Dear Mum
July 31, 2008, by Christie Healey
A good friend’s mother died recently. I felt an immediate pang of sorrow for her, but in the days following the pang grew and deepened, and the feelings awoken by my friend’s loss have taken me into unexpected places.
My mother, who never once ventured outside England, died a few years ago. I had not lived in England for over 30 years, but ten months before her death I left the U.S. and returned “home.” I had no clear idea why I was returning. Maybe the impasse I had reached in my life made me melancholy for the imagined comforts of a distant past. My mother was now in her eighties, defiantly living in the same house she bought with my father in 1939 and adamantly declaring she could “take care of herself.” Well yes, I suppose she could, as long as my sister was prepared to take care of everything else and make hair-raising 100 mile drives at the drop of a panicked phone call.
A few weeks after arriving home, I started to want to spend time with Mum. It is only now that I understand the unconscious desire that underlay my return to England. I needed to know her and accept her and in so doing, know and accept myself. We talked long hours about everything. Ghosts were laid, myths exploded, misunderstandings forgiven and we laughed, long and hard. We did not resolve all our pains and betrayals, but certainly understood a lot more about each other.
My friend has spent every weekend driving to see her Mum, or Mom as she probably calls her. She told me that they have big margaritas in the evenings and I applaud that they can still kick up their heels a bit and embellish the time they have left. She’s a very good daughter.
Losing your mother is different from losing your Dad. Not any less intense, but different. Mums are awesome beings; ruthless in judgment, difficult to fool; sometimes embarrassing and often mysterious. But, they know their daughters better than anyone else will ever know them. Mums don’t always let you know what they know until the last minute, when with a big margarita (or a huge cream cake in my mother’s case) you start to talk, really talk and come to a place where one can go and the other can stay, both at peace.
July 31st, 2008 at 8:57 am
Mother and daughter relationships are incredibly complicated. I thought I resolved that my mother and I would just never get along. I live 3,000 miles away from her and although we spoke all the time, I hadn’t seen her in close to 10 years. On her 80th birthday my sister and her two boys and my partner and I showed up at her door – unannounced. The next few days proved magical and transformative. I am so glad I went. Our relationship, two years later, has been great.
July 31st, 2008 at 9:14 am
I am the friend Christie refers to. For me, the loss of my mother is immense and has affected me in ways I could not predict or always easily accept. I was blessed, as was Christie, to be able to have time with my Mom near the end of her life.
We knew my mother had terminal lung cancer, but none of us knew she would go so quickly or suddenly. We always think there will be more time, to talk, to resolve the past, to come to an understanding. But that is often not the case. I’m so glad I took the time over the last few months, to talk, to drink the margaritas, to soak in the last rays of the sun on the deck of the place I have called home, with the one person who shaped me, and knew me, and understood me, more than anyone else.
I wish you all the same good fortune. It is an investment of your time you will never regret.
July 31st, 2008 at 12:22 pm
As I watch so many of my friends lose their mothers, I often think about the day that dreaded phone call will come for me. My mother and I live in different countries. I love our phone calls and hearing the musical sound of her voice. When I visualize the inevitable loss that must come, I know the best I can do is enjoy her the best I can now, however I can–even if it is from far away. However, your blog has inspired me. I think I’ll propose a girl’s getaway!
July 31st, 2008 at 12:41 pm
My heart goes out to you Heidi. There is no way to prepare for the shift that occurs in the universe when you lose your mother. I felt a little like an orphan. I was blessed to be with my mother when she breathed her last breath. It was the last and most profound gift she ever gave me. That, and the snort-laugh. I will be thinking of you all day. Much love, Connie
July 31st, 2008 at 6:40 pm
Thank you Christie, Heidi and all who have commented for reminding us of complex and unique relationships we have with our mothers. To appreciate and take hold of the precious time that those of us still have with mom or mum is a gift not to be taken for granted.
September 16th, 2008 at 7:28 pm
That is quite a stunning photo. I assume you took the shot – is this place along the way to see your Mum?
I am fortunate to still have my Mom alive. In fact, she and my Dad just spent this past weekend with me at my house, which is only 90 miles away from where they live, in order to help me through the initial shock of breaking up with my live-in boyfriend of 4.5 years. Thanks, Mom.