I'm in the final week of my 30's, so you'll probably be hearing a lot from me this week. You see, as you may have already figured out, I'm fascinated by the prospect of turning 40. More so than I was to turn 16, 18, 21 or 30. I think it's because 40 is one of the only ages I remember Mom being. For the most part, I never really knew how old my Mom was throughout her life. We celebrated her birthday, but we never really talked about her age. She always looked really young for her age so it was never an issue, but I do remember her at 40.
This is my mother and my sister in 1989. My mother was 45. My mother aged very gracefully. She never made any apologies for who she was or how she lived her life. People respected my mother. People looked up to my mother. People were fascinated by my mother. Everyone one of her siblings all said my mother was their favorite. She was her father's favorite. She was the epitome of beauty and strength. I was always impressed by how she handled adversity. She looked it straight in the eye, dealt with it and moved on. She wasn't one to dwell on things. Even last year when she first told me she had cancer. I was the one with my heart in my throat and tears in my voice. When she called me this past summer to tell me her cancer had come back was the first time I heard her waver. It was the first time I heard fear in her voice and it terrified me. That was the last time I spoke with her. Well, that was the last two way conversation we had, as I talk to her every single day. I miss her so much. No one could have ever prepared me for what it would be like to lose my mother. The experience is life changing and mind blowing all at the same time. It's been two and a half months since she died. Though sometimes the entire experience seems a life time ago, sometimes I can't believe it really happened.I left home for the Army in 1988 and never looked back. I never moved back to Arizona. I never lived near my mother again. I went to South Carolina, Georgia, Germany, Saudia Arabia, Iraq, Kentucky, Illinois and then Maine. It's been 20 years since she bid me farewell outside the Army recruitment office. At home before we left, we cried so hard we couldn't breathe. She held me so tight as she sobbed on my shoulder. Telling me over and over, "Be strong." As I walked into the recuiter's office I heard her tell him, "You had better not let anything happen to my son or you will have me to deal with." She held his stare for a few moments and I actually saw him gulp in a brief moment of fear. My mother was FIERCELY protective of her kids until the day she died.
A lot of people grow up and become friends with their parents. I did that with my dad, but my mother and I never became friends. I didn't need her to be my friend, I needed her to be my mother. Though there were times I wish she was more of my buddy, but I didn't understand why that couldn't happen until one day when I saw Vanessa Williams on TV with her mother. As they talked about their relationship, it was like hearing another version of my life. You know, except for becoming Miss America, posing for Penthouse and ending up on Ugly Betty. They had a relationship almost identical to the one I had with my mother. Her mother Helen said it best when she said, ""I'm her mother. She has friends, and I'm friends with some of her peers," Helen says. "But first I'm a parent, and I hope that I'm also a friend. But that's not the most important thing to me. The most important thing to me is that I'm her mother." At that moment I got it. I finally understood my relationship with my mother.
Living so far apart made it impossible for my mother to be a part of my everyday life. Which made it impossible for her to look out for me or to really offer me guidance. She was stuck with having to offer support from afar. All this made it impossible for her to see how much I've grown up over the years. She never really got to see the man I matured into. For her, I would forever be that irresponsible 18 year old she bid farewell to back in 1988. And it made me fight tooth and nail to prove to her that I was not that kid anymore. And the more I tried to prove it to her, the more I ended up acting like that 18 year old kid. Luckily, we had found a nice common ground and peace within our relationship before she passed away. There were no regrets and there was nothing left unsaid.
As a man, you go through many rites of passage in life. The important ones for me were being an altar boy, going away to camp one summer--my first time away from home, switching high schools after my sophomore year, living away from my parents during my junior year, joining the Army, going off to war, moving to a big city by myself and moving to Maine; but none will ever compare to the rite of passage that was being by my mother's side when she took her last breath. It was the most profoundly beautiful thing I have ever been privileged to witness. It was the closest I ever felt to her in my entire life.
Lately, I've been filled with a sense of elation. I am very happy in my life right now. My friend Lance in Boston said, "Your mother must be working overtime for you from heaven." And I think he's right. She never knew how to be there for me when she was alive so maybe she's doing that for me now. I still think about her every single day. I dream about her almost every night. Last night was the first time in a long time that I cried for her. I was laying in bed listening to my iPod when "Sober" by Kelly Clarkson came on. When my mother was first diagnosed I saw this song from her point of view. Now that it's been almost three months since my mother passed, I saw it from my point of view.
She's really gone. I still cannot wrap my head around what that means. I actually intended to write about something else this morning, but I think my mother wanted me to write about her. So be it. Her wish is my command. Here are the lyrics to the song "Sober." First read them and think about it from my mother's point of view when she was first diagnosed in 2007. Then reread them from my point of view, three months after my mother died.
Sober
And I don't know
This could break my heart or save me
Nothing's real
Until you let go completely
So here I go with all my thoughts I've been saving
So here I go with all my fears weighing on me
Three months and I'm still sober
Picked all my weeds but kept the flowers
But I know it's never really over
And I don't know
I could crash and burn but maybe
At the end of this road I might catch a glimpse of me
So I won't worry about my timing, I want to get it right
No comparing, second guessing, no not this time
Three months and I'm still breathing
Been a long road since those hands I left my tears in but I know
It's never really over, no
Wake up
Three months and I'm still standing here
Three months and I'm getting better yeah
Three months and I still am
Three months and it's still harder now
Three months I've been living here without you now
Three months yeah, three months
Three months and I'm still breathing
Three months and I still remember it
Three months and I wake up
Three months and I'm still sober
Picked all my weeds but kept the flowers
And as always, thank you for reading. May your life be filled with love and light. Thank you for what each and every one of you bring to my life. I'm a lucky man. Gloria Jean would be proud.
