My mother died. The most important, essential and primal
person in my life has died. She is not
coming back, and this private silent grief is not something that can be
understood unless you, too, are part of the Adult Orphan Club. Don’t ask me how I am: I’m horrible, and it is ridiculous to expect
a different answer. Many of you have not
said anything, acted as if nothing happened, handled it badly, or acted as if I
should be better now. Let me let you in
on my truth: I will never be better and
I am shaky all the time.
So if you don’t know what to say,
don’t say anything: instead hug me when
you see me. Whisper “I am so
sorry” in my ear. Grasp my hand, leave
cookies on my porch, send me flowers, a card, or a text checking in. Come over
and help me paint new color on my walls, mulch the garden, sit quietly with me
over tea, and most importantly, let me cry if I suddenly need to. Don’t try to comfort me. You can’t.
If I talk about her, listen. Ask
about her occasionally, but don’t be upset if I have tears running down my face
as I tell you. Mostly, understand when I don’t want to talk, or be around
people, even you, at least for now.
In short, there are a lot of ways
to tell me that you love me, without having to uncomfortably address my
mother’s death. Say it any way you know
how. Trust me, I can hear you. I will be
listening. But don’t do nothing.
And when I get to where I can
emerge, be patient with me. On the day I get married, tell me she would be
proud. When I publish my first book,
know that I will set one aside for her, even though it will never be read. Maybe one day I will have a whole shelf of
books that she will never read, yet there they will be. Daffodils and narcissus will bloom every year
and every year I will tell you they are her favorites, and the story of the
terra cotta pots. Nod as if you have
never heard me say that before. I will
show you the picture of her on her trike when she was four. Admire it as if you have never seen it
before. Tell me she was beautiful.
Because she was.
That was beatiful.
ReplyDeleteHer beauty lives on, in your words and your smile and your stories. Thank you so much for sharing your precious mother with us!
ReplyDeleteAs a fellow Adult Orphan just this past December, this is EXACTLY perfect. Thank you
ReplyDeleteyou are so welcome, and I am so very sorry that you are a part of this awful club
DeleteSame back to you. Here's to finding a new normal
DeleteMuch love & blessings to you,
Laura H
We all become members of the Club sooner or later.
ReplyDeleteMy goal was to get my book out before my father passed. My mother was already gone. I succeeded, sort of. I got a galley proof into his hands; he was no longer able to read and remember, but he was able to hold it. It's on a shelf of its own now.
Nothing can make it easier -- not knowing it's imminent, not knowing you've done all that you possibly could, not anything. To this very day (it will be three years come February) I still think of questions about family, and reach for the phone to call Dad and ask him -- and he's been unable to answer those for 5 years and on.
It doesn't get "all better", but it improves. Whether time heals the wound, or just shrouds and swaddles the memory, it improves nevertheless.
I AM so sorry.
This is what I needed to read thank you for articulating what I was unable to. I too am a member of the adult orphan club 8 years this coming Monday, Daffodils were my Moms favorites too. She's in many of my dreams and I still long to hold her hand. I would like to add to your list: Please tell me you remember her, you miss her and I remind you of her. There is a Mom size hole in my universe that will never be filled...
ReplyDelete