To Thine Own Self Be True...
A few days ago, a friend shared her struggles with the
ending of a relationship. It wasn’t the relationship that was troubling her,
but several well-meaning friends who were giving their opinions about what she
needed to do. I suggested our slogan, “to thine own self be true.” I need
to heed my own advice. Normally, I sit down to write this blog on a topic
I’ve been thinking about, and the words flow. Yesterday, I assumed my usual
position, and kept getting stuck on one topic or another. When I walked
away from the computer and relaxed into the frustration, I realized that what I
really want to write about is my mother, though my logical brain was telling me
to do anything but. Head vs heart – the eternal battle. To thine own self be
true...
Today is the 4th anniversary of my dear mother’s
death. A few weeks before she passed, she held my hand and said, “I know you’ll
always miss me, just like I still miss my mother.” I thought, “Oh great. Grandma's been gone for 40 years. Does it ever go away?” Well, not in 4
years it doesn’t. The 1st months were so painful. I now understand
completely what it means to be grief stricken. The overwhelming, physically
painful sadness has dissipated, but the tears and that empty space in my heart
still sneak up on me. I recognize the sorrow more quickly these days, and find
that if I simply sit and acknowledge the loss (“hi Mom”), it flows through me
more gently. It is when I tell myself that I “shouldn’t” be feeling this way
after 4 years, or when I try to self-will my feelings into something else, that
I get stuck and cranky and wonder what’s wrong. Nothing is wrong. I miss my
mother. Period.
My mother, Laura, was descended from Oregon pioneers. Her father, Hal Hoss, was Secretary of
State, though died in office of tuberculosis in the 1930’s. Growing up in the
Depression and during WWII, she knew how to make the best of hard times. This
was helpful after she met my dad on a blind date, and married him in
1947. With 2 little kids and a hard drinking husband (he got sober when I
was in 8th grade), she did her best to maintain a stable household. Part
of that was greeting us after school with chocolate chip cookies fresh from the oven, and a
cold glass of milk. She wasn't perfect, but those cookies sure tipped the scale in her favor. We fought a lot in my surly teenage years, but became friends after I got married, then divorced, then connected, then unconnected, becoming even closer after dad died in 1980. I did my best to hide my addictions from her, which mostly worked. And in my recovery years we made peace for the childhood stuff, and came to that wonderful place of enjoying each other's company. Oh how she loved to laugh. As her physician said, when I serendipitously ran into her in the grocery parking lot, my mom had that joie de vivre, a zest for life.
And then she died, after battling tobacco-related lung
disease for longer than she admitted. By all counts it was a good death – she
died at home, in her bed, just as she’d wanted. She was alert and capable until she passed, and got up for a bite of my birthday pizza 2 days
before. And then she simply went to sleep, or wherever it is people go as
they prepare to leave. I sang to her the Christian Science hymn that she used to
sing to us as a lullaby, I recited the Lord’s Prayer, I held her hand. And
then, when she was gone, I gently and gratefully turned off the noisy and
necessary oxygen tank, so glad to remove her from that tether.
Life is a series of letting go, of grieving. Those of us in
recovery know that all too well. We grieve the loss of our innocence, the loss
of our dreams, the loss of companions to the disease. And as we stay
sober for a long time, we mourn for our loved ones – our parents and siblings
and sponsors and friends. Loving means that at some point we will hurt. Grief
is a gift of that love.
So this morning, I lit candles and sat for some moments with my memories. I spoke with mom's cousin, Betty, the only living relative of that generation. Betty's husband of 67 years was recently placed in an Alzheimer's facility. In acknowledging how hard that is,Betty said, "I wish I could talk with Laura May." I do too.
Oh, dear, Jeanine, you've struck such a tuning fork in me, the echo continues deep into the days. Thank you. There are so many things to reflect on, but the most tender and sweet is your transition from child to stinky adolescent to sober loving woman, reconciling yourself with your past while still having a loving mother with whom to share it. My mother died years before my recovery began, when I was 33 and still in the throws of my addiction. The healing I had with her was while sitting on a bench by her gravesite some 16 years after she'd gone, 7 years after my own recovery began, when I was finally able to make an amends --- to speak directly about the shame and guilt I felt for my past relationship with her. I spoke aloud to her from my heart and cried not just in the recognition of grief, the emotion of the moment, but for the regret of what I'd not appreciated, the loss of this woman whom I did not know. Before I left I sang Amazing Grace then sat in silence as the sun came out --- it was a transformative moment; as if she was saying "I hear you, sweetheart". I savor the comfort in that day sitting by her grave, now 21 years later. Recovery has allowed me to forgive myself fully; I carry her picture with me and when my heart aches again, as it frequently does, I look in her eyes and send love. I am now almost 10 years older than she was when she died. We don't all get to have the direct experience of healing in real time, but healing does happen and recovery has given me that gift. Thank you, Jeanine, for sharing your experience and reminding me of mine.
ReplyDeleteThank you to you, and to all the others who gently reminded me that my feelings are my feelings, especially related to loss...
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