a mother's love reflected

it's amazing to me how fuzzy everything gets when i try to look back on the past. memory no longer has a bright eye but a faded smile, or is it a grimace, a wince, a sober silence locked away while i swallow the key and peer beyond a ship over a foggy ocean?

i'm writing stories of my childhood in working on my next book. stories of my mother's desperate tries to be a good parent, of my desperate tries to be a good daughter, and stories of failing miserably, both her and i. but we were only human, what else could we expect?

i look back and see a mother who was trying so hard to be liked, to be loved, and by people who didn't know how to like or love anything or anyone that wasn't money in the bank, a sly, stiff drink, or another man who knew how to handle his power. she wanted to be loved by people who tried to love, but were just no good at it, so i think they stopped trying, only my mother never seemed to notice. this is the problem with always seeing the good in people.

we hold these truths to be self-evident, but we shield our eyes from the light of that truth and look away when it's too hard to bear. so many times i see a mother who could have changed everything, and refused to try until it was too late, and that last attempt did, in fact, change everything.

but i can't imagine a life that was changed by an action that never happened, a life that never was. i used to dream of a place where my mother was still alive, where she cared more about me than she did about being loved by people who would never love her, where she cared more about herself than being wrong. but i know this place does not exist, and so i stay in the world i've created, here in the now, the present, the life of love and truth and what's real, and right here in front of me.

love never dies. only people do. i love my mother even more fiercely now than i ever have before. in part because i love my self more fiercely now than i ever have before. i recognize that her actions did not reflect her love for me, only her lack of love for her self. i don't pity her, i learn from her, and i love her. as i always have, as i always will.

what's hers is hers

my girl's grandmother passed away this week. mum. i only met her a few times. she's the kind of woman you instantly fall in love with. proper in her manners, sweet in her demeanor, and fierce in her love and respect for her granddaughter.

the last time we saw mum was over skype. she was in aww at how the picture on the screen was really us all the way over here in california. she got to "meet" jackson and share a space of love and smiles over the mysterious waves of the internet. for that, i will always be grateful to skype.

it kills me to see my girl's heart so broken. i don't know what to do for her, i don't know what to say. i can go through my own pain, but how do i just sit here and let her go through hers?

i'm trying not to let my grief overshadow hers. this is her loss, and even though i feel an ounce of it, too, i have to remind myself of my role in her grief: support; love; kisses; space; shoulder; tissue giver; ear; head rest; and more love.

i can't speak to what she's going through because i know we all process grief differently. i can only marvel at how she's actually processing it. it's so different from my own family's way of getting through death. they cover it up with "being strong" and "sucking it up" and "moving on".

erin said, "i'm gonna call my mom now," after spending a few tears on my shoulder. a few years ago i might have been jealous that she has a mother to call. today i was grateful. grateful that she has a mother to call, grateful that i just adore that mother, and grateful that their relationship is one where they can process through their grief together. it's a special bond, and i'm grateful to be a witness to it all.

true strength shows up in feeling the pain and moving through it. true strength shows up in breaking down and letting it all out whenever that wave hits you. true strength is moving through it, whatever it may be, and not figuring out how to maneuver around it.

i'm eternally grateful for this gift of being able to see erin's true strength shine. and a little piece of me hopes i never have to see it again.

Dead Yet?

I wrote this part of a chapter yesterday:

Rick, Johnny and Ian walked into Forest Lawn's mortuary and funeral services office to finalize the purchase of my father's plot. They'd been there before. They'd met with a tiny European man with an accent, who showed them the grassy knoll where my father would be buried. The same man greeted them when they walked in the door. Rick expected a hello, or a courtesy smile and head tilt. He received neither. Instead, the accented European man said to the three of them, "Dead yet?"

I told a friend of mine about this experience the other day, which I only recently learned about from my uncle, and she shared a similar, jarring experience. Her family member died suddenly of a heart attack. She was still in shock several days later when she was at the funeral home making the arrangements. As the sales guy went over the options, he began to make jokes. About the type of casket—"oh you don't want that one, that's a girly casket, I bet this guy'd want a manly casket, I mean, not that he gets a say now, guffaw, guffaw..." People can be so insensitive.

Is it really insensitivity? Are people just trying to make light of a tough situation? Do I expect too much from people who provide services for the dead and still need to functionally communicate with the living? Am I wrong to expect sensitivity or genuine caring from these people?

I am grateful that I wasn't with my uncles and cousin that day at Forest Lawn. And I am grateful I wasn't there with my friend at that funeral home. Had I been in either of those places, I just might have lost my composure.

Or I would have sat in the chair like my friend did, dumbfounded that the words were coming out of this man's face at all. She actually had the courage to ask him to tone the humor down a bit. He apologized and then went right back to doing business as usual, poor humor, and all.

Or I would have laughed heartily as my cousin impersonated the European accent all the way back to the hospital. We Reids enjoy a good bit of dry humor.

While hindsight might offer a lot of options, in the moment, it's hard to know what you'll say or do. I can only hope that the next time I walk into a funeral home because someone I love has died, that I'm treated with respect and humility, not sales and bad judgment.