Personal Essay
“Hi, Mom!” Hurts Like Hell
I’m not motherless — my mom is just dead.
Her little voice squealed as she climbed into the backseat, all arms and backpacks and paper crowns.
“Hi, Mom!”
As she settled in and buckled up, I slowly pulled through the pickup line and away from her school. I could hear the hand sanitizer spraying in the back seat way more times than necessary as she babbled on about the playground, what she ate for lunch, and the friend crisis of the day.
“And then she put her hands out and said, ‘No, you can’t play with us because we don’t want more people in our game,’ so I said, ‘That’s not really kind but if you don’t want me here, I guess I don’t want to play with you, either,’ and I walked away and played with my other friends on the swings who were being kind. It was really annoying. Oh, and guess what! We went to the library and they had all the Judy Moody books back and I got the one I’ve been waiting for!”
To this day, I’m still grateful our daughter was born after I turned 30. But I’m disappointed it took so long, because she barely got to know my own mom before she died.
When my daughter was born, my mom moved across the state to rent a temporary apartment and help raise our kiddo. I had to return to work fairly soon after giving birth (side note: WHY AMERICA?!) but my mom swooped in to care for her only grandchild.
I don’t know many people who would give up their entire lives to do this.
After three months, it was time for her to return to her life and work, but those three months were the most precious times.
I only regret not making more of the time she was with us.
I wish she’d stayed for more dinners.
I wish she’d taken more pictures.
I wish she’d written more lullabies for our girl, although we still sing the few today.
Whenever I meet someone else who lost their mom, there is an instant camaraderie. Losing a parent feels like you can never go home again, and that’s a hard feeling to describe to someone with living parents.
As we turned into our neighborhood, our windows down to the crisp winter air, I heard the neighbor kids unpacking themselves as well.
“Hi, Mom!”
My daughter’s little feet hit the pavement and ran next door for an afternoon of bracelet making and hustling to make a buck off the neighbors.
And I’m torn.
I remember those days as a child. Playing for hours, running between their yards and mine. But we always ended up at my house, because my mom made snacks.
Platters of sandwiches, fruits, veggies, and yogurt. Sometimes popsicles, but mostly the healthier stuff.
I’m not ready to be that parent in the neighborhood yet. The “Hi, Mom!” cries as they crash through the screen door stirs the memories from when I was seven. And although our daughter understands love and loss, the other kids may not — and it’s not my place to start the conversation.
On the rare occasion that our daughter brings it up, she tells her friends that her Nana is dead.
They’re not sure what to say, or ask — much like the adults in the room.
And yet, the kids do an infinitely better job at navigating the verbal bomb in the conversation.
“Oh, that’s really sad. I’m sorry.”
And then on we move. Not because it isn’t worth discussing. But it’s not the point of the conversation or the moment in time. It’s not a fresh loss, and there are no immediate needs to meet. And more than anything, they know it’s not their place to show up and offer support right now.
As opposed to most adults, who want details and start applying labels to make sense of my loss.
“Have you read…?”
“My aunt was motherless, too…”
“Is that genetic…?”
Of all the misconceptions around losing a parent to cancer, I think the hardest one is the idea that I’ve lost them altogether.
I don’t want to hear, “You’re not alone; they’re with you in spirit.”
I don’t think *anyone* wants to hear that.
But I’m not motherless.
I’ve never been motherless.
Even if you did not know your mother, you are not motherless.
We have been carried by mothers through our entire lives.
The women at our sides in classrooms, doctor’s offices, and grocery stores.
We are a community of mothers, preparing sandwich platters and picking up broken hearts.
We are embraced, as children, by other children. Those who know how to empathize and move through the moment without awkward platitudes or invasive questions.
So yes; hearing, “Hi, Mom!” often hurts like hell. I don’t get to say it, anymore. Not to my living mother, and there are days I would give my last breath for that moment one more time.
But at the same time, hearing, “Hi, Mom!” reminds me I am not walking motherless. I am the Mother — carrying life and raising a world full of kind, compassionate people who will always make room in the game for one more friend.
Mandy Capehart is an author, small business owner, editor, certified grief and life coach, and creator of The Restorative Grief Project. The Restorative Grief Project is an online community focusing on one another’s stories and new methodologies for grief, creating a safe environment for our souls to heal and our spirits to be revived. To learn more, visit MandyCapehart.com or follow her on Twitter. She thinks she is pretty funny. The jury is out.
