Tag Archives: love

MOTHERING WITHOUT MY MOTHER

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.

ON DISTANCE

We all remember them. The defining moments that change the course of a relationship. One moment it’s smooth sailing and the next you’re weathering the storm. Oftentimes the shift happens under uncomfortable circumstances: your first big fight, the loss of a loved one, a deeply buried secret, health scares, etc. A lot rides on the way we handle our growing pains early on.

For us, the defining tide was distance.

Geography slipped between us once I moved off campus to the other coast. Soon after Jordan began a Master’s program that relocated him up north. Suddenly, a few hours drive from each other grew into seven.

Most would agree that distance generally sucks at any stage. It’s especially challenging early on in a relationship when all you want to do is spend every waking moment with a person. You’re still studying each other’s quirks and routines, and so desperately want to be woven into them, as opposed to imagining them on the other end of a text.

To be perfectly candid, it was grueling in the beginning.

Every sad love song seemed ten times sadder. Holidays and celebrations would come and go. We’d plan our visits around them far in advance, but sometimes we’d have to postpone. And every once in a while we’d have to cancel them all together. Gone were the days of spontaneity. I mourned the memories we didn’t get to have.

The missed Skype connections or cancelled plans began wearing me thin. A perfectly reasonable missed phone call was hard not to take personal. The combination of modest bank accounts, Jordan’s finicky Jeep and my demanding (and temporary) nursing program stint were a recipe for the perfect storm.

I just really missed my best friend.

Whenever things got murky, our focus was redirected on the bigger picture. One day we’d live in the same zip code under the same roof. We even purchased a set of fancy Crate & Barrel tea towels that became symbolic of our future. A glimmer of the home we’d create back on shore.

The choppy waters strengthened our trust in one another and made us value our independence. Space gave us room to flourish so we could as a pair (I’ll dedicate a whole post on that in the future).

For those first few years, we grew together while being apart in the best way we knew how: words of affirmation. We spoke and wrote them freely, the state of our hearts were always in check.

We weren’t afforded the luxury to beat around the bush. We couldn’t rely on body language or be comforted by each other’s presence after a short round of the silent treatment. In a way we were lucky to omit those tactics all together. Distance handed us a crash course on emotional maturity and clear communication.

Although we didn’t pass the first couple go arounds, we were earnest about making it work. I’m really proud of the twenty year old versions of us.

One of the first things we unpacked at our new home were the fancy tea towels. Till this day they hang in our kitchen like badges of honor.

What I found especially valuable during those challenging times was learning the art of writing a damn good love letter.

Back in December 2016, I wrote an anniversary post on our way to celebrate in San Francisco. Romance is amplified in a city of lights. If you’ve been following along for a while, this story may be familiar to you. If not, here is more of my heart.

A LOVE LETTER TO THE POST OFFICE

Jordan used to joke that the mailperson was reading our love letters.

If they did, they’d learn that for the first part of our relationship, we were two broke college kids who saved our pennies all month so we could “meet each other halfway.” Or that our go-to date looked like making dinner and watching the same movie over the phone. They’d see the bucket list that gave us something to look forward to in our stretches of absence.

When you go weeks-sometimes months without seeing each other, it makes every day you do get together your favorite day.

Even after being roommates for three times the length of our time apart, we never lost that. I can’t help but be reminded of how lucky we are to do all the wonderfully mundane things together; like grocery shopping as a team; or ending the night in a car going the same direction.

I’d also like to think it indirectly made everyday these past nine years feel like the honeymoon phase.

If I can go back and tell that postal worker anything, I’d thank them- over and over again.