your death five months ago. As a writer, I felt foolish telling him it hadn’t occurred to me. So now I’m writing, the Prayer of St. Francis is playing, and soon I’ll be a mess because, well, you know better than anyone how I am.
I never thought I’d need a grief counselor. You and Dad were open about death, influenced in part by your belief in a better afterlife. And since you were eighty-six when your heart suddenly stopped, and you didn’t suffer, I considered it a blessing. “My mother had a good, long life full of love,” I told people. “We should all be so lucky.”
Of course, you saw how I shook at your viewing, struggling to catch my breath. You heard the bleats that escaped me when I tried to hold back the sobs. You saw the tissues wadded in the trash. Of your six children, you’d know that I would take your death the hardest.
Remember how, every once in a while, I’d ask you again what my Myers-Briggs personality type was? The “I” for introvert was a no-brainer, but the other three letters escaped my ability for self-analysis. But you always knew. I wrote it down somewhere. Hopefully, I’ll find it.
When I used to hear about people who had unresolved issues with a deceased family member, I felt self-righteously sorry for them, proud that you and I would leave nothing unsaid. Our bond was unique in the family. We shared our faith, motherhood, gardening, a thirst for personal growth, our difficulty asserting ourselves and expressing anger. You knew how I struggled with friendships, that I considered you my “best girlfriend.” And when either of us had a misunderstanding with a family member, we could tell each other, knowing our secrets were safe.
But then, things changed. Remember when you wanted to tell me something after Dad had left the room because you knew he wouldn’t understand, but after he left the room, you couldn’t tell me? What happened? Gradually, you stopped confiding in me and you refused to hear my confidences. You shut me out. I know that can happen sometimes with elderly people, but the changes started when you were still vibrant enough to kick my butt in water aerobics, when you still drove and shopped and cooked. It started when you could remember, although I had forgotten, where I put your bin of spring clothes. “Under the bed, Karen,” you said with amusement.
I know you never stopped loving me. But I had started to wonder if you loved me less—less than before, less than you loved my siblings, less than you loved their spouses. Some of our clan could electrify a room with stories of exotic trips and lavish parties, gushing with gratitude and happiness. Every moment they spent with you was the best you’d ever had. All I could offer was calm contentment. When I visited, we puttered in your garden and delighted in the discount pottery store we found. I attended your book club and water aerobics, and we sipped martinis during the PBS News Hour. You, Dad, and I sat close on the couch, sometimes holding hands. You told me you didn’t need anything more. I believed you. All I had to give was love. When did that stop being enough?
When you asked the family to read Atul Gawande’s Being Mortal, I alone read it. I told you I’d respect your wishes and independence as long as possible. Then, others visited and you raved about them rolling up the rug and reorganizing your kitchen and renovating the bathroom—all the things you had told me you didn’t want to change.
For most of my life, your love was unconditional. Then suddenly I felt like a child doing somersaults to earn your approval. And when I tried to discuss what was going on, you refused to listen. “I’m not talking about that,” you said, before marching from the room.
I started getting snarky and sarcastic. Each time, I apologized and tried to be more positive, but then a comment would slip out and you got annoyed. Then there was the morning you found me sitting by the window, crying.
“I’ve been praying for help to overcome my negativity,” I said.
Do you remember what you said? Do you remember your tone? Can you now see the look of disgust on your face?
“Well, I hope you get rid of it quick,” you said. You, for whom prayer had been spiritual nectar, for whom God was ever-present within every heart. You shut me down as I prayed for help.
*****
Sorry, Mom. I’m back. I can only imagine by Mercy Me came up on my playlist. You know what that song does to me. So many fat teardrops landed on my keyboard, I thought it might short-circuit.
Anyway, Dad knows how I feel, but he misunderstands. “I know your mother has forgiven you,” he says, “for whatever happened.” I don’t have the heart to tell him the truth—that I haven’t forgiven you.
But I’m working on it. I registered for a Daughters without Mothers grief support group. They use creative arts to facilitate the healing process. Doesn’t that sound perfect? You’d love it. If only we could go together. Maybe I’ll see you there?
Well, Mom, I hope heaven is all you expected and more. I hope you get this letter. I hope you can respond. Until then, I love you. I always will.
Karen
~~~~~
About the author ~
Karen began writing twenty years ago after her eleven-year-old son’s health crisis. Those early pages are now a real-life medical mystery about a mother who must overcome her toxic agreeability if she's to save herself and her son. Agreeable Mom: A Harrowing Story of People-pleasing is currently available for representation.
A happy empty-nester with her husband of thirty-seven years, Karen lives and writes in upstate New York. You can find out more about her journey at www.KarenDeBonis.com, and follow her here:
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