It's been two months now since my mom died suddenly on New Year's Day -- and I'm still trying to absorb the fact that she's no longer here and I'll never see or speak to her again. :( (I think I'll still be trying at the end of MY life...)
A comment from Carmel in Australia on this recent post got me thinking... and I've been mulling it over ever since then...
We all know on some level, that we're going to lose our parents someday. It's something that most of us will (sadly) experience in our lifetimes. And when your parents start getting up there in age, you know that that day is coming sooner versus later.
But there's still nothing that quite prepares you for the reality and the suddenness of when it happens.
(Even when you're there WHEN it happens, as I was. One minute, I was conferring with my mom about dinner... less than five minutes later, she was on the floor. Gone. As I've said to many people since then, I fully expected to get a phone call about a fall down the stairs -- fatal or otherwise. I did NOT expect things to unfold the way they did, and I certainly did NOT expect to be there -- after all, I'm usually not! It totally sucked to be present and to see her like that -- but I am also so very glad that I was, for my dad's sake...)
And I've been wondering whether the loss of a parent/parents resonates just a little differently for those of us who are childless?
I consider myself pretty well-versed in the basics of grief and loss and how to cope with it while keeping your sanity reasonably well intact. I've been leaning heavily on the lessons I learned 27 years ago after the loss of our daughter (as well as my grandparents shortly after that, and other loved ones in the years since then), as well as mourning my childlessness, and the loss of any other children I had hoped to have. .
It's one thing to come to terms (on at least some level) with the knowledge that there will be no children or grandchildren, no descendants to pass along possessions and memories and stories and values to. No one to provide support to us in the same way that we've supported our aging parents.
It's one thing to realize there will be no further branches on my particular limb of the family tree to document and chronicle.
But it's quite another thing when the older generation directly above us -- the ones we've always looked to for support and guidance -- begins vanishing from "above" us, too -- and suddenly, WE become the "older generation."
In many ways (to the casual observer, anyway), my life went on the way it always had after the loss of our daughter, and the eventual realization that there would be no other children to follow. But the loss of my mom -- who has always been there my entire life -- changes things in some pretty big ways (as will the eventual loss of my dad).
Even though I've been living 1000 miles away from my parents for the past 40 years, I always knew they were THERE.I may not have seen them more than a couple of times during the year, but all I had to do to talk to them was pick up the phone.
Now Mom's not there (and never will be again). And some day (sooner than later), there will just be my (childfree by choice) sister and me, from my family of origin. And possibly someday, just me. The house that I thought of as "home" for the past 42 years (even though I only actually lived there with my parents for one year, before I was married) -- full of old, familiar things that have been part of my life for decades -- will likely be sold later this year, and the things divided up among my sister, my cousins and me, or sold or given away. My dad is planning to find somewhere else to live (something my mom fiercely resisted while she was alive) -- still locally, but something much smaller, in a more communal, seniors-friendly setting. There may not be room for us to stay there when we go to visit, which means we'll either have to stay in one of the local motels, or we'll have to gather at my sister's house in the city.
"Home" has been a recurring theme in my life -- the question of "where is home?" In a lifetime of moving around, "home" was where my parents were. I have a home with my husband now, of course, but I still say "I'm going home" when I'm heading west to visit my family. My mom had a similar strong attachment to "home." Even though the house she grew up in was torn down almost 30 years ago, and even though my grandparents have been gone for more than 25 years, and even though she hadn't lived in the town where she was born and raised since 1960, and even though the number of friends & relatives left there has dwindled in recent years, she still thought of her hometown as "home," and loved to go there. Her passport expired earlier this year, but at Christmastime, she was still talking about wanting to go "home" for a visit, and wondered whether her U.S. birth certificate would be enough to get her across the border (and back again using her Canadian citizenship card).
Mom's funeral reminded me of just how precious it is to be surrounded by people who share your memories and experiences... not just parents and children and siblings, but extended family members and friends too. And also of how many of those people aren't here any more either (or won't be much longer). After my grandfather died, whenever we'd have trouble coming up with a name or relationship or some other detail from the past, one of us would say sadly, "Grandpa would know...!" And of course, Grandpa was no longer around to consult. :( Likewise, I was trying to remember an incident from my childhood the other day, something I knew my mother would remember -- but I can't call her up and ask her any more.
When I did call home, I would talk briefly to my dad -- and then he'd hand the phone over to Mom, who would regale me with the latest news from her wide circle of friends and relatives. I miss that -- and I find myself feeling curiously cut off from those people I used to hear about through her (although of course there's nothing preventing me from calling them myself... I've just never been in the habit). I spoke with several of my cousins at the funeral -- some of whom I haven't seen in 20 years (and not all of them are on social media, either) -- and I've texted a few others since then, and we've been commenting that we all really need to keep in better touch. We've never really HAD to before, because we'd hear about each other through our parents.
Because I'm not the only one who's lost a parent in recent years, of course. In recent years, Mom lost one cousin after another, many friends, at least half of her school classmates (a tightly knit group who keep in close touch) and, two years ago, her younger brother and only sibling. After she died, various people offered to spread the word among the surviving cousins on both sides of her family -- and when I thought about who needed to be notified, I was struck by just how few of them were left. Of the 12 first cousins on Mom's mom's side (including Mom and her brother), only 5 remain, and most of them are in their 80s now. On Mom's dad's side, there were once 27 first cousins; now, there are just 7 remaining. The youngest is 75. (There were still a lot of phone calls to make, though...!)
(My dad has lost just one of his six siblings -- my oldest uncle, who was in his early 90s when he died a few years ago. Dad, at 86, is the "baby brother" of the family and has one younger sister in her late 70s. The other three siblings are all in their 90s now. My own first cousins range in age from mid-40s to late 60s.)
I mentioned that Mom's childhood best friend (and the matron of honour at her wedding) came all the way from South Dakota for the funeral. As we were chatting afterwards, she made a casual remark about "Grandma N" (Mom's maternal grandmother) -- and it hit me: of course this woman would have known my great-grandmother (who lived with my mom's family -- or rather, they lived with her, in her house! -- and died in 1951, when my mom was 10). And there are so few people left who do, and who could tell me about her, first-hand.
Later that evening, one of my own closest childhood friends (also one of my bridesmaids) stopped by to see us (en route home from ANOTHER funeral for one of her own extended family members!). Although it was 10 years since we last saw each other, and we aren't often in contact in other ways, we always just pick right up where we left off -- and we did. We know each other so very well, and there are so few other people who have known me for so long and so intimately that I'm still in touch with.
There are very few people here, where I live now, who know me and my family the same way these friends and relatives do. Dh's family will listen politely if/when I talk about my family, and my experiences and memories of growing up -- but I know these stories don't really interest them and don't resonate with them in the same way they would if those people and those memories were part of their story too (just as the stories and memories I share with them don't resonate in the same way when I talk to my parents and sister about them).
And of course, I have no children to bore with my stories! (But most parents still tell them anyway, right?)
And yet -- as I've mused in the past -- you never know just who will remember you, or how.
There were lots of lovely tributes to my mother on the funeral home website -- but I was surprised to find one on Mom's obituary on the city newspaper website, from the daughter of my cousin who passed away before Christmas. She wrote:
Aunty D. was an integral part of family events. Always there, busy with cleaning or putting more food out or getting in the thick of conversations happening around her. She always took the time to ask those deep questions and really wanted to understand what was going on in your life. I have fond memories of spending close time with her when I would babysit my cousin and she made me believe I can do great things with my life. I’ve also always wanted to learn how to play piano because of her. She will be remembered and cherished.
I've only ever met this young woman a handful of times, when she was a child, and I had NO IDEA she had interacted with my mother to that extent, or that Mom had had such an impact on her. (Mom could not play piano -- but she appreciated it when other people did!)
I can only hope that someday, some younger person will remember me in the same way.
You can find more of this week's #MicroblogMondays posts here.
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