My mother died just before New Years Eve. I can’t tell you exactly how many years ago. I can remember every detail of that night with painful clarity, but I can’t hold numbers in my head unless I spend a great deal of time associating the number with something else.
This is a pattern, usually. Or a connection with a number I’ve already memorized, like a birthday or a particular year. I know that in 1990, I was in grade ten, because both numbers end with a zero.
I repeated grade ten again in 1991 and dropped out mid-year because I didn’t want to go to school.
At that point in my life, I only wanted three things. I wanted to play music. I wanted to be independant. Most of all, I wanted to feel accepted.
A pre-planned birthday. Mom and I had matching perms.
I was a weird kid and it was hard for my family to deal with me. When I was in elementary school, my family told me that none of my friends could make it to my birthday, and then surprised me by having them show up. The emotional stress of this surprise birthday party spiralled me into hysterics. The party was cancelled.
That’s the first time I remember having a full blown meltdown.
My mother had meltdowns too. I teased her for them mercilessly behind her back, and sometimes to her face. My brother was kinder. He knew how to make her laugh.
He, my son, and my father, were with her when she died.
I’m glad I wasn’t there. I don’t think I could have handled it.
When I heard she was gone, I mostly felt relief. And shame.
Life was hard for my mother, but she did everything she could to connect with me, from hand-sewing my favorite clothes and blankets to designing and knitting a sweater with my company logo on it. I never told her how much I appreciated the things she made me. Sometimes I didn’t even notice them until years after she gave them to me.
She had trouble with her weight. She struggled to make and keep friends. Her temper, when it came, was often comically out of proportion with the situation. She never learned to drive, preferring to take the bus. Or walk, sometimes for hours a day. She was afraid to drive.
Mom was an avid fan of science fiction. She bought me Wrinkle in Time and introduced me to The Dragon Riders of Pern. She gave me my first D&D handbook, and praised me when I eagerly learned to draw every monster.
She was a huge Star Trek nerd. When I was a tween, she took me to a Star Trek convention. I’d just moved to a new city and I was getting bullied at school. I loved my mother, but I didn’t want to be like her. Only recently did it occur to me that she had no one else to share these interests with.
Later in life, comparing me to my mother became the most hurtful thing anyone could do.
Mom didn’t require me to make an effort to relate to her, or even to respect her. She was ashamed of who she was. I don’t think she wanted me to be like her.
It wasn’t until after she died that I realized I am her. I’m more like her every day. I’ve finally learned to love what she gave me. I never got to thank her, but I often wonder if it would have made any difference if I had. I wish I could have overcome my own self-destruction in time to talk her out of hers.
The parts of her that I see in myself are my favorite parts. I plan to spend the rest of my days honouring the gifts she gave me. It won’t bring her back, but maybe it will carry her forward.
I miss her.
