I’m in the middle of writing thank you cards to people who showed up for my family in person or from afar after my Mom died. I browse online for Lennon’s first birthday invitations now that we picked a theme. Airplanes, his newest obsession. The attempt to lighten the emotional toll works for a bit but not nearly as long as I hoped.
Snail mail is an art my Mom instilled in me. Her handwriting is as distinctive as a finger print. A swirly mixture of cursive with loops found in extra places. The illusion of Santa faded around third grade— my brother broke the news but the gift tags alone were damning evidence.
This is Motherhood. Carrying the weight of the world, grief of a loved one and the mental load of everyday tasks while nurturing a tiny human who counts on you for everything. There’s no clocking out from it. When those tiny hands and big eyes reach for me, everything else fades into the background. It’s the greatest practice in staying present. In some ways, I wonder how it might be delaying the way I process my Mom’s death. His joy is also a big part of my healing. Both are true.
Losing my mom within the same year of becoming one is like losing a security blanket of 30+ years. I was front row to the early and end stages of life side by side in the most humbling way. A lot of my confidence as a parent came from Mom as my witness. I grieve our relationship. I grieve the relationship she and Lennon won’t get to have. The cloud covered birthday invitation with a vintage plane will only be addressed to Dad now. Mom would’ve volunteered to help with set-up and clean-up. “Order more food!” she would insist while waving her credit card in the air. A perfectly wrapped tower of gifts with her swirly half-cursive script would fill a whole corner of a table. She planned all my birthday’s, put together my Halloween costumes and helped me with my science fair projects putting her unique touch on everything. Mama Pancho made occasions special.
Today marks a month since she’s been gone. The logistics of Mom’s service and being surrounded with family kept me busy but now that we’ve returned to our routine in Georgia it’s been both a relief and strangely foreign. Trying to move forward and find our new normal without her feels like a quiet betrayal.
Grief comes in waves. We run into neighbors who innocently ask where we’ve been. What we’ve been up to. I soak up the sympathy and shock on their faces like a sponge when I break the news it wasn’t for a vacation. Friends kindly welcome us back in town wanting to make plans I’m unsure I can keep. It’s all dependent on how I’m feeling any given day.
I knew I’d find comfort in the familiar embrace of friends and family. I hadn’t anticipated the healing I’d find within my Mom’s circle of girlfriends. Most of these women I haven’t seen since I was a young girl. They were colleagues working at the hospital for many years. The hospital where I was born; the same one my Mom spent her final days. I messaged these ladies about Mom’s passing with the intention of sharing service details. Instead they took me in. Held me. We have our own group chat now filled with comforting support. They have no obligation to send me regular check-ins. I think that’s why they mean so much.
One of the ladies, Elvi mailed a beautiful photo album capturing years of their monthly ladies nights. I know Mom looked forward to getting dolled up and catching up with her lifelong friends. Retirement and half of them being strewn across different towns didn’t stop them from making the effort. I enjoyed seeing her from a different perspective –more than a Mom and a wife. More than lab techs in white coats. She was in her element. My Mom could make a friend anywhere, and she did. What I found more admirable was her special knack at holding onto them. Even her high school friends kept in touch via a Facebook group where they’d plan meet ups and reunions on the West Coast. It broke her heart to cancel a long awaited trip with them last year during chemo treatment. She loved and treasured people. I find comfort knowing how big she was loved in return.
What a beautiful gift it is to have a security blanket — a sense of home within a person — and to now have the chance to be that for someone else. There’s not enough thank you cards in the world to express it.
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