Tuesday, May 4, 2010

The First Mothers' Day Without Mine

I’ve always been adept at “compartmentalization” or, as it’s less euphemistically known – DENIAL.

I’ve read some wonderful books about the grieving process and its non-linear stages, most notably Elizabeth Kubler-Ross and David Kessler’s On Grief and Grieving. While those books were wonderfully comforting, I confess that being an only child and a New Yorker make me disdainful of generalized categorization.

Sometimes, though, there’s just no escape; try as we might, the heart feels what the mind and senses seem to ignore. In April, the lilacs begin to bloom. I push back the familiar thoughts that they have always been “the Mothers’ flowers” to me, but my heart recognizes the magnificent scent that always reminded me to pick up a bunch on my way to visit Mom. The fragrance finds its way to the places I’m trying to “protect.” This year, the beauty of lilacs is acutely bittersweet.

I return to my apartment after another lovely jaunt among the now-in-full-bloom lilacs and turn on the television for some respite from missing Mom. NOT SO FAST! Though I’ve not overlooked the imminence of Mothers’ Day, apparently everyone else on the planet has because those card and flower companies issue reminders every fifteen minutes on all 1,914 channels available on cable.

After a couple of weeks of this, Mothers’ Day started to feel like it was coming at me like a freight train. I kept trying to “slap a happy face” on my feelings by thinking of all the friends and family I love who are Moms and the one who’s been a second Mom to me (thanks, Ginnymom!).

Still, all I wanted to do was sleep through the lilacs and commercials and wake up on May 10.

Ultimately, my self-created geyser made its way to the surface and “out of nowhere” I began weeping “for no apparent reason” while on the A train. The tears just streamed down my face. The grief was as fresh and consuming as it was in August.

I managed to contain my yawps and gasps only until I’d made it inside my apartment door. I was stunned by how huge and raw the grief still felt, but remembered that someone told me the amount of sorrow is a reflection of the amount of love. As homage to my Mom, I sat on the floor in my foyer, allowed myself to feel the pain and the love, and wept. 

Not a day goes by when I don’t think of her – many times. I have a quiet weekend planned of nurturing myself and remembering her . . . with love . . . and lilacs.


  1. Connie, thanks for sharing your journey. Its helped me in dealing with my own grief. For a couple months after my mom died, I had a hard time getting out of bed in the morning.

    Just as I was about to get medicated for my depression, it seemed to lift. I still have times when I mourn for her, or for myself. But I know as a believer I will get to see her again.

    Thanks for your raw emotion. Blessings to you.

  2. Dear Deemus: I'm so glad something resonated for you here and made a difference. Holding hands in this journey together. Blessings to you . . . and gratitude.

  3. WOW Connie...this was a wonderful read. I have not experienced the loss of my mom. But my best friend, my grandmother had Alzheimer's Disease.

    It was like she got to a certain stage in her life, then she started going backwards. In the end she could no longer take care of herself. It was up to me to take care of her. It was one of the worse jobs I've ever had. Don't get me wrong, I loved her dearly...but the demands on a person who has to take care of someone suffering from this disease, is tremendous.

    Thank you so much for sharing this.