The Year We All Lost Our Mothers
My mother died last October. She was nearly 102, and had a wonderful life. But I miss her terribly, in a way that only people who have lost their mothers can understand.
As the months have gone by, it seems I have plenty of company, and it is growing by the day.
Since my mom’s death, five of my friends have lost theirs. Five funerals, or memorials, or cremations. Five visitations, or wakes. Five funeral lunches. Five people set adrift. (And, since I wrote this piece, I’ve learned of two more friends whose moms recently passed away.)
Is it just this time of life? Possibly. We’re Generation Xers and late baby boomers. As my older brother said before our mother died, none of his friends still had their mothers. He was an exception within his circle.
So, our ages could explain it. But there’s no thread among the moms. Some of our mothers were centenarians whose time simply was up. Some suffered from Alzheimer’s Disease and died relatively young. Others dropped dead unexpectedly.
In Queen Victoria’s time, it was perfectly acceptable to shut yourself off from society. She wore black the rest of her life after she lost Prince Albert — decades beyond his death.
Even in the 20th century, family typically kept a low profile after a death, like the Crawleys in Downton Abbey.
It was a fairly big deal for the Dowager Countess to rouse Lady Mary from her grief and back into the world after six months. Her father would have left her to be morose, and parts of me can agree with that.
Grief is exhausting, and no one should be rushed through it. Everyone has their own timetable, and the same person who might seem perfectly fine at work might be churning under the surface.
The experience of losing my mom has caused me to notice patterns in how we share the word now that someone has passed away.
My father died four decades ago, and back then, the news spread from neighbor to neighbor, through phone calls, and in the next day’s newspaper. The process of sending someone off took longer, often a couple of days of visitation at the funeral home before the service. You could drop a note in the mail announcing a death, and the recipient would still have time to make plans to attend the funeral.
Food arrived the day after my dad died and kept coming for weeks after. I still remember the boxes of pastries our Danish neighbor made for us by hand. If you were Catholic, masses in honor of the dead were arranged, and the families attended and received condolences after.
Now, the first word usually comes in a text, or an email, through a Facebook post, or a tweet. Phone calls are relatively rare, except to alert older family friends, and to make sure that the caterer has what they need.
The Facebook etiquette goes something like this. You pick out a flattering photo of your parent, with a short message. I used the dates of my mother’s birth and death.
For parents long ill, some people write cryptically that their suffering is over. (I saw a post from a puzzled reader inquiring whether the parent was using a new cancer treatment.) The unexpected losses come with words of shock.
The condolences then pour in as Facebook comments. Some are simple, “I’m sorry for your loss.” Some include a memory. Others invoke prayers. “She was so proud of you.” Or, for those who suffered, “she’s in a better place.”
You do get personal emails, cards, and sweets, and thankfully the tradition of sending flowers has not gone away. I’m still nursing a lovely dish garden sent by my NPR colleagues, even though I had not yet officially joined the staff.
The funeral process, always short for the Jewish and Muslim faiths, seems to have been shortened for others, too. Often, there’s nothing at a funeral home, although we still set aside a day for people to pay respects, serving my mom’s favorite See’s candy and lovely Italian pastries. A casket viewing takes place before the service right at the church.
After the funeral, the lunch and the burial, there is a silence, as people get back to their lives. Social media isn’t really a place to keep mourning. We’re all busy presenting the best version of ourselves there.
However, I’ve discovered there is something of a network of the motherless. You mention your late mother to someone, and their eyes soften. They squeeze your arm. They offer up the date when their own mother died. They say the phrase we all have come to know. “I think of her every day.”
Because my mother spent her last six weeks in hospice, I get monthly phone calls from its staff to check up on me. Sometimes, it’s nice to be able to talk, sometimes I don’t need to.
Many of my friends don’t have a similar lifeline, however, so I recently made a decision to offer my services.
I’ve become kind of a grief concierge for my motherless friends. I encourage them to call me, to email and Facebook message me. We Skype and chat on the phone. I listen. I draw them out. I make suggestions on dealing with wills and estates. I comfort. I get them to laugh, if it’s appropriate.
I recently got together with a bereaved friend and spent half an hour walking and talking about grief.
She asked how I had done with Mother’s Day. I was all right, I replied, because I was in Scotland mastering a right-hand steering wheel for the first time. I was so busy trying not to run off the road that I couldn’t think about my mom. I think my mother would have encouraged me to pay attention and not worry about her.
Every time I hear that another friend has lost their mom, my first reaction is sadness, both at their loss, and because they’ve become a member of our club. They have what I’ve experienced waiting ahead of them.
For us, this is the year we all lost our mothers. And, from what I know now, the year never really ends. My 12 months of mourning will soon be up, but another one will simply start for someone else.
Follow me on Twitter @mickimaynard and my food writing @culinarywoman
