I didn’t cry when Mom died. Sitting in the front row for the memorial service, I barely heard the service, the songs, and the eulogies. My husband sat next to me. He cried. My younger sister sat on the other side and sobbed. My older brother dabbed his eyes with a starched white hankie. Dad held his eyeglasses in his lap as tears smeared the lenses. But I didn’t cry. Not me. Big girls don’t cry.
My pregnant body ached as I stood at the church narthex after the service, accepting the hugs and condolences, steadfast, emotions buried deep and secure. Caught off guard for just one moment, my eyes stung at a comment from Mom’s sister. “You are certainly holding up well.” But the tears didn’t break through. The baby kicked awakening thoughts of the last few months.
Mom had been sick for months, spending weeks at a time in the hospital hours from Mom and Dad’s home, but close to me. It was a bittersweet period of mother daughter bonding, healing the somewhat paradoxical relationship of my teenage years.
I suspected I was pregnant about the time I learned my mom was going to die. The prospective baby had presented a quandary to me. While I wanted to celebrate my elation, there was an overwhelming despondency knowing that Mom might be gone. Should I tell her? I waited. Better to be sure.
Before I could share the news of my positive test results, Mom was moved to another hospital for heart tests. My fifteen-year-old sister was with Mom when the results came back. A well known heart specialist cold heartedly entered her room, breezed directly past my sister to mom’s bedside and bluntly said ‘Mrs. B, you are going to die.’” Just like that, no sympathy, no explanation, just a blunt, cold “you are going to die”.
I finally worked up courage to tell Mom about the baby. Death was forgotten as a shared moment of joy surrendered to silent white hospital walls. The subject was closed never again discussed. No talk and no tears.
Mom was sent home with the formidable prognosis, now confined to her own bed. Her room might as well have been a hospital room, the rented hospital table, and the big green tank of oxygen in the corner, the dozens of bottles of pills.
As Mom wasted away, I grew proportionately bigger. I hesitated the first time I wore a maternity dress around her feeling as though I was robbing her of something. She didn’t seem to notice.
And then one day the baby moved. As we made the two-hour trip to visit Mom the next weekend, I pondered about telling her the news. We were delayed and didn’t arrive at the house until almost midnight. Mom was waiting for us. She was so tired. I’ll tell her in the morning I thought, and kissed her goodnight.
Early in the morning with newfound excitement I bounced out of bed to share the news. Mom’s door was closed. Dad stood there but didn’t need to say a word. Still he uttered, “She’s gone.” He had been crying. My sister cried. My husband cried. I was stunned – I just couldn’t cry. The baby kicked.
Mom started collecting owls shortly before she died. I often wondered about that. Why owls” What was the significance – night? Screeching? Graveyards? Wisdom? Everyone brought her owls: stuffed owls, ceramic owls, silver owls, pewter owls, and wooden owls, owls on necklaces. My sister never finished the pottery owl she was making at school that fall. I took it home with me that weekend and placed it in the maternity bag for my Lamaze “focus object”.
Dad and my sister shared tears missing Mom’s presence throughout the ensuing holiday season. As Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Years passed, I maintained a stoic distance from my emotions.
February 2nd, Groundhog Day, my son was born. It was a difficult labor ending in a caesarian delivery. Exhausted by the ordeal, I thought of my mother and how she had been through this four times. I reached into my overnight bag and searched for the unfinished owl. The tears came, hot healing tears. A nurse came in to check on me. “Are you in pain? Can I get you something?”
“No,” I replied, “I have everything I need.”
Mom - Grandma - Me
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