Mother’s day is a little less than a week away now. I complain about it every year because, well, I don’t have a mom. She was taken from me. It makes me sad every time I think about it, even though it will have been ten years this June. I don’t think it’ll ever get easier; I think it’ll only continue to be more and more bearable.
And that’s okay. Loss is supposed to be difficult, and losing someone as important as your mother is an important event. It’s not something that one should be able to just shrug off.
I was 17 when she died of colon cancer. I was resentful of God or fate or life for taking her from me. I knew I was being cheated out of knowing my mom as a friend, and not just a parent. We’d just bridged that gap a year or two prior to her dying, and I would have liked to have found a little bit more of who I was, within her.
More importantly, though, I wanted closure on a few things. But before we discuss that, let’s start from the beginning, shall we?
My mom was born on June 26th, 1962 in a tiny coastal town called Bandon, in Oregon. She was the youngest of five children: two brothers (Mitch and Howard) and two sisters (Jeanine and Misty), and lived on Two Mile Road. Up and down the mountain, people poached deer and kept moonshine; hardy rural stock that lived life hard and raised roughneck kids.
My mom eventually met my father in the little town of Lebanon, Oregon, and eventually married in 1979. My brother, Nathan, was born first in 1980. They didn’t waste any time.
I was the apparent accident that occurred in 1982. Some what unexpected and some what unwanted. When news of my coming was finally accepted, it was hoped that I’d be born a girl. Alas, I made my first in a long string of disappointments: I appeared, reluctantly, from my mother’s womb one dark weather morning. A boy. Andrew.
My parents divorced in 1991, when I was 9 years old. My mother had had several affairs during her marriage to my father, and as much as I have loved her, it is not something I can forgive. The reason is simple: when a person makes a choice like that, regardless of the circumstance, the only person they are thinking of is themselves.
As such, my mom was not thinking of her husband, her two children, or the life that she lived with us. Her focus was only on her own happiness, and not on the happiness of the family that she was in the process of destroying.
I’ve heard married woman, with children, excuse and justify their actions and the ways that it was okay that they were unfaithful. I’ve never bought their arguments, and I never will.
As a result, I’ve lived with the anger that my mother’s actions created. I am still angry at her. I still resent that I had to leave my home, my friends, my school, and everything that I knew. I still resent that I was homeless and living in a tent for several months before going to live with an abusive uncle that used to beat me and my brother when he got drunk.
Did things eventually work out? Mostly. My step-father, Mike, was (and is) a fantastic role model and I love him dearly. He taught me a great many things, and aside from a few bumps along the way, we got along great.
And except for the times that he lived in California, I got to see my real father just about whenever I wanted. I love my dad; he’s always been my best friend. Still is. I wouldn’t trade him for anything in the world.
But… as I said, I’m still angry for what happened. There are many things that my mother did that I don’t agree with, and sadly, I will never find closure with her. She’s gone. She’s never coming back.
So, what am I trying to say? There’s a valuable lesson here, you just have to look hard to find it.
On June 4th, 1999, my mom was 22 days short of turning 37. It was a Friday. I’d come home from school, packed my bag, and walked in to her room to say goodbye. I was going to stay at my dad’s for the weekend, but I knew that this wasn’t just a “See you in a few days” type of goodbye. This was it. Her kidneys had failed. She had the death rattle. She was barely hanging on to life, and not because she wanted to; but because she felt like she had to.
“Hi mom.” I said.
She wasn’t conscious. She couldn’t speak. Beneath the drugs, I doubt she could hear me. And with all the pain that she was in, I kind of hope she couldn’t.
“I just want you to know,” I said, and by then, I was choking on my words, “I’m heading to my dad’s. But if you want to go, it’s okay. We’ll all be okay. I’ll miss you. I love you.”
I held her hand for a few minutes, hoping for just a moment that she might come to. I wanted a spark of recollection from her. Anything. I didn’t want only a one way conversation to be my last memory of her.
She never moved. She didn’t budge. Her eyebrows curled, as if she was trying to wake, but her eyes never fluttered.
I kissed her forehead and said, “I love you, mom.”
By then, I was crying. I walked out of the room, and never saw her alive again.
You never know when you’re saying your last words to someone. They could walk out the door and get hit by a bus, or you could too. Isn’t it better to leave nothing in reserve? Isn’t it better to leave nothing to chance? Why hold back on something that should be dealt with now? Tomorrow doesn’t always come. Not for everyone.
I am left here to deal with my unanswered questions, and to deal with the things I never said to her before she passed away. I am haunted by them, and I always will be. For better or for worse, this is simply the best it will ever be.
Mother’s day is coming. When was the last time you were truly honest with your mother? Your father? Your siblings? Cousins? Co-workers?
Do yourself a favor and remember that the only guaranteed time any of us has is right now. And it’s quickly slipping away.