My Mother's Death

Earlier this month was the 20th anniversary of my mother’s death. I spent the day with my husband and kids, looking through old family photos, but I can’t stop thinking about her.

The hardest anniversary for me was the 13th. I was 13 when my mother died, so every day after that 13th anniversary meant I would be living longer without my mother than I had lived with her in my life. This 20th anniversary, however, feels more introspective than painful.

I cannot remember her funeral. There is a vague memory of being in a church. I wore a plain black dress that my sister took me to buy. At the calling hours, I remember standing with my family to receive a line of people that seemed to never end. I remember sneaking to an empty back room a few times because I just couldn’t take another hug.

I was devastated when my mother died, but I couldn’t admit it. I went back to school two days after she died because I couldn’t stand being at home. I needed the distraction.

I didn’t tell anyone how I was feeling. I quickly learned how to give people the answers that would make them stop asking questions. I didn’t tell anyone how I blamed myself.

It was a Monday afternoon when she had a heart attack. After, she insisted it was just an anxiety attack and didn’t want me or my brother call an ambulance. We called my dad at work instead. He said he would come home and take her to the hospital, just to be safe.

While we were waiting, she became more agitated, frantic. She suddenly wanted to drive herself, but she was shaking, terrified. I was afraid she would get in a car accident, so I took her car keys and we argued. Minutes later, my dad pulled up and she rushed out to meet him. That was the last time I saw her.

I was consumed with guilt but tried to hide it. Why hadn’t I insisted on calling an ambulance? Why had I spent my last moments with her arguing? For years, I became increasingly self-destructive, while outwardly putting on a show -- smiling and laughing, pretending to be like everyone else. I barely slept. I barely ate. I had damaging relationships and pulled away when anyone tried to get close.

Becoming a mother was my first step toward healing. I began to realize that I couldn’t be a strong mother if I kept tearing myself down. Yet it has been less than a decade since I truly began to heal.

My husband, Peter, has been an unfailing source of strength. Over the years, many others -- family, friends, boyfriends, teachers -- wanted to help, but I pushed them away. I wish I could tell them how I appreciate their efforts, but that I just hadn’t been ready yet. I’d like to apologize for pushing them away, for hurting them. I didn’t understand what I was doing. I was only trying to make it through each day.

Many wanted to help, but a few only pretended to care and took advantage the moment I let my guard down. It was partially my own fault. As Sartre might say, I, in bad faith, allowed it to happen. To those people, I have nothing to say, except that I am strong now and hope our paths never cross again.

Why am I posting these personal thoughts on a public blog? It feels like the right time. Perhaps my story can help someone else who is grieving.

I want anyone who has suffered the loss of a loved one to know that it is not strength to bury the pain. Strength is finding help, talking to a therapist, working through the grief.

To anyone who knows a child who has lost a parent or loved one, seek expert help. Children are prone to blaming themselves and often do not have the experience or maturity to cope with trauma alone.

I will always miss my mom. I am sad that I never had an adult relationship with her, that she never saw any of her children married and never met her grandchildren.

I still wish I had called an ambulance. I still wonder if it would have made a difference. But I now understand that I was only thirteen and I tried my best. I have also learned, from being a mother myself, that it didn’t matter that our last words were in anger. I know she loved me, just as I still love her.