Remembering my mom...
September 3, 2006 at 9:44 It’s been 14 years since my mom died. For a long time, she and my Dad rode parallel rails of declining health, breaking my heart bit by bit. My Dad died Fourth of July weekend, 1992. My mom died on Labor Day weekend, two months later.
My mom was Italian, the first member of her family to be born in the U.S. I was the youngest of her six children, born when she was 40. When I was in second grade, my grandmother came to live with us in our tiny Cape Cod in New York. My grandmother lost her legs to diabetes and was bedridden—and my mom cared for her as well as for all of us. As I sometimes feel stressed by my much less demanding domestic life, I wonder how my mom did it all. Like any good Italian, she was warm-hearted and affectionate and never skimped on sharing her love or her cooking, but lord, she worked so hard.
She cooked all our meals in a kitchen that had about two linear feet of counter space, she washed our clothes, carried baskets of wet heavy laundry up the narrow basement stairs, hung them on a clothes line to dry, and then ironed everything we wore. She made sure my grandmother had a daily sponge bath, brought her meals on a tray, and emptied and cleaned the bedpans. She scrubbed the kitchen floor on her hands and knees, kept the curtains clean, and hated the spiders that crapped on her windowsills. My mom was part of that generation of women who judged their worth by the cleanliness of their homes, and she cleaned with a vengeance. Our house was always spotless.
When I was in 6th grade, we moved from New York to rural Virginia. I don’t think my mom ever forgave my dad for transplanting her to the South. Her sister bought her a plaque that said “Bloom where you are planted” but the move completely rattled my mom. It was too much change for her. She was isolated both geographically and culturally and for years wished she’d never left New York.
In hindsight, I think the move may have triggered episodes of depression. She was always loving and warm but she often seemed sad to me, clinging to her domestic routines as if they were a life preserver that would keep her afloat in dark seas. It became harder and harder to get her out of the house, she seemed anxious . She didn’t really socialize, though she loved to have people visit her and was thrilled to cook for a crowd. Every day, my oldest brother’s kids would get off the bus at Grandma’s and have an afternoon snack there, a daily routine she cherished and looked forward to.
When I went away to college, she wrote me several letters a week. I loved letters from home and thought her efforts were fully for my benefit. It wasn’t until years later that I realized how much she must have missed me, how hard it must have been on her to have her last child leave the house. Once I was gone, it was just her and my dad, and it seemed to me all the disappointments they had in each other bubbled closer to the surface.
I was in college and getting ready to get married and move to Oklahoma when my sister died of cancer in 1982. In 1983, my father had a stroke that left him with permanent brain damage, and in 1984 my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer that had spread throughout her lymph system. Yeah, it was every bit as bad as it sounds. In the 80s, my mother’s world got smaller and darker, though in her characteristic style, she soldiered through it with a lot of prayers and grace. Unfortunately, I was living a 1000 miles away and more than a little desperate to return to Virginia.
I finally moved back to the state in 1990 and visited my parents one weekend a month, a routine that meant so much to me. The good times didn't last, however. My parents were involved in a car accident in 1991, and my mother was seriously injured, transported to a major hospital an hour away to be treated by trauma doctors. She and my dad recovered from their injuries only to have their fragile health and independence stripped from them in the aftermath. It was horrible. The marriage, which was tenuous at best, fully disintegrated in that final year and a half.
While my dad grew increasingly frustrated by his poor health and limitations, my mom was remarkably patient and serene in the face of her suffering. Her vision had been permanently damaged in the car accident, her femur broken, her body and internal organs torn and bruised--yet she never lost her trademark thoughtfulness and warm personality, even when the cancer moved to her bones, causing constant pain. She had her hip replaced to remove cancerous bone and keep her mobile as long as possible, but we all knew what was coming.
Mom died in my sister’s home on September 6, 1992 with my oldest brother nearby saying the rosary. She was 70. We buried her next to my dad; the dirt on his grave was still fresh, the headstone not yet set.
In October, I helped my brothers clear out my parents’ house and settle the estate. All the pain I’d suppressed to cope with their suffering and their needs those last years had to be confronted now that they were gone. I cried every day for six months. When we visited my older brother on the farm, I averted my eyes when we passed my parents’ house. My dad had built the house with his own hands, and I didn’t want to acknowledge it was now home to someone else. It was more than 10 years before I could bear to display photographs of my parents in my home. It was just too painful.
What I learned as I navigated the grieving process was how hard it is to come to terms with the memories I had of my parents. There was a desire to remember only the things I loved about them and our family life, and yet idealizing it all seemed the worst betrayal. It was hard to find some objectivity, to allow myself to remember how their marriage had faltered and yet not be concerned with assigning blame; to think of all they’d gone through and what I had and hadn’t done without nurturing regret. It was a process of finding acceptance as well as truth. I not only mourned them but how their lives could have been better.
Now my parents rest comfortably in my memory though I still miss them, especially my mom. How I wish I had her around to help me navigate parenting and middle age. Above all, I wish my children had had an opportunity to know my parents. All that I have to offer them are my memories, old letters and photos, and the lessons my parents taught me about hard work, sacrifice, faith and family. In the end, that has to be enough.
September 3, 2006
Reader Comments (17)
Your mother's health problems, and the fortitude with which she did bear with them is astounding.
There is a true, and hauntingly poignant beauty to the words that you wrote here.
What do you think has become of the young and the old men?/
And what do you think has become of the women and children?/
They are alive and well somewhere,
The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,
And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,/
And ceas'd the moment life appear'd.
All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,
And to die is different from what anyone supposed, and luckier./
:)
Your post may be the most important thing I will read all day. Thank you for this.
But of course, I also have the best memories of her making me tea in the afternoons after school, and how I loved to dig through her cabinet full of tea boxes to find something I hadn't tried. I have my own tea cabinet now, and my kids are tea drinkers too.
I remember her not letting you guys clean her kitchen because you always put things back in the wrong places and she hated having to search for things. Every major holiday was the same: the sisters trying to convince her to go sit in the living room and enjoy the company, and her steadfast refusal to abandon her kitchen to the chaos she knew would take over. Again, I can relate. My kitchen is MY KITCHEN!
And Grandpa... he never really said much, especially when it got difficult after the stroke. I do remember always trying to get on his team for Trivial Pursuit, because even if he didn't say much, he knew A LOT. He read more than any person I've ever known.
He also wrote the most beautiful poem for Grandma on their anniversary in 1988, which he had me transcribe in calligraphy for her. I still have the original copy, painstakingly scratched out in his unsteady hand. It was addressed: To La Piu Bella--Ittem Bittem Dittem Dottem Wottem Duckum; it was signed, All my love, Your favorite chauvanist. In between was a lifetime of memories that made me hope to be as lucky. It saddened me that they became so isolated from each other in their illnesses.
Thank you again for writing about them. I wish my children could have known them too. I like the comment above about the children knowing them through us. That helps, don't you think?
What you wrote about not idealizing your parents, I know exactly what you mean. When I began looking at my mother's life with an honest eye and realized what was lacking that's when I knew I was really going through the grieving process.
I hope this anniversary gave you time to reflect and remeber some wonderful things.
I find it difficult sometimes to think about my parents not being here,
I remember when my dad told us that Grandma was diagnosed with cancer. We weren't to talk about it around Grandpa because they hadn't told him yet. I remember her faithful adherence to the macrobiotic diet that would slow the cancer, and the light-hearted way she would complain about the mountains of rice and exotic vegetables she had to eat each day. As a kid, it sticks in your mind when you learn that someone (who is not a manatee) has to eat seaweed on a regular basis! I remember Dad convincing her to "cheat" on her diet at Thanksgiving, when she would "sneak" a sliver of pumpkin pie or mincemeat or the like.
I remember her New York accent her and my dad hanging out talking around the kitchen table (Dad sitting, Grandma cooking, washing dishes or sweeping). I remember the various placemats on that table, particularly one with an Irish blessing that began, "May the wind be always at your back." (I never understood that blessing-- why would you want the wind at your back where it would blow your hair forward, into your face?) I remember the bumpy frosted glass she kept on the window sill above the kitchen sink for drinking water. Like Granola-grrrl, I too remember the tea cabinet and my first cup of tea. Earl Grey, I believe, with a ridiculous amount of milk. :)
I remember the day of the car accident. Mom picked me up after school and told us the news. We sat together in the living room and prayed a rosary as soon as we got home. It is one of the few occasions we prayed that prayer together as a family, in our home. The rosary was a staple for Grandma and she was never without one by her bed (that I know of).
Grandma was indeed a soldier in the face of her difficulties. I remember visiting her in her bedroom after school a few times. I would tell her about school-- she never talked about herself, but would inquire about my activities with interest. Remembering this, I am awed by her ability to reach beyond herself and ask about MY life in the midst of the physical and emotional pain she must have been experiencing. I had appendicitis once and I couldn't think of anything but how miserable I felt! Let's not even talk about being in labor...
On one such visit to her bedroom, she asked me to help her to the bathroom and I felt panicky and embarrassed. Such an intimate thing! Shouldn't you be trained in helping people to the bathroom before you just DIVE IN and do it? But she was accustomed to the lack of privacy inherent in her dependence and didn't think twice about asking someone so inexperienced. She had to pee. I was there. I was stronger than she was. I could help. So I did, as discreetly as I knew how.
I remember Dad renting a Cadillac for the long drive to my aunt's house, where she spent her final days, so she would be as comfortable as possible. He was so involved in her care, such the Eldest Son. I remember thinking that it was a blessing for him to have been at her side when she passed.
I love what you & Granola grrl have shared, and I realize I have let myself get drawn deep into my memory. And since I don't want to leave until I've remembered everything, in words, to my satsfaction, I will carry this to my own blog to bring it to completion. Thanks, V, for giving me the opportunity, and for sharing your memories.