As some of you — maybe all of you, since people at instapundit babbled — know, I lost my mom this week.
This is by way of explaining why this was so late. The funeral was today. No, I didn’t go. There was simply no way of making it.
For the first time in our lives — okay, probably an exaggeration, we used to go to Denver for long weekends, just he and I — Dan and I were hours away from home for Labor Day weekend.
The call came on Thursday before we left but it wasn’t particularly alarming. In fact, the sons and I joked back and forth on the phone that my mom was indestructible.
Thing is, she was running down the stairs — yes, she was in her nineties. Yes, you did in fact read that right — and miscounted the steps and came down heavy on her foot, which broke either the head of the femur or her hip (I’ve got varying accounts.) Mom hated dairy, maybe had some slight intolerance, so she was convinced it was bad for her. She’d been osteoporotic since her 40s. She was rushed to surgery and it went very well. In fact, she was on her feet and going to the bathroom by herself a couple of hours later. Prognosis very good, so I packed my suitcase and we went on vacation with a clear conscience.
On Friday I got a text saying mom was just sleeping and not interacting. Yes, we have some idea what happened. And on Sunday morning I got a text (they tried to call but I didn’t hear the ring) saying she’d died.
Because Portugal is a tiny country, funerals are as soon as they can get the body released, which took three days. But by then it was too late to get tickets even at a prohibitive price. They would have required me to run through airports and if Dan went with me he can’t run (bad knees.) And it would require all flights to hit precisely. I looked at the flight that had a bare chance, and I literally had a panic attack at the idea, because it was 24 hours with three tight layovers, and if I got there in time, I’d just be in time to change clothes and go to the funeral.
So I sent flowers.
And I’ve been in a daze all day. Because…
My mind is full of everything, the good and the bad of a very complicated relationship.
I actually am a lot like mom in temperament (though in nothing else) though Dan says I’m the much much faded copy.
What I mean is mom was always busy, always doing something. Life was an amazing adventure and there was so much to do. When we were in our twenties, we had trouble keeping up to her when she was almost fifty. She moved faster, thought faster, decided faster, worked faster… I limped along behind, as best I could.
And in everything else we were chalk and cheese. Mom was very creative, but all her creativity was either in sewing/fabric or in paint and carpentry. Making up stories was not creativity but a form of madness.
In her defense, as a kid I was like my younger son as a kid (He is the male clone) as in “You will preferentially tell a lie even when the truth is more favorable to you.” This is because I (and younger son) always feel a need to tell the most interesting story, and it takes being older to control it.
This drove her nuts. And my reading and writing all the time drove her nuts. She liked nonfiction, because she liked to know how things worked, but never understood the point of reading about things that never happened.
As for me, well, I tend to be obsessed with the stories. And I never understood the social thing.
For a while when I was a teen, my dad used to draw what he said was the Chinese symbol for war “Two women in the same house.”
Because we were similar in temperament, I was the only one to really give her opposition. When we fought it was like the clash of titans. And when we agreed, heaven help everyone else.
We went to demonstrations together back when and where demonstrations were forbidden. Dad tried to tell us it wasn’t reasonable to risk jail, but it’s not like he could stand against us when we decided on something together.
And sometimes, in one of our periods of peace, we’d go on epic shopping expeditions together. Epic because mom couldn’t buy a pair of shoes without hitting every single store in town. Also, because both being ADD we did things like go out to buy my school books, forget it, and come home with two pairs of shoes and a new pair of pants for me. (The green velvet pants. Thank you mom, I enjoyed the heck out of those in the early 80s.) It always ended at the tea shop, where mom would have tea and a pastry and watch me demolish The Viking.
What was The Viking, you’ll ask. Well, it was served in a glass dish shaped like a viking helmet, turned upside down. And it had like ten chocolate scoops, a mountain of whipped cream and wafer cookies. In retrospect, I think it was supposed to be shared, but I was in my teens or early twenties and I didn’t eat much in normal life, so….. Mom as I said thought dairy made her feel queasy and so was bad for her, but she enjoyed watching me eat it.
I will remember those times and that the dang woman dragged me all over Porto and made me try on twelve dresses — including one that was tunic and pants. I ask you! She expected me to wear that to the village church? — before taking me to the Italian shop and asking for the dress she knew I’d love. “Because I wanted to make sure I wasn’t railroading you into a choice.” People! Most exhausting wedding dress shopping ever.
But…. where do you start? I know I am what I am because of what she was. The good and the bad both. Does my story start with her? Does hers start with her mother? How far back does it go? Perhaps to the original bint in Norway, who commanded her husbands Vikings after his death and from whom I’m supposedly descended in a straight maternal line? (It would explain the fondness for axes in our line.)
Where does the story start?
Not with me. Not with her. Perhaps it starts with Let There Be Light.
And that picture there is of my parents when they were young and dating. Dad on the phone with me today said “How am I supposed to go on? I have been in love with her for 76 years” — and that too is true.
It started because of her creativity. Apparently at the time, all girls were wearing skirts with a row of buttons down the back. Now you guys would have to understand the Portuguese are as conformist as the Japanese to understand why mom’s decision (I think she was 13 or 14. She’d just cut off her braids. Dad, legally — there’s some doubt of his birth date — was 3 years older) of making herself a skirt with buttons down the front was such a creative and rebellious gesture.
She was walking with her best friend at a festival, and two guys were walking behind them, audibly discussing them.
And my dad supposedly said “Oh, but this poor girl has no buttons. She must have lost them. How sad.”
This is when mom turned around and smiled at him — she had a devastating smile — and said “Oh, but I do. They’re just on the front.”
He took this as encouragement and stepped up beside her. (His best friend stepped up beside her best friend. They were together till ten years ago, when he died.)
He walked her home that night. And they’ve been a unit ever since.
So I’m sitting here crying and being an idiot, but you out there, spare some thoughts for my dad who lost the love of his life.
And if you’re the praying kind, keep in your prayers.
Mad Genius Club 
16 responses to “Where Do You Start?”
Memory eternal.
May your mother rest with the saints in paradise.
Your poor father. Peace for all of you.
What a beautiful story! Peace to you and your father.
I was so sorry to hear about this – my father also passed away so very abruptly, leaving my own mother devastated. She has never recovered from the loss.
I am also sorry that getting back to Portugal for the funeral was also impossible.
Our affection and support, always.
Oh, Sarah! I am so sorry. I pray you and your father find closure. If you can, go visit. *hugs*
The Bustle in a House (1108)
BY EMILY DICKINSON
The Bustle in a House
The Morning after Death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted upon Earth –
The Sweeping up the Heart
And putting Love away
We shall not want to use again
Until Eternity –
I didn’t get 76, but I know that pain; it’s much worse than either of my parents, or both together – and I was a wreck for them.
I’ll cry some, for myself and for your dad. Does it get better? I don’t know yet.
*hugs*
The Story starts with “In The Beginning”, because it needs that darkness and formless chaos to make sense of the amazement and authority to create Light.
Where does your story start? Anywhere you want it to, because you are free to put in as many flashbacks as you want. You are the one writing it, to try to make sense of the chaos and the universe.
May she rest well, knowing that she was loved… and may your grief fade, in time, until the good memories outweigh the bad, and outweigh the pain of the loss.
Memory Eternal! to your mother.
My dad died when he was 94. He had hip replacement surgery. On Friday he was lucid and talked to my brother for 30 minutes. I called Saturday morning (I always called him on Saturday morning) at the hospital and got my mother. She told me he was tired and would call back when he woke up. He never woke up. Got a call from a first cousin that afternoon saying he had died. I think a blood clot must have come loose.
Later we all realized that was the way he wanted to go. Quickly, in full control of his mind until the end. He was afraid of dementia and worried about a long, suffering death. Avoided both.
That was seven years ago. I still miss him. I suspect it will be the same for you.
What a beautiful couple, and so obviously happy together!
((( Hugs ))) It took me years to really come to terms with losing my parents.
Every beginning is also an ending. Mom wanted seven children. She had me, and was unable to have any more.
The drunken doctor nearly killed us both. We lived, much to the regret of several scofflaws and scoundrels, a few of which remain alive and free to this day to think shame upon themselves forevermore.
If by beginning you mean THE beginning, it was still an ending. The ending of whatever came before, Himself only knows what. Even if that “what” was absolutely nothing whatsoever at all, utter and complete chaos unbounded, or anything in between.
When you lose a partner- a wife, a husband- it’s more than just half a life. It’s most of one. Especially if it’s a good one. The hole is bigger than what’s left. But what’s left is still a life. Still living, with all the attachments and burdens thereof.
May the burdens of life lay but lightly upon his shoulders, that man. There are no words to console. Or even if there were, I much doubt that all would take them. Only time, family, purpose. Faith can be a great help.
May you both be strong enough to face the morning. May there be moments of joy breaking through clouds of sorrow and grief. May there be hope and laughter, when the time is right for it. May those closest to you both remind you of that meaning that drives you.
We all have a purpose in life. More than one, singular one, even. Today my purpose was to be the brushman and pamperer to the biggest fuzzy one.
Ye Olden Catt Repportte.
Several years ago, on a gloomy October weekend full of rainclouds and muddy weather I played host to my niece, the crazily smart but nigh clueless about normality girl. She was disconsolate. Despondent. Utterly wrecked.
See, she’d just discovered hormones actually affected her and tried in her rather cute and endearing but clumsy way to indicate her feelings to the object of her affections. He didn’t even notice.
Note well, the lass in mind was very fond of complexity and subtlety. Her signals were at about .5millicandle power on a night foggy enough for frogs to fly in it. She asked him to help her carry books, and he did, then he got back to doing his own thing. I know. Utterly boorish of the boy.
And so here she was, bawling her bespectacled eyes out in my kitchen and brushing her hair. She had very long dark hair at the time. Tall girl, and hair down to her butt, dark as night. She did a lot of brushing to keep it snag free.
Unfortunately for her, Othercat the megakitten took an interest. They fought over the brush. Othercat “won.” One brush for him, one brush for her. Back and forth, until they were both done. Somewhere in the battle and the ensuing brushing she forgot about the imminent DOOM of her nascent relational foray.
Doofus and Othercat to this day trot up with the brush in their mouths on occasion. Othercat *loves* the brush. It’s his favorite thing, right up there with the chicken pot for Doofus. When the niece and her husband come by to visit, Othercat always demands his brushing from her and she always pouts but gives in. That husband? The same boy she was infatuated with, back in the day. She’s still nuts for him. And he’s quietly just as crazy for her.
A beautiful picture of your parents, and some beautiful stories. Prayers up.
My deepest sympathies.
I have a complex relationship with my own mother. Always remember her, the good and the bad. My mother is 87 and I am dreading that phone call.
My condolences to you and your family in your grief.
Nice photo. May the memories be happy and vivid.
My grandparents had a similar meeting story. My grandfather and his best friend met a couple of cute sisters and set up a double date. My grandfather and his friend set up a code word in case one wasn’t feeling it. My grandmother and her sister did the same. Nobody used the out, they all got married a little later, and each had a son a year later.
A truly formidable individual. You were lucky to be her daughter.