Remembering Mom on Mother's Day

Losing Mom and Remembering Her on Mother's Day

It is always hard to lose someone you love.  Each Mother's Day I think about my mother even though she is no longer with us.  I lost my very best friend on earth, my Mom, rather suddenly.  Mom found out she had stage IV cancer in Mid April 2000 and the doctors gave her 45 days to live. Always so healthy, vibrant, beautiful, my Mom was going to be taken from us.  This was very hard on those of us who adored her, and especially me.

Mom and I shared such a wonderful special relationship. We talked on the phone every day more than once. We spent time together as often as we could.  Mom, Dad, Bill and I went on seven cruises, four or five trips to Europe, and various other little vacations together since I married Bill and many camping trips when the kids were little.  I was so proud of her ever since I could remember. She was so pretty and so sweet. 

I know I was a great daughter to her and I am very proud of that.  I think that is why it was so hard to lose her. She couldn't possibly have a daughter who loved her more than I did and I showed her that every day, not just on Mother's Day. 

For those of you who have or had that kind of relationship with your mothers, you would understand the emotions in my letter to her.  I still cry when I read it because time has not healed my heart.  I don't think it ever will. 

Not a day goes by now that I don't think about how she would have loved my shoppe. She would have had Dad accompany her on BART to come to the shoppe often because she went to every arts and crafts show that I participated in over the years. She loved talking to people and helping sell whatever it was that I made back in the day.

Mom died on June 6, 2000, three months shy of her 74th birthday, while her kids and husband were at her bedside. We never wanted mom to be away from us in a hospital so we had a hospital bed in the living room at her place in order that we could be with her.  She died at home.  I miss her every single day of my life.

This is the last letter I wrote to her on May 9, 2000,, unedited.  Happy Mother's Day, Mom. I miss you.

Dearest Mom:

I hope this letter does not upset you, but it is the only way I can find to express my feelings to you without having my words choked up by tears.  I am feeling an array of emotions and I am having such a hard time sorting them out.  I love you so much that I find it difficult imagining my life without you in it.  You are the perfect mother.  I wish I could be as wonderful as you are.  You have never been judgmental or demeaning to any of us.  You have just given of yourself unselfishly and showered those around you with love and kindness. 

Each day I think about what you are feeling.  You have surprised me with your inner strength and courage.  I know that I could never be as brave as you are.  I think about what I would have done if you had shared your fears about what was happening to you back when you first had symptoms.  Maybe you chose the best way to handle this.  Either way the outcome would probably be the same, the only change would be that you would not have enjoyed a full life thus far.

I want to tell you how much I love you.  You have been the shining light in this family.  Because of you we have learned unselfish love.  You really are an angel right here on earth, Mom, and I am sorry I haven’t told you that enough. I hope I have been a good daughter to you.  I think I have.  I certainly tried my best.  It is not hard to be good to someone with as much goodness as you have. 

I feel like I have been robbed of time we could have spent together.  I know that you feel like you had a great life.  But, Mom, it could have been better.  I am glad we were able to take vacations together both on cruises and on our trips to Europe.  We sure did have fun.  My favorite thing was to take pictures of you wherever we went.  You looked so happy.  I will never forget the look on your face when we crossed the border into Yugoslavia.  Or the look of awe on your face when we were in Monaco.  I am sorry the boys could not share those special moments with us.  I feel like that was our special time together.  The four of us were good traveling companions.  Seeing the world through your eyes was enlightening.  I wish we could have had more vacations together.

Mom, when I see you, I want to tell you these things, but I feel such sadness inside that I can’t.  I want to keep your spirits up and I try to be strong and not cry.  But, Mom, I am not as strong as you may think.  I am a mess emotionally.  This has been the hardest thing I have ever had to deal with.  I am sure the boys feel the same way.  I can only say that there is something special between a mother and a daughter and those feelings are special only to us. 

I am going to really miss our phone calls.  I am going to miss being able to call you up to tell you about something that happened in my life, or sharing stories about shopping trips, or movies, or weekends away, etc.  You always sounded happy for me.  What am I going to do, Mom?  I just don’t know. 

I cry all the time.  Mostly, I cry in private, unless I am talking about you with friends at work.  I just can’t shut down the tears.  Just when I think that there isn’t a drop of tear inside me, more comes pouring out.  I ache inside.  I don’t want to see you in pain.  I want you to have a peaceful life. 

You have taken all this so amazingly well.  Obviously, you have made peace with God and are ready to go “home.”  Mom, you are so special.  I look at the book I made when you turned 70 and I brought it to work to share.  My friends all know about you and are praying for you.  When I hand them the book, I say, “Meet my mother.”  I am so proud of you.  I always was.  You are such a beautiful person inside and out.  That is what is so hard to understand, Mom.  I keep asking “why” and I have no answers.

I will always remember the times we shared over the years – when we lived with Baba and with Nona, when you drove dad to work and we took the car to go to Stonestown, when Mr. Del Carlo asked me “How’s your mutha” or “you want Augusta bitters” or when he cut the crate in half for the dozen eggs with his arthritic fingers so we would only have to buy ½ dozen, when you accidentally dropped the cake from Blum’s face down on the dining room floor when you carried it in your left hand while you carried the glass of hot water and the knife in the right hand through the swinging door separating the kitchen from the dining room, when we went to Disneyland, when Mary Siefert and I took you to the hospital to have Dino, when you wore things and then took them back to Joseph Magnin with some goofy story that the sales clerks believed, when I brought my little baby girl home and you were a grandmother for the first time, when we spent our time at Capwell’s and then took the kids to lunch, when we took belly dancing lessons and all you could think about was when you could buy the costume, when we went grocery shopping and flirted with the checkers, when people thought we were sisters, when we wrote secret messages to each other in shorthand, when you told dad to help us out with our wedding reception, when you made 2,600 gnocchi for our dinners, when you always entertained us with your naiveté, when we polished off great bottles of vino on our cruises, and when we were recognized by a crew member on our Mexican cruise that was our wine steward from two years prior who knew our names, when we walked along Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills and went inside Giorgio’s and pretended to shop, etc., etc., lots of memories to keep in my heart.  But it won’t be the same as having you here.

I love you, Mom.