Mother’s Day           
                  I spent Mother’s Day with my daughter and granddaughter. It was great. But I missed my mother. She has been dead for nearly a year and a half, and I still miss her.
              She was lost to me for years before her death due to dementia, and I still miss her. I close my eyes sometimes to focus my memory on her face and her voice. I remember garbled messages left on our answering machine, and I wish I could hear them again. I remember her smile or the touch of her thin hand, and I miss her. She was ninety when she died, I in my mid-fifties. Neither of us seemingly in need of mothering, yet I still miss her.
              I looked at my daughter during our mother’s day visit and saw the future as she tended to her child. I saw the past too as I considered how my mother must have thought the same thoughts I did as I watched my little girl with her little girl.
              I knew somehow there was a multigenerational connection, and even a connection beyond the perimeters of this life. My mother may be gone, but she is always with me. I knew as she was suffering through her last two years in a nursing home, barely remembering when I’d last been to see her, or even at times what my name was, she was then at a place I couldn’t find her. Now that she is dead, and because my faith in God allows me to picture her in heaven, her spirit at last free, I sense she and I are in fact closer than we were.
              She is more accessible in a way. Yet I look back at the years before the nursing home, the years when she was truly my mom; even as an adult I could call her, hear her advice or ask for her prayers. Those are the contacts I really miss. That they were pulled away from me gradually doesn’t seem to ease the pain of losing them.
              I miss my mother. I can see her all around me in every crocheted doily in my house, in every dish that had been hers, even in the jacket that I wear – I took it from her closet after she died. When I put it on, it’s like she’s hugging me. She is all around me. Her favorite prayer book sits on my bedroom lamp table, and her favorite recipe is lodged in my memory. I miss my mother.
              Mother’s Day perhaps should have found me at her gravesite, a pot of spring flowers ready to place beside her stone. Instead I chose to spend it embracing the life that is my daughter and the even brighter life that is my granddaughter. I know my mother would approve. And I know, really know in my heart, that my mother knows I miss her.
              I was missing my mother, robbed of who she was, forced to say goodbye long before she truly left. And so I guess every Mother’s Day will force me to reflect on the relationship I had with my mom. It will force me to look back and experience the feelings again. It is all testimony to the unending relationship we have with our mothers. And for that I suppose I should be grateful. I suppose too that I will never stop missing my mother.

               There are several phrases that seem to encapsulate a certain philosophy. None do it as well as one of my favorites: “It Is What It Is.” I recently purchased a sign with those words and have hung it on the wall in my attic/office so I see it whenever I look up. It is what it is. Why do I feel I should remind myself of this simple truth? Certainly when I went through the years of my mother’s dementia and later experienced my elderly dad’s passing on, I knew that things were fundamentally, basically, unequivocally the way they had to be. We could do nothing to change them. In keeping with the advice of the Serenity Prayer we had no recourse but to pray: for serenity, for courage, and for wisdom. The bottom line: acceptance. If only we could just accept things as they are.
              The funny thing is I have come across a variation of that phrase: “It Is What It Is – or Maybe Not.” This one makes me smile but shake my head. Talk about the Serenity Prayer – the need to have wisdom to see the difference between what we can change and what we can’t – I wish I could claim I had that in all circumstances of my life! Personal relationships are the most challenging I think. I can barely account for my own thoughts and actions; trying to figure out why others do or won’t do this or that can drive me nuts  (like waiting for an apology from an unrepentant person!). Yes, too often I think I can change something or someone if I say something differently, try a new approach, or offer another gesture. Doesn’t seem to work. And that is why, even now as I lift my head from my keyboard, I see the words: “It Is What It Is.” Maybe I need to stick a post-it note beneath that to read: “So let it go already!”
              Or maybe I should just write another book . . . .  ;)

This holiday, like any others, brings to mind childhood memories. My mother kept holy days well. I remember Good Fridays where she’d shut the curtains in the house and we’d stay silent from noon to 3 PM. We wouldn’t answer the phone and certainly no TV, etc. On Saturday, Portuguese sweet bread (with hard-boiled eggs inside) would be baked – later on just bought from a local bakery. We’d have an Easter egg hunt in our uncle’s backyard, with every child searching for the “golden egg” which had a dollar inside. Easter Sunday would find my father polishing our shoes. I can almost smell the white liquid polish as it skimmed over my scuffed flats. We’d dress in “Sunday best” of course and go to Mass together. Gathering with family was always a big part of the day, as ham and (alas) canned vegetables were served at dinnertime.

These memories may be fuzzy in places but the concept remains strong. Easter is a special day. Easter bunnies, Easter eggs, and even new clothes: all are symbolic of new life. Certainly as spring heralds the season of growth, we can all embrace the new even as we appreciate the old. Memories are very precious things.

            Have I mentioned lately that I sort of hate marketing? I mean the process of contacting people who might be interested in my book. There are many such avenues, but I find myself woefully non-assertive. Instead I sit and review lists of possible contacts, and though I send out emails and such, I am paralyzed when I get no response. I know I should pick up the phone and follow up, but gosh, I really hate to bother anyone. Not a good formula for an author with boxes of books sitting in her attic/office. So, what have I accomplished of late?
              Well, my book is being converted to an e-Book. If I ever get an e-Reader I will let you know how it looks. It seems crazy to me in a way that I am doing this at all. Then again I’ve said all along part of my motivation to publish my writing was to learn new things and keep my own gray cells firing. Another step forward is that I will be attending the Alzheimer’s Assoc. Education Conference on Dementia on March 27th. Once again my book will be on the table for sale among many esteemed resources. I’ve registered to attend some sessions, which I know will be beneficial as I strive to become more informed of this insidious disease.
              My business manager (aka my husband) and I are also revamping my brochure to include my availability for presentations. This has been my most surprising and rewarding discovery. Though I still get butterflies before my talks, once I get started I enjoy telling people my story about my mother and me as we traveled a hard road together. The listeners and I share “life preservers” – how we deal with this challenging situation without going completely bonkers. Writing of course has been that “life preserver” for me – the grace God gave me to cope.
              I just sort of wish He’d give me more push/know-how/courage/direction/etc. toward the marketing. Did I mention the boxes of books in my office? ;)

I was meandering through the essay file I have on my father, thinking maybe someday I should write about him. I’m not sure how that will work out, but I came across this favorite story about my son Michael and his grandfather (Vo-voo in Portuguese). I’ve shortened it a bit for this post:

  What We Leave Behind (Written Nov. 28, 2007)

            In the later years, when my son was full-grown, my dad enjoyed my son’s Jeep. In fact, rides in the Jeep became a favorite routine on Dad’s birthday celebration in Mystic. The first time my son turned Dad’s cap around in the traditional Jeep manner, we all laughed and of course had to take pictures.
             Then off they went chatting away. There was a stop for iced coffee as my octogenarian father clung to the side door, my son grinning with his cap also in reverse. It was a grand outing for them both.
              That Jeep played a part in their lives for nearly ten years. Then finally my son decided he had to get a more practical car. He promised his grandfather a ride in that as well, and they did get to do so, the year before my Dad died.
              In 2007 I stood with my son at my father’s casket and reminisced on their shared experiences. That’s when he whispered to me: “I gave Voo the key to the Jeep.” I was dumbfounded. I knew that Michael saved such mementos – he still had the front emblem from the old Ford van we’d had. Now he was telling me he had given my father the key to his old Jeep! Of course I began to cry, but then asked. “Where did you put it?” With a smile, he said he’d just slipped it in the side of the casket. I said, “Let’s put it in his pocket.” Then we both stifled a small laugh as I joked we didn’t want him to lose it.
              Michael then put the key gently in my Dad’s breast pocket. It was a gift that said ‘I remember you and I treasured those times we had. And if somehow this can go with you, take it.’ The key of course cannot go with him. But the love can. And does.