For me, ever since 1992 Mother’s Day has been Mourners’ Day. My mom passed a mere three weekends after the last time I was able to speak to her and actually wish her well. Not that she always merited such feelings; in a nutshell, we had a complicated relationship and she had a particularly unsatisfying and relatively short life. Had she had just a little bit of the self-confidence and self-love that I’ve been able to muster she might have been around a tad longer, enough to know the grandchildren she so desperately wanted and perhaps have had the opportunity for the happier journey the relatives in her trust circle so desperately wanted her to at least attempt.
But, then again, I’m hardly a shining example of even a remote level of success in the lifespan she had which was one week short of 58 years. Whatever I’ve been able to achieve in those realms has occurred after that demarkation, and if anything she never had to experience the level of rejection and prejudice that I have, which is now well into its fifth unfathomably frustrating year–and counting.
Last Mother’s Day I mused about how this reality pervades my existence, and I regret to report nothing has changed to alter those views. If anything, I’ve had yet another 12 months of ghosting, disrespect and futility. While I’m grateful to at least have some source of income, it’s hardly a level I believe I deserve nor one I envisioned when I was a younger person in greater demand. Retirement is not an option at this point and as every day on the calendar is crossed off any slim chance I have for it is fading into oblivion. And the isolation, loneliness, heartbreak and consternation grows exponentially with each xing.
Sure, I had similarly frustrating times when I was first beginning my own life journey. And often Mom was a source of that frustration, particularly when she’d be dismissive of anything I had accomplished professionally since she assigned far greater value to my finding someone who’d give her grandchildren. But when the chips were most down, she’d be at least a source I could vent to. When I was having great trouble adjusting to freshman year in college she’d write me lengthy letters of advice and far more detail about what was going on in the lives of the neighbors and family members I had left behind. I was exceptionally thankful for her flawless penmanship since that was not a gene I had inherited from her side of the family. I would furiously type my own correspondences, often going through a great deal of my work study funds on typewriter ribbons and whiteout.
How I wish I still had her to at least cry out to, and how I wish she had lived long enough to know the internet. At at appropriate distance, she was a source of counsel and comfort. I have zero doubt she would have made ample use of such technology, face-timing the crap out of me and using her typing skills to text and e-mail with regularity. I suspect even my sister and her family might have enjoyed some of that interfacing as well, more than likely with even more physical distance.
I know some of my more regular readers are dealing with more recent losses of their own mothers; or at least dealing with the inevitable issues that aging and the utlimate imminence of mortality bring. On most days coping does get easier. There can be weeks that go by that I don’t think about her at all–honestly, I’ve had a lot of other more recent losses that I cry about. But on this day, particularly as my existence becomes even more redundant and my more successful times all the more distant, I can’t help but think about her, and how curious I’d be about how she’d be reacting to all of this.
With all due respect to those of you who seem to think that ranting and venting about our political schisms is far and away the ultimate priority to put out into the universe, today I beg of you to spare me your level of vitriol and even derangement. Today I care even less about them than they care about you and I, and trust me when I say with more than a bit of informed knowledge the buffoon-in-chief and his minions are literally laughing at anything we may express–particularly the reposting of the extra-long and heavily detailed descriptions of what they are doing to undermine democracy. If you still have your own mother, or perhaps a spouse, or perhaps children or even grandchildren of your own, I strongly urge you to look in their direction. Call them. Visit them if possible. You can’t fathom how badly I wish such an option existed for me.
I continue to post this lone picture of her because it’s the only image I have of her that’s shareable. I envy those of you who may be mourning today that were proactive to have more options. All I have are memories, and they’re admittedly growing more dim with time. I’d like to have newer memories worth having to replace them, but as I’ve already said that just doesn’t seem to be in the cards.
Enjoy your Mother’s Day. Perhaps I’ll see you around.
Until next time…