I wish I could remember which friend shared these simple words of wisdom regarding mother loss with me:
You never get over it. You just get on with it.
Thank you, whomever you were. Your face got lost amidst all the chaos of my heartache, but I will never forget the message.
We never "get over" the fact that our mother is no longer in our life. We eventually forget how their nagging annoyed us, how the guilt they could inflict plagued us, how their health issues frustrated us, how their criticism wounded us, and how their neediness fatigued us.
The Light is more powerful than the Dark, and fortunately, all we seem to be able to remember is how very much they loved us. And when we feel as if this love has been removed, it sends us reeling. For who among us doesn't need to feel loved?
Even those who have trouble experiencing an exceptional bond, it still just seems like Life was meant to have a Mother in it. I think of my treasured friends who do not enjoy pleasant relationships with their mothers, and I know they, too, will feel shattered, and will be in crucial need of comforting when their mothers pass, too. Either way, it's still a sinkhole. Whether simple or complicated, it's hard to imagine thriving without a mother's concern for us as some sort of invisible safety net.
Our mother's death— agonizing at the outset of our journey. Initially, we truly question how we will carry on. Somehow, we succeed, morphing from minute by minute, to hour by hour, to day by day, to month by month. As the years pass, we gradually take all of those memories rattling around upstairs in our brains, and subconsciously "whitewash them in positivity" before tucking them safely away in our hearts.
I can't watch home videos of my daughters when they were tots without a swift case of the blues. Where are those uninhibited, darling little creatures now, oozing with sweetness and innocence and adoration for me? They're right here, still living under the same roof, but "The Tinies," as I lovingly referred to them, may as well have disappeared.
I've done the same thing with my memories of their early childhood as I have with those of my mother: varnished them with a heavy, sticky coating of bliss and perfection, so that I can no longer see those were actually very labor-intensive days. No going out on dates with my husband and leaving them home alone with a pizza. No going out to a family dinner without leaving the B minus, kid-friendly establishment without cheese in my hair. No running speedy errands in the sweltering Texas heat without patiently allowing ample time for the troops to get in and out of their car seats. What's that smell, mingling with the scent of my freshly washed hair, newly dry-cleaned blouse and perfumed body? Ah yes, a leaking poopy diaper. Dear God. But in my memory bank, these scenes play out like fairy tales.
We whitewash, we varnish, we bathe those memories in the bright light of love. That's how we cope. That's how we heal. We make them so beautiful we can never get over it, but somehow, this process enables us to get on with it.
Which brings me to my last point. You, too, will eventually be able to get on with it. Toss your calendar. Take your time. And trust your instincts.