I Don’t Know What Day My Mother Died
And I don’t know quite how to feel about that…
Earlier today, my aunt asked me “What day did your Mom die?” And I had to admit, “I have no idea.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have reminded you.”
And pretty much every year for the last few, one of my sisters or my best friend (who is really good about these things) will call on a day in late June, and ask in a concerned voice, “How ARE you?” and I will answer, “I’m fine, is there a reason I shouldn’t be?” And they will remind me. And I will feel stupid.
I feel bad about this. Guilty. But not deep down guilty. More like I should feel bad, but I don’t. It’s just a thing. I have a lot of great memories of my Mom. But, I don’t remember or mark the day that she died. It’s not a date that is seared into my memory.
Let me explain. I know WHEN my Mom died. It was 2010. It was right around now — the end of June. But I don’t remember the exact date. And I don’t mark the day as an anniversary. I remember it was summer 2010. That’s an easy one — later in 2010 (November) I was diagnosed with colon cancer (surgery; chemo; no evidence cancer now).
These things I remember; they are etched:
Mom died and I got cancer in 2010. Katrina was in 2005. Daddy died in 2000. Nice round numbers. Every five years.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m trying to forget it. No, it is not denial.
My Mom is dead. I miss her every day. I held her hand and watched her die. Or more precisely, I said goodbye to her when machines were keeping her body alive long enough for me and my other sisters and her sisters to get there to say goodbye and to be able to donate her organs (per her wishes).
There. There being Dallas. Where on a Friday afternoon in June, my mother dropped dead at a bowling alley with my sister and her two teenage sons. Mom had flown there from New Orleans to visit. Meanwhile, I was off doing winery business in the far northern reaches of rural Maryland, with my own teenage daughter in tow. From where I had to proceed to hold it together to drive 2+ hours home, get my kids set up to go to sleepaway camp for their first time ever, figure out how to tell them, and get on a flight to Texas as early as possible the next morning.
I am quite sure my inability to remember the precise date has way more to do with this zombie-like zone I entered during that weekend than denial or coping or anything else. For one, it’s not even clear to me what date we should actually mark? The bowling-alley Friday when she collapsed from a brain aneurysm or the hospital Saturday when she was declared officially dead? I have no actual memory of the following days or week, planning the funeral or much else and only vague memories of the funeral. This would be shock. Of that I am aware.
From a practical matter, it may also have a lot to do with it being summer. Without the rhythm and calendar days of the school year, I often have no idea what the date is during the summer. I lose track of days, weeks at a time during summer.
What perplexes me is — although I am not the best for marking anniversaries and dates and such — I have very distinct memories and markings of other such events.
My Dad’s death, for example. I remember this day and will forever because it was 2 days before my son’s first birthday. It was a Monday. We had spent the weekend with him, kind of knowing but not fully acknowledging what was coming. We buried him on my son’s actual birthday. Per my Mom’s wishes, not mine.
My son. Who is named after my father. So, yes, my son’s birthday — even 16 years later — will be forever entwined with my Dad’s death. And, as an aside, both with baseball’s Opening Day.
After my son was born, I learned that Jewish people don’t name their children after someone who is alive, as it is bad luck. Someone else told me that is only true in certain Jewish traditions. No matter. There is no such tradition in my Catholic heritage. Our Croatian and Italian families are filled with Lukes, Josephs, Vincents, Anthonys, Marias, Annies and so on. That didn’t stop me from feeling some measure of guilt about it anyway. As well as a touch of bitterness about the whole funeral thing. And yet, I remember the dates clearly.
Which, for those following along and psychoanalyzing, might also explain why I don’t actively remember the date of my Mom’s death.
In truth, it doesn’t matter. What the date is or whether I remember it. My Mom is gone. I will wake up in June and she will still be gone. I will wake up some December day and she will still be not here. I don’t forget nor am I trying to forget that she died. I simply don’t choose to commemorate it on one particular day. Because that day. Those three days. Kinda sucked.
And I’d be okay with forgetting. Except the soul does not forget. I find myself inexplicably melancholy around this time of year. I read and react to tragic news with overwhelming sadness. Tears come unbidden. And then I remember. Oh yeah, this is when Mom died. Just don’t ask me what day.
