Seasons come and go. The sun rises and sets. We celebrate beginnings, endings and all things in between. This weekend, we celebrate mothers.
Even though I am a mother myself, the day is clouded by the fact that I am a Mother's Day orphan. The day, while a celebration, also becomes a time tinged with sadness.
Other orphans may understand. It doesn't matter if you are five or 55, Mother's Day without a mother creates an emptiness - a renewed awareness of a vacancy where something real used to flourish.
This void is a reminder of your grief, which never quite runs its course. While the pain loses its cutting, dagger-like edge over time, it doesn't dissipate completely. A dull pain is pain nonetheless. Some days the vacancy is bigger and more defined than others. Mother's Day can be one of those days.
It's been five years for me. Hard to imagine five years have gone by. Seems like a long time. I guess it is. For me, the grief has diminished, but remains something I understand no more than I did the day she died. I still hate it. I still avoid it. And that can mean dodging memories. On Mother's Day that's hard to accomplish.
My mom fought dementia, which makes my dodging memories ironic, I guess. The disease transforms a person from what they once were to what the disease decides they will be. I suppose the same can be said for cancer or heart disease or any other of a number of ugly words that spell out the futures for the people they label.
Others who have been through the grief process will tell you it gets better. Eventually you will remember the good times. It's been five years and that still can be difficult. Sometimes a happy memory of her enters my consciousness for a moment before floating just beyond my grasp as though behind a curtain. Her last days, when the disease had fully taken hold, still seem closer and more vivid than the more carefree times of longer ago.
We all know life isn't always unicorns and lollipops. Grief is never invited to the party; he just shows up. He is also an equal opportunist. We all suffer through losses and - most of the time - somehow manage to move forward. After five years you'd think I'd be over it. Many would tell me to buck it up and get on with it already. I tell myself that, too. But grief isn't keen on listening or following directions.
Maybe we wouldn't want him to. Think about it this way: you are never done mourning someone because you are never done loving them. In that sense, grief is a privilege. It means you had the opportunity to love. And loving others is a gift.
This weekend, I will appreciate four of these gifts in particular - they are the people who call me mom. If this year is like those prior, I will unfold handmade cards carrying handwritten sentiments and I will tell each of my children - truly - they are the best things a mom could ever hope for or imagine.
This Sunday we celebrate mothers. For some of us, the day may feel cloudy, but (hopefully) not completely overcast. Sunshine can and will break through, even if not until late in the day. And if we are lucky, a warm breeze will blow on our backs, pushing us forward and reminding us of hugs past, present and future from the moms we have loved - then, now and someday.
- Jill Pertler's column appears every Thursday in the Times. She can be reached at pertmn@qwest.net.
Even though I am a mother myself, the day is clouded by the fact that I am a Mother's Day orphan. The day, while a celebration, also becomes a time tinged with sadness.
Other orphans may understand. It doesn't matter if you are five or 55, Mother's Day without a mother creates an emptiness - a renewed awareness of a vacancy where something real used to flourish.
This void is a reminder of your grief, which never quite runs its course. While the pain loses its cutting, dagger-like edge over time, it doesn't dissipate completely. A dull pain is pain nonetheless. Some days the vacancy is bigger and more defined than others. Mother's Day can be one of those days.
It's been five years for me. Hard to imagine five years have gone by. Seems like a long time. I guess it is. For me, the grief has diminished, but remains something I understand no more than I did the day she died. I still hate it. I still avoid it. And that can mean dodging memories. On Mother's Day that's hard to accomplish.
My mom fought dementia, which makes my dodging memories ironic, I guess. The disease transforms a person from what they once were to what the disease decides they will be. I suppose the same can be said for cancer or heart disease or any other of a number of ugly words that spell out the futures for the people they label.
Others who have been through the grief process will tell you it gets better. Eventually you will remember the good times. It's been five years and that still can be difficult. Sometimes a happy memory of her enters my consciousness for a moment before floating just beyond my grasp as though behind a curtain. Her last days, when the disease had fully taken hold, still seem closer and more vivid than the more carefree times of longer ago.
We all know life isn't always unicorns and lollipops. Grief is never invited to the party; he just shows up. He is also an equal opportunist. We all suffer through losses and - most of the time - somehow manage to move forward. After five years you'd think I'd be over it. Many would tell me to buck it up and get on with it already. I tell myself that, too. But grief isn't keen on listening or following directions.
Maybe we wouldn't want him to. Think about it this way: you are never done mourning someone because you are never done loving them. In that sense, grief is a privilege. It means you had the opportunity to love. And loving others is a gift.
This weekend, I will appreciate four of these gifts in particular - they are the people who call me mom. If this year is like those prior, I will unfold handmade cards carrying handwritten sentiments and I will tell each of my children - truly - they are the best things a mom could ever hope for or imagine.
This Sunday we celebrate mothers. For some of us, the day may feel cloudy, but (hopefully) not completely overcast. Sunshine can and will break through, even if not until late in the day. And if we are lucky, a warm breeze will blow on our backs, pushing us forward and reminding us of hugs past, present and future from the moms we have loved - then, now and someday.
- Jill Pertler's column appears every Thursday in the Times. She can be reached at pertmn@qwest.net.
