(this will go in the Grieving Room on Monday on dailyKos….. not sure if it belongs here, but what the heck)
I am not afraid of flying, but, especially since 9/11, I increasingly dread the pre-boarding ritual.
Similarly, after my mom died on the Sunday after Thanksgiving, I was dreading sitting shiva. We sat two nights, and after the first, I was less worried about the second. But the second night was bad.
Every culture has its own grief rituals. I will not assume that everyone here is familiar with those of the Jews – I am not that familiar with them, myself, and I am Jewish, more or less. At least, I was raised Jewish, although I have long been an atheist. The essential idea of shiva (which is derived from the Hebrew word for seven, and the same root as Sabbath) is to have a weeklong period of intense grieving. If you are Orthodox, there are a great many rituals associated with it, but if you are reform, as we are, it’s basically a night or two of people gathering to talk about the bereaved, share condolences and so on.
(A Jewish friend explained it to her Catholic brother-in-law as “just like a wake, but with eating instead of drinking”)
Why was I dreading this?
My mother.
My mother and I had a complex relationship, defined by both powerful bonds and powerful antipathies. Sad to say, if she were not my mother, I do not think she is the sort of person I would like. Yet, there are also powerful bonds. Everyone who knew her knew she was proud of me and her other children, and knew she loved us. We didn’t know, ourselves.
This is a woman who never told any of her three children “I love you”.
And yet…..
When I was five, a psychologist told my parents I would never go to college. I graduated when I was 20. In large part, this is because, rather than accept this verdict on my future, my mother did things. She found the best educator in the then-infant field of learning disabilities, and, together, they started a school. My mother did everything that wasn’t education.
And yet….
She reminded me, in public, of how much trouble I was, and how much she gave up for me.
And yet…..
She followed my interests well enough that, right to the end, she would clip newspaper articles and send them to me.
And yet….
Now, she is gone. The end was expected, and, at the end, a good thing. She had had five different cancers over the last fifteen years, and had decided to no longer seek any of the invasive or repulsive therapies – neither radiation nor surgery, and so, she knew she would die. She was 83, survived by a husband, three kids, six grandchildren, and one two-week old great-grandchild.
She had, my brother said “a good run”….too bad some of us got run over.
And so, I dreaded shiva. The barely-remembered people coming up to me to say how wonderful she was. The closer friends sharing more intimate, but even-less true-seeming remarks. “She made everyone feel taller” – no, not everyone, not me. “I am sure she told you often how proud she was” – no, not often. Not ever.
I remember, at age 10, lying in bed, thinking, and deciding that I didn’t have to compete with my father or agree with what my mother said.
And, just before she died, I was talking with my brother and we were both somewhat startled by how un-sad we were. Not happy, surely. But not sad. Not torn up with grief, not crying, not unable to concentrate. Not sad.
It is, to me, both disturbing and sad that I am not much more sad that I am. In a way, this continues to feed my anger at her, that she was not able to relate to me in such a way that her loss meant more to me; and that she raised me in an atmosphere that encouraged this lack of closeness. Nature or nurture, she was half of one and more than half of the other….It is hard not to blame my failings on her, especially when those failings relate to her.
But we must not think ill of the dead.
And we must love our mothers.
Mustn’t we?
Thanks for reading
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… and of course it belongs here!
I have many similiaries in my life to what you are saying. My mother also was the kind of person who never said “I love you.” She would “praise me behind my back,” but never to my face.
I found out later that was because of her desire that I wouldn’t get a “big head” about myself. Sadly, she failed in that endeavor and I suffer from getting a “big head” all the time! 🙂
And like you, my mother only gave me criticisms to my face, never praise.
Wasn’t till I was much older that I began to understand her real language. She expressed her feelings through actions, not words. She was not well educated (academically) and didn’t feel confident of her own words.
Every time she cooked a meal for me or did my laundry or paid attention to my studies, she was saying “I love you.” Took me a long time to realize that.
In her later years she changed, and became more emotionally expressive through language. By that time I was so used to her that I felt uncomfortable when she said “I love you,” made me worried something was wrong with her! 🙂
The notion of sitting shiva that I like the most is Biblical in nature and was shared with me by the rabbi who officiated at my mother’s funeral. He said God took seven days to create the world.
When a parent dies, it’s as though your world has been irrevocably changed. You must rebuild your world, and the seven days is used for that process.
It doesn’t matter how you feel about your parents, imho, for in many ways they are a safeguard against having to face your own mortality (and this is true even when a child dies before their parents do).
I think in the case of my mother, it was more important to teach me to survive than to tell me she loved me. I had many troubled times growing up with under that belief, and I don’t think it’s the best way to raise a child.
But I’m older now. I know she did in fact love me.
And from what you have shared about your mother, her actions bespeak love.
that my mother and I, now that she is gone, have conversations that I always dreamed we would have but didn’t. The dialog has become decidedly skewed to my direction, or has it? Do I perhaps now realize that she was bound by her experiences with her mother, or was she? Now maybe we communicate because I am not afraid of her answers the ones I give her, or do I?
…no answers, of course…I think ambiguity about those we love is very much part of the deal. My family is not without it’s “Ordinary People” component. I just figure that everyone is doing the best they can, mostly, even if it isn’t enough or even right in the end.
I don’t think we’re obligated to think well of the dead. Just to remember them truly, and never settle for the easy “true”…
This is a wonderful essay. And I appreciate your honesty in writing it.
I’m sure that what you’re feeling right now is exactly the right thing for you to feel. There are no correct feelings, and there’s no “supposed to” about them. When we have a loss like this, we feel whatever we feel.
When my mom died of breast cancer 3 years ago, I was furious at her for how dishonest she was with me, my brother and my dad about her illness. My anger seemed completely out of place. Especially because everyone else was saying the right things about her, how she was a great teacher, how smart she was, how she cared so much about me and my brother, how she loved us and on and on.
But in time, and it was a fairly long time, there was a shift for me. After time I realized that she did as well as she could. And that, I think, was all I could really expect.
May you too find peace.
with my parents deaths, one of them resembled yours with your mother, plf.
Another old saw for you, “It takes time” and I would add, reflection and communication, as I see here, to make a sort of sense, or even peace, with those relationships.
I remember, a few weeks after the difficult parent died, I was sort of giddy. The emotion shocked me until a friend said, “What you’re feeling is relief.”
No one ever told me relief could be part of the grieving process!
Gotta run, but thanks for putting this essay up here.
I don’t know what to say. I think rituals have such power, connecting people with people of the past and the future. All those who are grieving, have grieved or will grieve, come together in shared ritual. It is a mystery. These are the rocks for you to step on as you cross the river. What was it like for your mother when her mother died? And for your grandmother when your great-grandmother died? They left something for you, to help you.
stop talking till dawn.
Most excellent essay and I understand how hard it must have been to write so clearly. I also send you hugs.
My mother died, from cancer, 2 days before Thanksgiving.
I don’t know if this is good or bad or neither, but I grew up almost idenically like you. In every regards.
For a reason i will never understand, my non-compassionate mother had a turning point in the latter part of her life and turned into Super Mom.
A woman who I never felt clost to fought with everything she had to gain my trust and friendship. She did. She became my best friend and when she passed it was in my arms. I think about here everyday.
The mother daughter relationship is very complex.
My sister, for what ever reason, feels exactly like you.
I spent shiva on the west coast just me myself and I. My family on the east coast did not even bother.
As another lapsed reform Jew, married to a lapsed Catholic, let me praise shiva. In a short time–3-7 days, most of your acquaintances personally wish their condolances–and then it’s over. The subject doesn’t come up much after that, and that’s a gret thing–for you and your friends/family.
A Jewish friend once told me that Jews don’t know how to enjoy many things, but they do know how to bury people. You will accept your mom’s passing in time, on your terms. This forum has served you well–you’re ambivalence towards her is far from unique–and thus “normal.”
As an aside, some people never say they love–and do, while others gush false affection. You turned out OK, she didn’t screw up. Be more affectionate to your own family. When my uncle was dying, I forced my kids to tell them they loved him every time they visited –he so enjoyed to hear that. Now, my kids still remember this–18 years ago–and thank me. Although they thought this hokey, they’re happy those were the last words they spoke to him. It made his funeral much easier for them–and me. So remember–say “I love you” often–and/but, mean it!!
:/
Maybe so. Maybe not.
Your essay reminded me of my experiences with my parents, with my being a parent, and with losing my parents.
Both of my parents died in their late 60’s, within 9 months of each other. I did love them but there were many times over the years that I had felt deeply hurt by things they did or said-or things they left unsaid. Thinking back, I don’t remember either of them actually saying that they loved me. Yet, I came to realize they did. They showed it in several other non-verbal ways.
One thing I came to realize, when my own kids were teenagers and my relationship with them was strained (to say the least) at times-I realized that my parents had been the best parents that they were capable of being.
Their own parents had believed in the “children are to be seen, not heard” school of parenting. I remember my dad telling a story about how the teacher in his school had once used a rubber hose to beat children who broke the rules. They were shaped by their own childhood experiences.
While reflecting on my own parenting, and how difficult parenting is at times, I’ve thought: Wouldn’t it be nice if when a baby is born, the hospital would supply an “Owner’s Manual” before the new parents leave the hospital with the baby. 😉
BTW, IMHO, there is no “right” or “wrong” way to grieve or to feel about our parents. Each of us has a unique relationship that no one else can totally understand.
and it’s okay to speak ill of us but I advise doing so when we are dead…..the retaliation is easier on you 😉 Sometimes we mom’s miss stuff, sometimes we miss big stuff and we have our own issues we aren’t dealing with. We did fail you and I’m sorry that we are sort of handing you this to deal with on your own, it is bull….you’ve clearly identified it. We are so unsure of ourselves sometimes and that’s when we do unsmart things like make public criticism a parenting method and I’m sorry. Lack of self confidence on our part has the ability to attempt to undermine yours. And if I told you that I loved you to your face, my God….the next thing would loving my own face and sometimes we are so uncertain about that too. So we have passed this buck..to you. It isn’t fair but I’ve seen some people do amazing things with what isn’t fair sometimes and these acknowledgements and observations are probably providing you with zero reassurances or warm fuzzy feelings. Hmmmmm, my mother’s heart hurts. We bring you guys into this world, this sometimes very unhospitable world, and then we don’t know where to go from there sometimes when our hearts become paralyzed with fears. And under all these fears we love you more than anything and sometimes some of you will never know this because of all this fear in the way that keeps running you over.
We probably have had times when we’ve thought our personal experiences were absolutely unique and here I’m reading you and she and he and she have all had a version of this.
My Mom died this summer and I, too, was not “sad” (in quotes because there’s a lot that fits into that one word). At the funeral I was speaking about her, calmly, until one thought popped up in my head, a serious one about her youth, and suddenly I felt the pain she’d gone through and that no doubt colored the rest of her life….and I started bawling in front of everyone.
I guess if you look at anyone’s life there’s a reason for why that person acted as she did. Sometimes it’s easier, after the fact, to have empathy and understanding. Anyway, yes, when we all meet up we’ll have lots to talk about! This only scratches the surface.
but to the dead we owe only the truth.” – Voltaire.
And here’s the reason why: the lies have to end somewhere. In family life, in business life, in social life, we spend a good deal of time if not outright lying, at least skirting the truth.
Telling the truth about the dead is a part of the grieving and cleansing process, IMHO.