Month: May 2024

My beautiful mother, ready to go on the adventure of parenthood.

My windshield kept fogging up the other day. I’d push the defroster button, and minutes later it would fog up again. My engineer husband would have tried to figure out what was wrong with it. But me, being as right brained as they come, simply went along with it until my windshield finally cleared for good.

Sitting in my Subaru pushing the defrost button over and over, I felt like I’ve felt the almost five years since my mom passed away. There have been moments of clarity, but grief always seem to cloud them. I miss my mom more now than when she first died. Maybe it’s because I’m realizing its permanent. Maybe it’s because I’m mothering teenagers. Maybe it’s because 1,726 days isn’t that long when you think about the span of an average life. However, my mom’s life was anything but average, especially when she became a mother.

From as long as I can remember, my mom and I would go on little adventures together. Whether it was sliding down the swirly slide at Les Myers Park, riding bikes to the Green Top gas station, or flagging down a tour bus in New York City, we always managed to have a good time.

I miss those times more than I thought I would. It’s like when you’re preparing to have a child. No one can explain to you the love you will feel for that child or how complex the task of being a parent is. It’s something you have to experience to understand.

The doctors gave my mom four to six weeks after her cancer diagnosis, but mom was always one to beat expectations. She passed away six weeks and two days after they told her she had stomach cancer. I marched through those six weeks like a soldier — handling logistics, answering questions, monitoring every little thing — and then she was gone, leaving me with a void that has only grown bigger with each passing year.

 Mother’s Day has been difficult since then. There’s no one to buy a present for or go shopping with. There’s no lunch where we celebrate being mothers together. And there are no more hugs. For the past few years, I’ve toned down the holiday just to get through it. But this year, I feel like my windshield is finally clear. I’m not sure what the difference is, but I’m realizing that this is my time to be the mother, to go on the adventures with the family I’ve made, to live my life.

A switch wasn’t flipped to get me here, instead the balm of time did it. Somehow you learn to live with your loss, and it grows into whatever you need it to be. I feel the presence of my mom when The Tots grunt about having to unload the dishwasher or pick up their clothes. I feel her when my children face disappointments or when something is unfair. I feel her when my daughter is on stage, and I feel her when my son earns a new rank in Scouts. She is always with me, and the best way I can honor her is by being a good mother.

Today, I’m not sure what our family is going to do to celebrate Mother’s Day. I get to pick, but I’m often overwhelmed by the choices and usually end up spending a relaxing day at home with a good book. That’s how my mom chose to spend so many of her afternoons, and I’m happy to say that I am like her in many ways.

I learned so much from my mother growing up, but I’ve learned tons more from her since she left. So instead of dwelling on what I had, I’m choosing to continue the course my mom so graciously set. It’s my time to go on the adventures and teach my kids what a good mother is. I only hope I can do as good of a job as my mom did.

Happy Mother’s Day!

I need a new bag that reads, “Please move forward.”

A few years ago, I bought a tote bag that read “keep going.” I liked the sentiment because, at the time, I was adulting a lot with bankers and lawyers, and they’ve never been my favorite playmates. I needed a daily reminder to, well, keep going.

I love my bag and carry groceries in it when I remember to take it to the store. I’ve even used it as a beach bag, but after hearing something at the airport the other day, I think it could use a little editing.

While walking through what looked like glass closets after my return flight, a polite woman’s voice came over the speaker saying, “Don’t stop. Please move forward.” The latter part of her mantra is what struck me — “please move forward.” I couldn’t get it out of my head. I liked it so much better than “keep going.”

“Keep going” implies a struggle where you want to stop but you can’t or don’t. It’s a runner in a marathon, limping to the finish line. It’s a new mom gulping caffeine to stay awake with her colicky baby. It’s Bill Withers holding the long notes in “Lovely Day.”

Moving forward has a much more positive spin. Instead of trudging through something, you’re moving beyond it. You’ve been through the yuckiness of the situation, done the work, and are ready to move on. Think of a grieving widow who finally accepts that her husband is gone or a cancer patient ringing the bell after her final round of chemo.

During the past six years, my family has experienced radical changes in the aftermath of the deaths of parents and friends. More than one person told us that we had to keep going during our grief storm. No doubt there are times when you have to keep going to survive, but it’s easy to forget that you don’t have to do it forever.

Our culture is rooted in constant motion. Having a packed agenda carries as much status as carrying a Louis Vuitton bag. Don’t get me wrong, I like to check off a to-do list as much as anyone else, but I’m not willing to run myself ragged for it anymore. That’s when the “keep going” mentality turns toxic. We admonish the people who (gasp) stop to take a break or, God forbid, take a leave of absence. How dare they have the audacity to do nothing for a while.

I have tremendous respect for my friend who recently lost her husband. A mother of two, she is strong as steel and has since implemented “freedom days” at her house every now and then. On freedom days, no one has to do anything. There are no chores, no outings, everyone makes their own meals. No one tells anyone what to do, and the words “keep going” are prohibited. She says this has helped the non-freedom days go smoother. I’m not surprised.

When I got my first job out of college, I worked through lunch every day to impress my boss. It finally caught up to me one day when my dad told me that I needed to “sharpen my saw if I was going to cut wood.” With those sage words, I started taking my hour-long lunch outside at the picnic table. My work improved, my stress level decreased, and my boss gave me a raise.

This is where the airport lady has it all wrong. It’s okay to stop. In fact, I highly recommend it. It’s okay, even beneficial, to pause and take notes about where you’ve been, where you are and where you want to go. Add a dose of forgiveness and grace to the mix and you’ll be surprised at what happens.

As I venture into the second full month of spring, the idea of new beginnings seems more than appropriate. Not a fan of New Year’s, I prefer to start over when the azaleas make their debut and the honeysuckle smells just right. I’m so into the idea that I bought a new planner last week. I have no idea what I’ll fill its pages with, but I know that even though I’ve ditched my “keep going” philosophy, I’ll still be moving forward.

The Schweinitz sunflower brought me back home.

The universe threw me a “gotcha” moment the other day. It started innocently enough, but then that’s the fertile ground where these moments derive their potency. They pop up unexpectedly and result in the equivalent of being hit on the head with a celestial frying pan.

My moment began with a story assignment about an endangered wildflower. My editor asked me during the summer if I’d be interested in writing about the Schweinitz sunflower and the efforts to save it. I love flowers, my dog’s name is Sunflower, and I have a framed copy of Georgia O’Keeffe’s “A Sunflower for Maggie” hanging in my house. I couldn’t say “no.” Plus, I like to venture out of my coifed corner occasionally to see how the rest of the world is doing.

The night before the interview, the biologist I was meeting sent the address where the flower resided. I knew it would be off the beaten path, but I had no idea that it would be off my beaten path. Turns out, this botanical wonder was in Mount Pleasant, my hometown. Though I could envision the street name in my mind, I couldn’t match it with a road, so, yes, I typed the address into my phone so I could find my way home.

Driving over, I passed the old fair grounds, the road my sophomore crush lived on, the beauty shop where I had my ears pierced, and the church where I was baptized — the church where my parents’ ashes are filed away. Hurrying to be on time, I didn’t stop. I don’t visit their gravesite often because it obliterates any fantasy that I have of them being on an extended vacation.

Onto the flower I went, slowly realizing its proximity to my parents’ house, the same house I sold last year after my father died two years and two months after my mother. Turns out, the Schweinitz sunflower flourishes a seven-minute drive from where I spent a chunk of my life.

Anyone who’s been through the death of a loved one knows the grief route involves a mixture of reflexes. At Christmas, you want to help your mom slice her red velvet cake, a recipe I still can’t seem to master. On Father’s Day, you want to buy a goofy card with a tie on it for your dad, and when something cool happens, you want to tell them. Pulling into the parking lot of the nature trail, I wanted to call my mom and dad more than ever. We probably would have met for a What-A-Burger after.

When I met my contact, we walked 15 minutes of the trail to discover that the flower that summoned me home wasn’t blooming yet. Undeterred, my tour guide suggested we go look for some more a couple of miles away, so I hopped in my Subaru to follow his Subaru. Approximately a half-mile from my old neighborhood, we discovered a Schweinitz sunflower standing as regal as a giraffe. This jewel of nature randomly sprouted beside the country road our family took to church every Sunday of my childhood.

I studied the flower, touching the sandpaper-like underbelly of its leaves and thought how brave this plant was to bloom less than a foot from the road. After the biologist left, I decided to be brave, too.

I drove through my neighborhood, past the house that holds more memories for me than any other structure on this earth, past the dock where I had my eighth birthday, past a part of my life that now rests in the past. When I was leaving, a yellow monarch fluttered across my windshield. As she always was in life, my mom was there for me, letting me know that everything was going to be okay.

On the way back, I stopped by the columbarium to fill my parents in on how everyone was doing, and near the end of my update, a calmness soaked through my soul. I finally realized that my parents are at peace, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I was, too.

This post was first published on the News of Davidson website on October 3, 2023, https://newsofdavidson.org/2023/10/03/64658/g-is-for-griefand-goodness/.