So it’s been about a month and a half since my mother died. I want to say “it’s been tough” and on some level it has, but it’s also been easier than I imagined it would be. I feel guilty even typing that. But the truth is that because I wasn’t a caretaker for my mother, my life hasn’t drastically changed. I wake up, I get ready for work, I kiss my wife, I go to work, I come home, I take care of one of a dozen projects I’m working on or I see friends, and I go to sleep to do it all over again.
That being said, when I spend time with my family, it’s hard. The things that trigger me are often unpredictable. Last weekend, my aunt threw me a wedding shower in the Boston area. It was my dad’s side of the family, so reminders of my mom were more minimal. My wife, Carolyn, who plays the banjo and sings, was asked to play a few songs. One of them she did was a cover of the Book of Love. And we got to the last verse, which is about marriage and the line came up – “And things we’re all too young to know” – and the tears suddenly came flooding up. I was singing along and I had to fight to finish the song.
I can’t even properly explain why. I just hit 30 this year, and it became very clear to me how far I’ve come and how far I still have to go. The idea that my mother was only about twice my age when she died was hard too. I wonder what she knew that I don’t. What she had learned but wasn’t able to pass on to me. And I’m going to miss her on my wedding day. We didn’t have the best relationship. We barely had much of a relationship at all. But I think the idea that I’m never going to get to fix that, that we’re never going to be close, and that I’m going to get married without her near, really hurts.
During the shower, I suggested to my dad that he and I wear calla lilies in our lapels for the wedding (because my mother’s name was Lily) and he got very quiet and said, “Whatever you want.” And he’s usually a guy who has something to say about everything. Getting quiet isn’t really something my dad does. A few days later, when we were talking about it, Carolyn said she believed that my dad is still really struggling with it. She’s a lot more empathetic than I am, so it worries me. I’m like my dad – we squelch down the pain we’re feeling and we get on with business. We don’t deal well with it. And I want him to be okay, but I have no idea how to help with that process. It probably just comes down to time, which is probably the last thing anyone wants to hear.
I finally was able to cry about it again when I looked at the lilies and carnations from her funeral, pressed in a sketchbook for six weeks. I took the floral arrangements home after the funeral, treated them very delicately, and pressed them in a sketchbook I bought at the local art supply store. It was an attempt to hold onto her, to hold onto that moment of family togetherness, to ease that pain through preservation, through memory.
It utterly failed. The flowers had lost their color entirely, and one lily had even gone moldy. One or two of the flowers were preserved, but as an artistic exercise, it was an abject failure. And that hurt. It felt like she was dead and gone and even the tiniest artifacts lovingly preserved, were going to rot and disintegrate as well. That really hurt, and I just lost it. My wife was there for me, thank god. I don’t know where I’d be without her. She keeps me going, and on the days when I can’t get out of the past, her mere presence reminds me that I have a future, and a beautiful one.
I’m still struggling, even when, on most days, I’m fine. It goes back and forth.
I’m okay. I’m okay. I’m okay.
like an open book 