Wednesday – Advice My Dead Mom Gave Me

[ninanevermore]

After Yesterday's Post, noblwish commented that her dead father talks to her all the time (she's blood, and I can vouch that this happens in our family) and simplecity2htwn mentioned that when he laughs he hears his father laughing, which got me to thinking about the conversations (yes, two way) I've had with my mother in the years since she died.
.
.
.
Right after someone close to you dies, you feel them everywhere. They are in the rooms of your house, they are in your car while you bawl your eyes out because driving is the only time you can find the kind of solitude to cry that way, and they are even helping you get dressed for their funeral (Just wear that, it's fine. No one cares how your hair looks today, don't worry about it). You feel them wanting to put their arms around you. You hear them, just beneath your conscience mind, telling you that you are going to be okay.

People don't like to talk about this, because they think others will think they are crazy or delusional. We've been trained to not trust what we feel. I've learned that whenever I think I am special and unique in some way, or crazy in someway, that there are always a lot of people who will step forward and say that they know exactly what I'm talking about.

They step back after awhile, after they are sure you are okay. They move on only after you let go of them a bit and let them. It's almost like when I tell my son, "I can't carry you. You're big enough to walk on your own." But when he stumbles and reaches out his hand to me, I take it and hold it tight until he finds his balance again. When you reach out to the dead, they usually reach back.

I first visited my mother's grave a year after she passed. When she first died, I didn't care to visit a grave because a cemetery was not where I wanted my mother to be. I suppose I was a bit angry, because during this period whenever I was in a car that passed that cemetery, I would shout out "Hi, Mom!" much to the discomfort of my companions. My friend Linda thought it was disrespectful and told me so. I told her that ignoring my mom when driving past her would be disrespectful, and beside my mom got sense of humor and I think it made it laugh to know I was doing this.

But the time came when I needed to go there and make peace with my loss. For a long time, it was where I went when I needed to sit and think. I used to talk to her, too, and ask for advice. If I really needed it, she gave it. If I was just being dramatic (as teenaged girls are wont to do), I got the impression she was rolling her eyes and saying Oh, cool it. You know better, Dolly.

Dolly was her pet name for me. No one else ever has ever called me that.

I used to ask her for advice about boys, too. My first boyfriend, David, and I became an item a little over a year after she died. I thought about him, I thought toward her, and I was rewarded with a warm feeling of approval that spread through my whole being. She like him. My I met my next boyfriend, Frank, my freshman year in college. When I "showed" him to my mother, I will never forget the feeling that came over me: it was so full of disapproval and dislike that I felt like I was going to be sick. This made me angry; I thought she was judging me. Later, after that relationship came to its ugly end, it made perfect sense to me. Frank was a certifiable psychopath. He was charming and handsome, but utterly amoral. I thought I could "help" him, and ended up getting sucked into his chaos instead.

When I met my husband, Jeff, I knew I would love him. It was actually the second time I saw him that I knew this. We'd been introduced the day before, and when I walked into the room and saw him from afar the next day I knew as sure as I knew my own name that I was destined to love him. It took me completely by surprise, because after Frank I'd decided to spend a life of solitude rather than get mixed up in any more romances. I resisted, I played coy, I tried to keep my distance, and twenty years later here I am, sharing his name and raising a child with him.

I visited the cemetery shortly after Jeff and I began dating, and "showed" him to her. Her answer surprised me.

Why are you coming here? Why are you asking me? You already know the answer.

It hurt my feelings a little. I'd wanted her approval, and while she didn't disapprove, she told me that I didn't need her approval any more and refused to grant it. I took this as a snub.

I still visited her grave to change the faded silk flowers and to drop off things like announcements for events like my college graduation and wedding that I really wanted her to not be dead and attend in the way that mothers are supposed to.

My dead mother was silent for a lot of years, until I was 34 and the snooze button on my biological clock broke. I'd been thinking that if I wanted a child, the time was running out. Once I discovered one was on the way, all my fears about whether I could handle what was happening caught me in a death grip. What if I couldn't control my diabetes and damaged my baby some how with my carelessness? I'd never really had the tightest of control, or the mindset and willpower to keep my blood glucose levels at the level of a normal person. What if my child was born with problems I could have prevented? How was I going to live with that?

Don't worry. You can do it. This child will be extraordinary. "Extraordinary" was the word that came though loud and clear. I felt the words in my mother's voice, and I realized they were true.

My average blood sugar through my pregnancy was the same as a non-diabetic woman's. My OB called me the least troublesome high-risk pregnancy she'd ever dealt with. I did it, and it wasn't really all that hard.

After my son was born, I didn't just leave a birth announcement on her grave. I plopped his car seat, with him strapped into to it and fast asleep, down right on top of the sod over her coffin, right in front of the plaque with her name on it.

"Look what I made, Mom," I said. "He's cute, huh?"

I felt that familiar bright spot, that love and approval spread through me, but she didn't say a word. I guess she didn't need to.


* ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * # * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ * ~ *

Comments

[simplecity2htwn.livejournal.com]

The days following my dad's death were a whirlwind of emotions. I had to deal with arrangements, family (including his mother who was dying from cancer), and 1000 other things. I don't remember feeling sad or upset or anything else. I just remember being numb. The Saturday following his funeral was the first time that I'd had any chance to just sit down and think. I sat in the playground up the street from his house and I'll never forget that the sun came through the clouds and all of the sudden I was just overcome with this feeling that wherever he was, he was okay. He'd made his journey and he'd be alright. It was probably the most comfortable/comforting feeling I've ever experienced.

[neanahe.livejournal.com]

The numbness and surreality are a coping mechanism; I'm convinced the people who don't experience that are the ones who go insane from their grief. The "I'm OK" message you get usually comes just as that numbness is starting to subside.

[jenelycam.livejournal.com]

*sniffle* I love it!!

[neanahe.livejournal.com]

Thank you, Dawn. :)

[jaiden-z.livejournal.com]

This was very touching. Thank you for sharing it.

[neanahe.livejournal.com]

Thank you.

[poetlady.livejournal.com]

This is so beautiful. It makes me cry.

And it's hard to type when you are crying...

[neanahe.livejournal.com]

Oh, but it can be done. You just have to practice. :)

You know that scene at the beginning of Romancing The Stone where Kathleen Turner is writing her novel with tears streaming down her face because she's so wrapped up in the story she's creating? That's how I look when I write about my mom. No kidding. It's pathetic. :P

[callmekili.livejournal.com]

But when he stumbles and reaches out his hand to me, I take it and hold it tight until he finds his balance again. When you reach out to the dead, they usually reach back.

I love the way you worded that "when you reach out to the dead, they usually reach back".... lovely story... i often find myself talking to both my parents... i even started a journal of writing letters to my mom when things got to be a little too overwhelming to handle... its quite helpful...

i found myself nodding along as i read stories of those feelings of communication from those loved yet whom have moved on.... people dont seem to understand unless theyve been through it

[neanahe.livejournal.com]

It's true: there are some experiences that must be experienced first hand in order to accept them.