Happy birthday.
This year marks a sad milestone—you’ve now been gone longer than you were here.
Today you would be 83. And suddenly somehow, that doesn’t sound as old— especially now that I just reached a milestone myself. 60 seems impossibly old; just as 41 seemed impossibly young. When you died at 41, you left 3 teenage children— younger than your 7 grandchildren are today—too young to apppreciate the magnitude of our loss, of your loss.
Over the years I gradually began to grasp what I was missing. Without you there to celebrate—every holiday and joyous family event became just a little bittersweet. In every crisis, I’ve longed for your comfort as my moral compass. I feel a sting sometimes just seeing grandparents with their grandchildren.
Losing you meant losing my touchstone. Maybe the only times I ever felt perfect—was seeing my reflection in your eyes. That kind of unconditional love, a mother’s love—is a precious treasure. And not everyone gets to experience it—so I was lucky to feel your love even for 18 years. That’s your legacy and greatest gift—that you were the mother I aspire to be.
For 41 years I haven’t forgotten about you—-but I have forgotten you. Time has erased many of my memories. I’ve forgotten how you walked, how you talked, how you laughed. I’ve tried to keep you alive—for me and for my kids. But it’s impossible to breathe life into a photograph; you’re only alive to me in my dreams.
In real life, you never met my husband. (either one of them)
You never knew my children.
You never really knew me.
And worst of all— I never really knew you.
Though as a reporter, my job was to ask questions and write stories—-ironically I never got to hear all your stories, and ask you all the questions I would have wanted to know. In fact that’s one of the reasons I started to blog—- so someday my own children will know me.
Last week, at my friend Carol’s funeral, her two daughters spoke with eloquence and elegance about Carol, who just became a grandmother recently. Their words and raw pain were a punch in the gut; knowing that people are resilient—yet a mother’s love can’t ever be duplicated or replaced. Sitting there, I felt all the losses of 40 years. So I cried for Carol and for her daughters and for her baby granddaughter Hazel; I cried for my children who would have been your grandchildren; I cried for myself and my sister and brother; and mostly I cried for you.
My Gram lost her mother at 48 and I could tell it pained her. She gave me the only photo she had of her holding her niece as a baby. This post has me teary. I feel the ache of your loss.
My Mother was sick for 14 long years. I was grateful for the precious time we had together. (please read Mother’s Day 2009 at http://www.debidrecksler.com)
Thank-you for sharing this with us.
Darryle, another beautifully written story ( the word “blog” sounds a bit cold regarding such a personal topic as your mother). I love the way you can express such private feelings, and make those feelings so universal, and so touching…
everything is bittersweet,
much love, Julia
I cried reading this. I remember your mother, Darryle. I remember as though it were yesterday the one time I met her. She was standing at the sink doing dishes, wearing a dress with brown polka dots, her hair in a pony tail. You introduced me and I was dazzled by her beauty. Even though she was already ill, you wouldn’t know it to look at her. She had the most gorgeous smile–was graceful and warm and had the same magnetism you have. I remember with a pang of deep shame now, wishing I had a young, pretty mother like yours.
There are some losses that you just can’t get over and I know her passing is one. In a way though she is with you every day. You still think about her, talk to her, remember her. And so much of who you are comes from her.
Oh, this is beautiful and sad. There is no good age to lose a mom, but as a teenager, it is so sad…
Thank you for such beautiful and thoughtful comments and emails. I appreciate the support—though probably sounded far more downbeat than I actually feel—For all of us, loss and death are part of life—another reason I try to live in the present. Thank you again.
I’m so sorry for your loss, at such a young age. How very sad for you!
My maternal grandmother died when my mom was 12. She is one of eight siblings, and is the second to youngest child, so she was raised mostly, by her older brothers and sisters. My grandfather was around, but he was a strict, Italian immigrant, who ruled the roost and didn’t spend bunches of time coddling his children. As a result of that, my mom’s upbringing and not having a mom I have always thought that I needed to be involved with our sons as much as possible, because if I was ever taken from them, at a young age, they would remember everything about me, would remember all of the times that I was there for them and they’d remember all of the fun that we had together.
I have been involved with many of their activities, like theatre and school and I still teach them what I can, but now-a-days, it’s more that they are teaching me and I’m just fine with that, as they are both very bright, young men.
I think that it’s important to continue to be close to our children, but at the same time, to stand back and admire who they have become and are still becoming. I think that the greatest gift that we can leave our children is to be the best that they can be, by the example that we set.
When I read that you never really knew your mom and vice versa, I felt very sad. By the time a woman is 40, I think that is a time when she really, finally, knows herself. All the more, I feel truly blessed, that at 47, I am still here to do all of the wonderful things with our boys, as I just described. (My grandmother died at 45.) I hope that you are able to share closeness and good times with your children, Darryle, for many more years to come because at 60 years young, I’m sure that you’ve still got heaps more plans to do just that!
Darryle,
What a lovely tribute to your mother…