On the flip side, however, writing about it also makes me feel incredibly bare, like I am flaunting something I shouldn't be. I really don't want it to seem like that. I'm ashamed of it, but I know that in my younger days I used tragedy to gain attention to some degree. I'd like to think I am more mature than that now. I may not know better how to express pain, but I know a little better how not to.
Yet on days like today - the twelve year anniversary of my mother's passing - I feel overwhelmed by the memories that I am often trying to piece together because I never want to forget. Some of them are extremely painful - like those of the day she died - and some are funny, silly things that I just don't want to forget about her.
After my mom died, I remember feeling shrouded in a way. I felt distant from the world, like there was a layer of fog between me and everyone. I remember finding all these little things. I connected and attached meaning to everything, realizing that everything had meaning. A shopping list she'd written. A box of cake mix she'd bought but never had the chance to make (I presumed she'd planned to save it for the April birthdays of me and my father). And some things felt like they had no meaning at all: being in school, listening to small talk, sleeping, eating.
The morning she died, I remember my father's frantic voice coming through my sleep, calling for help. And I remember my brother's pleading voice asking me if I knew CPR, him asking the EMT questions through his tears. He was only 17. That EMT was the first person whose shoulder I cried on. I wasn't thinking about her being a stranger - I was unable to think at all, really. She patiently let me do so and I never even knew her name.
In the last years of her life, my mother's health problems had increased and with them came a heavy depression. She stopped bathing, claiming that she felt claustrophobic in the shower/bathroom. She stopped taking care of herself at all, so that she developed a somewhat gritty scent. She lost some of her teeth. She laid in bed for most of the day, until an hour or so before my dad was due home from work. Her respiratory ailments had finally come to a head and she was put on oxygen by her doctor. She was so sad, and I was an angry brat, a young adult coming off a difficult adolescence. I didn't really talk to her and when I did, it was usually saturated in sarcasm. At the time of her death, I believed that her depression must have been partly my fault and partly my dad's, because we were such difficult people (I have always said that I am very much my father's daughter).
I don't really believe that anymore, though I do regret that our relationship wasn't a closer one. I have a great deal of really wonderful memories about my mom, too. I invoke her in conversation regularly - she had many a strange saying that my siblings and I picked up and now jokingly refer to as "mom-isms." She'd say, "I'm hungry enough to eat fried doorknobs!" or "Oh, horse feathers!" My best friend from high school got such a kick out of my mom's exclamation, "sugarfoot!" that she adopted it as her own replacement for cursing.
She also recited verse regularly, especially the few lines from Macbeth that is the subject line of this entry and the following from Coleridge's "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" :
"Water, water, everywhere,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink."
She did this so often that I knew these lines long before I knew the poem or had ever read Shakespeare.
She also sang songs - I believe she spent some time in the church choir in her youth - and the one I remember most was the old Sinatra song "I'm Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter." And she loved movies. She could talk about old movies and movie stars like they were old friends. She was actually a really great storyteller and had, at one point in her life, wanted to be a writer. She'd considered taking a newspaper writing course in Connecticut at one point, but had chickened out at the last minute. She used to tell me how my dad was going to drive her up there and knowing my dad, I imagined that he had talked her out of it.
But she is the person I credit as the reason I began dreaming of a writing career. She got me addicted to books when I was a kid and praised me for reading and writing. One Christmas, she bought me the entire series of The Sweet Valley Twins (along with several other books, like Behind The Attic Wall, Daphne's Book and several Sweet Valley High and The Baby-sitter's Club books). She got me and my brother library cards and she bragged to all my teachers (and occasional family members, nurses, etc.) that I was going to be a writer. As if I was, no matter if I liked it or not. In the early days, I beamed proudly along with her. In my teenage years, I was embarrassed and annoyed by it and took to dead-panning that "No, actually, I'm gonna be an undertaker."
After giving up on dreams of her own writing career, my mom seemed to have developed a dream to have a writer in the family and despite my arguments, I knew that I really wanted to be that writer.
I have to head out soon, so I guess I will leave on that lighter note. By the end of my life, perhaps I will have managed to tell the story of hers in some way that does her justice.