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I had the dream, again. It all seemed so real. It always does. Everything in its place. I never know how I end up there or the reason behind it. She talks out loud, but... I don’t really hear what she’s saying. She moves about, unaware that I’m just passing through. She can’t see me or hear me. I study the rooms, the detail. I study her. So many memories - some good, some bad. As I look around... I know I’m home. Everything is familar. I've seen this before.
When we’re young, we want so much to get out ... to break free. It was no different for me. I moved to the city because it seemed like an escape. I moved here to Southern California when the city didn’t seem far enough. It wasn’t her that I was running from, but this idea that ... if I stayed, I’d never be able to leave. I felt trapped. What’s so bad about staying? What’s wrong with the warm embrace of family? Is there drama? Of course, but life is not without it - here, there... anywhere. Why are we in such a rush, then? Why are we so desperate to get away?
My mom died of cancer about four years ago. She spent her final days in hospice. My sister and I were both there. One minute she was lucid and the next... her mind just started to go mid-conversation. I was a workaholic back then. It kept me in the office late most nights and... even some weekends, destroying a few relationships along the way. My job was everything to me - so much so that I left her side and flew back to California - to the job that I thought couldn’t wait. She died a few days later. I had so much to learn.
Her death was a huge wake-up call. I realized that work had taken its toll, so I stepped aside. I don’t work myself into the ground anymore. I realized that I could have been a better boyfriend in those relationships - a better man, so I try harder now to show I care. I realized that ... as much as we try to break those bonds and step out on our own - to declare our independence ... the only thing we’re running from is ourselves.
What’s the first thing we think of in times of trouble? We think of family. We think of the laughter around the dinner table... the sights, the sounds, the smells. We think of that... unconditional love. We think of our childhood. We think of home.
I wrote the following the night she died. I tried to read it at her wake, but I was unable to get past "as for the cancer." I had to hand it over to my uncle to read. I read it back every year around this time, though. It's important to remember. Well... I think it is.
It was a silly moment a couple weeks back where I was trying to make her laugh. I went in for a hug. She smiled and said... "you're good for the soul." Not quite, no. I'm good for a joke. My mom... she nourished the soul.
Like many of us, she was the walking wounded - burned and scorned and seemingly blind to her own imperfections. She wanted to be noticed. She wanted to be heard. She wanted to be appreciated. Well... she was a Leo.
In the days before her death, we spoke of her being a "great lady" and a "strong woman." She was, but she was so much more than that. She was a devoted mother - always there for us. She was proud and loyal and had a wonderful sense of humor. She always got the joke. She had a strong work ethic, as well - even as she hobbled to and from the office.
She left an indelible mark on my life - on all our lives.
She introduced me to broadway, opera and well, music that most little boys my age knew nothing about. She loved musicals, sad songs and ... her kids. Her soul was filled with music. She sang when she cooked. She sang when she read the paper. She sang when alone or surrounded by company. It didn't matter who was there or not there; it was a compulsion.
I started writing poetry (bad poetry, mind you) at 15. She encouraged me constantly. She was full of praise at every turn. She'd show my poems and stories to friends, neighbors, and hair stylist's. She was always my biggest fan and I hers. I'm 36 now and, well... I still write a few poems and stories - though hopefully not as bad. It's because of her that I persist. It's because of her that I have the confidence to do so.
As for the cancer and... death itself, I repeatedly told her that death is a natural part of life. I talked about it ad nauseum - so much so that ... I'm sure it reinforced whatever opinions others had of me being cold and distant. I think, though, that I was just trying to prepare her for something she was not ready to deal with. I didn't want her to be scared.
In any event, I wish she'd been there to see my reaction that night when I got the word that she had died. Within seconds, I broke down and was completely useless from then on. "Your mother has passed." I will never forgot those words. I realized, in an instant, that I was wrong. Death was not just a natural part of life; it was also the end of life.
Turns out that... I wasn't prepared for the finality of it all.
I'm reminded of a favorite quote...
"To laugh often and much, to win the respect of intelligent
people and the affection of children, to endure the appreciation
of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends, to
appreciate beauty, to find the best in others, to leave the world
a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch ... to know
even one life has breathed easier because you have lived.This is to have succeeded!"
And succeed she did - in being noticed, in being heard and in touching so many lives. We all appreciated her - every one of us; I hope she knew that.
It's been said that music is good for the soul. Well... I think she was medicine enough. We were her audience and she was the song - at times a symphony, but often a lullaby. Somewhere, right this minute, I know she's singing.
Sing us out to commercial, Mom, and... rest. The credits (yours) are rolling.
Buddha
Reader Comments (6)
You're right. It's always good to remember.
your mom seemed like a beautiful woman, a nurturer of souls. She nurtured a beautiful soul within you Buddha.
hardest one to go through besides a spouse id say... It's good that you honor your mother by posting about her and remembering her. :)
What a beautiful reflection of how precious your mother meant to you. You never fail to amaze, Buddha.
I lost my mother (and father) at the age of 13. I will never be the same.
What still strikes me to this day is the innate beauty of death... the fact that even as one dies, others continue to live. Yes, there may be a finality to death and yet life continues regardless of who does not.
I hope you embrace the grief your loss brings... because it too is part of a gift your mother gave you. Tehre isn't shame in it unless you let that be the only gift that reminds of your mother.
Thanks for the post.
@Mon-Mon Sorry to hear about your Mom and Dad. You're right; life does continue. Does anyone really die, though? It's cheesy, but... each time I think back to something she said or did... a part of her lives on. That's a good thing. Thanks.