Dear Mom

Letter to my mother, circa 1968. “Dear Mom remember yesterday you said I didn’t have to have any potato salad. I said at supper I didn’t want any potato salad and Dad gave me some.” Funny, but I love potato salad now. ♥

Dear Mom,

It has been over 18 years since I last spoke to you. The last time I spoke to you, I don’t know if you even heard me. I left to go home to get some rest; I kissed you good-bye and told you that I loved you. You died a few hours later.

I think the last time I knew that you heard me was when I was reading Steinbeck’s The Acts of King Arthur and His Noble Knights to you. Earlier in the month, you had asked me to read to you when I visited you in the evenings. I remember you cut me off mid-sentence and said, “Jean, can you read something else? I can’t concentrate on that. I said, “Sure,” dropped the book into my bag, and I picked up an anthology of poetry; you liked that much better.

Anyway, I guess when I said I hadn’t spoken to you in a long time, I meant in person. Certainly, between then and now, I’ve thought of you often. Frequently, when I’ve decorated my Xmas tree or glanced at the picture I have of you in the living room on my bookcase, I’ve said out loud, “I love you, Mom.”

Recently, I miss you more than ever, so that’s why I decided to write you this letter. In case you didn’t know, Mom, I’ve turned into a pretty good writer. Believe it or not, some people actually really like it when I write. What? You know? Hey, you didn’t make them like me from up there, did you?!

When I get upset, writing calms me, Mom; wine calms me, too, though with the New Year here and my potentially new life arriving this year, I’ve been trying to write things instead of Riesling things. Anyway, this is why I decided to write to you; I just I hope I can afford the postage to send this to you.

Often, over the years, when I have been upset, whether it be at home or in my office at work, I always tend to look toward the nearest phone and wish that I could call you. Since you’re a nurse, you know that amputees have phantom limb pain. I often have phantom Mom pain.

Anyway, a lot has happened to the world since December 4th, 1992 when you left this world, Mom. Of course, maybe you already know what’s going on. In case you don’t, it costs 44 cents to mail a letter and cell phones, these little phones that are a necessary and needed organ, unlike our appendix, which is an unnecessary and useless organ, have made telephone booths almost obsolete. We really don’t have to “talk” to each other anymore; we can “text” and “e-mail,” ourselves into a total non-verbal frenzy.

Princess Diana, who I knew you loved, was killed in a car accident in 1997. Just like you always remembered where you were when President Kennedy was killed, I’ll always remember where I was when I found out that she had died. I was at a Dave Brubeck concert at Tanglewood; the concert was just about to start when the man sitting behind me tapped me on the shoulder.

I turned around and he asked, “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Princess Diana?” Before I could answer, the guy I was with said quite pleased, “Yes, she gets that a lot.” The complimenting stranger then quickly said, “Oh, but I supposed that might be in bad taste now.” Stunned as to how such a lovely compliment turned into such a negative, I asked, “Why?” He said, “Didn’t you hear? She was killed in a car accident.”

Shocked and deeply saddened, I turned back to wait for the show to begin. Mom, that was the first time I ever mourned a person that I didn’t know; the second time was when John Kennedy Jr. died. Death is even harder to understand when people die long before their time like you did.

Terrorists took down the World Trade Center. A hurricane named Katrina devastated Louisiana. Kids started shooting each other in school. A sheep was cloned. We have our first African-American president. We can listen to thousands of songs on our iPods. We have hybrid cars. Pluto’s not a planet, and, suddenly, we care about the environment more than ever by recycling everything we can; thus, it’s not that we care about the environment anymore, no, we are “green,” Mom!

I’ll never forget when you recycled in the 70s. It seemed like you were one of the only ones. I thought you were way before your time washing out jars and tin cans and saving aluminum foil.

Oddly, a fond childhood memory is sorting out the recycle items for you at the dump. Sometimes, it seems that somewhere along the way, we all got totally selfish and stopped caring; I think that was called the 80s and the 90s; however, now most everyone is doing it, Mom.

Everyone’s also doing a lot of other things you never would have imagined either. Some are very good and some very bad. But, alas, this seems to be the way of the world, Mom.

Two months after you died, your grandson, Nathan was born. He was two weeks overdue and breech, so I had to have a c-section. I remember being peeved, because Quinn and I had paid $200 for our Lamaze class; in retrospect, after hearing other natural delivery stories from friends and having had two no-muss no-fuss c-sections, I no longer felt ripped off at paying $200 for that Lamaze class!

When I first saw Nathan, I said to Quinn, “Oh, my God. He looks just like your Dad.” I tried to breast feed him, but that didn’t work out too well. I remember feeling like a failure, but I did what I had to by giving him a bottle. It was very lonely without you then; sometimes I wished that someone had saw fit to let you live a few years longer so you could help me through that and see your lovely grandson for a while.

Mom, Nathan has turned into a wonderful man. He is a lot like Quinn’s Dad, his grandfather, a scientist and a proud atheist. Like me, he lacks confidence sometimes, but like Quinn, he’s not afraid to speak his mind. He’s 6’3” now, and sometimes I can’t believe he was ever small; you’d love him, no, I already know that you love him.

In 1995, Bitsy Sinkiewicz, my friend from college, died. Actually, I hope you know this, because when I said good-bye to her that morning in the hospital, I told her that “My Mom’s going to be there for you.” I hope that while you’re reading this that Bitsy is sitting there drinking tea with you and that you both have a cat on your lap; tell Bitsy that I miss her a lot, okay, Mom?

After you and Bitsy died, I became really depressed. Though, back then, I don’t think “depression” was as well treated as it is now. I made some questionable decisions, and I ended up divorcing Quinn; it was a dark time in my life if I ever had one, because I chose to ignore my gut, my friends, and let go of things in haste.

In 2000, Dad died. I was never nurse material; however, I tried to play one in real-life then. I took Dad to chemo once a week, and when he was close to the end, I was there by his side. When you died, I was devastated. When Dad was dying, I knew I had to be there for him more than I could be devastated.

I think I did a good job, Mom. Dad wanted me, not his girlfriend, which surprised me a great deal, to go to the doctor’s with him for what was his last visit. At that time, I didn’t know it was his last visit. When his doctor said, “Dick, I told I could get you through until this summer, but that was all I could do,” I wanted to cry, but I knew I couldn’t.

I looked at Dad in disbelief, and then he thanked his doctor for everything. Dad hadn’t told me everything. I also knew then what a strong and courageous person Dad was, knowing all the months he acted as if there was hope that there really was none.

Dad died at home on an October morning. I was with him. And, so was my cat, Thunderbolt, who became Dad’s cat for the last few months of his life, annoying the crap out of Anne, Dad’s cat-hating girlfriend, and loving Dad by sleeping next to him when he wasn’t annoying the crap out of Anne. Good Thunderbolt!

In 1999, I met a man on a plane and fell in love; Dad met him before he died and liked him very much. We married in 2002, and at the ripe old age of 40, I found myself pregnant. In 2003, I had a little girl; I named her Isabelle, and she loves to be called Izzy. She’s an absolutely wonderful girl, Mom.

She is funny, creative, insightful, compassionate, energetic, and loves animals. Your sister, Aunt Ethel, met Iz for the first time when she was four or so. After Iz went running off in the yard with Uncle Bill, your brother, Aunt Ethel said to me, “She is just like you when you were that age. Somewhere your Mom is laughing.” Payback! I laughed.

I think Aunt Ethel was spot on, Mom. Iz is my “mini-me.” I predict great things for her, because she is loved dearly by her father, which I think is important for a women, and she is also loved by all.

In 2007, Granny, your Mom, died. She was two weeks shy of her 103rd birthday. I remember at her 99th Uncle Bill whispering to me his justification of why he chose to have a 99th birthday party for her; he wondered, like all of us, if she would amazingly still be around for her 100th, and she was.

On my last visit to see Granny, she was told me that she was upset. Her husband, Jack (your Dad), who died in 1960 had not been to see her in a long time. And, she was currently waiting for her parents (your grandparents) to pick her up for dinner; poor Granny pondered endlessly about what could be keeping them from her. I knew then that it would be sad when she died, but maybe this was nature’s way of saying that she would not be kept from them for much longer.

Quite selfishly, I often wished that perhaps she could have given you, Bitsy, and Dad a few of her years. I feel really guilty writing that, because you know how much I loved Granny. But, it was so hard to lose you all so early like that.

Anyway, I have been blessed with two wonderful children, Mom, though marriage has been a challenge for me. I have wanted to change my life for a few years, but the economy has prevented that. I was laid off for over a year and a half, which was devastating, but it did allow me to spend a lot of wonderful time with Nathan and Iz for the first time in my life.

I have a plan now, Mom; of course, like any plan, it has parts that make it a whole like a permanent job, a house that needs to sell, and then a union that needs to be uncoupled. On Saturday, I made a small step toward independence by beginning the process of refinancing my house. Of course, knowing I was “under water,” I was nervous.

Every time the bank representative asked a question, I answered and then held my breath. I was slammed because the percentage of this-and-that didn’t meet their criteria, but, of course, I could get around that by paying a fee. I thought I was done for when I said I had been laid off for a year and a half.

The bank representative said, “Well, the bank likes to see two years of solid employment.” I then wanted to scream at her at that point, but, luckily, she said, “Let me see if we can wave that.” I had been solidly employed for 24 years and unemployed for a year and a half. How can anyone judge that? She got back on the line and said, “It’s okay.”

When I got off the phone, I got an e-mail that said they could not automatically approve me because of special circumstances regarding my loan; however, they assured me that they still wanted to do business with me. Mom, the first small step in my large plan had frustrated the crap out of me, and I wondered, “Is the whole year going to be this difficult and frustrating?”

Though, instead of plunking myself down in front of the TV, I grabbed my gym clothes and headed out. As I drove, I thought more and more about my plan. For no reason, I started to cry, Mom.

I couldn’t stop crying. Part of me felt good, because I knew that, unlike other times in my life, that my plan was well-thought out and had much merit; I was not making a bad decision. The other part of me was so scared, Mom, like after all this time, would I ever be happy again, and how difficult would it be to get there?

Being happy seemed liked such a simple request in my life. I was not asking to be America’s Next Top Model; I didn’t want to win $1 million dollars in the lottery. All I wanted was to be happy. Mom, you once said it was better to be with someone than to be alone; no, Mom, it’s better to be alone than to be with the wrong someone, this I know.

In that moment on Saturday, I really wanted to call you, but I knew I couldn’t. This is why I wrote this letter, because I wanted to tell you that I realized something today. And, perhaps, not being able to call you made me realize what I needed to know and how I need to be in this moment.

As I was listening to my iPod, the gizmo with thousands of songs on it, I knew that I had wonderful friends to talk to who supported me, though while running along the street, I knew that at times I would be alone. No matter how many friends or family members I had, I would have to experience things that a friend couldn’t experience with me. I would have to run alone sometimes, even if I didn’t want to.

That’s not a bad thing. Making it through something on your own empowers you and enables you to make it to the next level. You climb the ladder to make it to the top; your friends and family are the ladder.

After I came back from my run, I had to jot down an appointment. I rummaged through my purse and found the year planner I had bought in Target’s dollar aisle, my favorite aisle. Still reeling with thoughts about, well, everything, the cover twinkled.

I had used the planner for two weeks now and never noticed that inside the twinkle there was writing. It said, “Go for it! 2011” Thanks for being there always, Mom, wherever and whenever it is, even if you’re not a phone call away. ♥