My mom wasn’t supposed to live. Born three months early, she came out of the womb at three pounds, two ounces, followed five minutes later by her ‘baby’ brother. The twins stayed in the NICU for months, not even visited by my grandmother. She was told not to get attached.
She had a scrappy but happy childhood, growing up on a beautiful cove in Quaker Hill, where she learned to swim and ice skate, where she went crabbing and boating. She had a pet crow as a kid. They were definitely not a conventional family. There have never been any pretenses of an all-American household, but in actuality, that’s what theirs was.
My mom married my dad and was a happy homemaker in her early adult years. When my parents got divorced after 13 years, her world was upsided. She had to go out and find a job and learn to be alone. Being a single mom was never something she envisioned or wanted, nor was it something she thrived at. They were hard years. I remember anger and tears.
Certain transgressions occurred throughout her life. The specifics remain murky to me. But she has shared certain things and the suppressed trauma that resulted was enough to cause a lifetime of pain, doubt, fear and, addiction. These are things that are shared more openly in our culture these days, but were kept mum then.
There were years of alcoholism—par for the course in the family. It was when I was an adult, and I avoided talking to her on the phone after 6pm. If the slur of her words didn’t tell me she was drunk, the fact that she didn’t remember our conversation in the coming days did. But then she miraculously quit cold-turkey, and hasn’t touched booze in almost 20 years.
One by one, her family left her. First, her beloved mother, a teacher and an artist. Then her father, who was a civil engineer, a tough Yankee, though sweetened in late years by the devastation of Alzheimer’s. His death was followed by one of my mom’s three brothers. Then her only sister. And another brother. She became estranged from her twin brother, her only living family member, which caused years of more pain. Happily, that riff has been, if not mended, at least patched well enough that there’s no longer estrangement or anguish.
Throughout it all, she’s been riddled with physical issues. Diverticulitus. Pancreatitis. Arthritis. IBS. A car accident that led to rotator cuff surgery, which she later tore again and had another surgery. There was colon surgery, foot surgery, surgery to remove lumps in her breasts (which later proved unnecessary), a broken ankle and, last year, a busted knee.
Despite all of this, my mom chooses joy. She powers through. She’s about 100 pounds of whoop-ass. “I just keep going,” she laughs. Coming up on 75, she’s been a smoker her whole life and, so far, has kept Alzheimer’s and cancer at bay. Thank god.
I don’t want to wait until she’s gone to commemorate her. To relish in the details that make me love her so. To celebrate her sweet and batshit-crazy ways. To honor all the quirky things that make her her.
The way she says “holy mackerel” and “too-da-loo.” Her Yankee stubbornness and accent. Her incredible thoughtfulness and creativity. She sews, knits, designs cakes, makes crafts and epic signs, wraps presents as if the wrapping were the gift itself. She’ll give anything a go.
As tough as she is, she’s soft to the core. She loves her family so much. Not just me and Chris and Bob and her three grandchildren. But every last niece, nephew, cousin, second cousin, in-law and especially all the people who came before her. She cherishes and champions our family legacy, and really is our collective memory. So many stories are locked in her mind, it makes me feel bad that I’m not equally fluent in the family tree and all the anecdotes she shares.
She’s also incredibly stylish. To this day, her outfits put mine to shame. My friends still comment on how cute she always looks. The colors and coordination, accessories and overall aesthetic. She always looks great. Unless she’s wearing that crummy Superman t-shirt.
My mom is moving back to Connecticut next month after spending the past 30+ years up outside of Buffalo. I’m beyond happy that she gets to come full circle and be close to her home and family that grounds her and brings her happiness and peace. It’s such a gift that I’ll get to see her more regularly, and be with her in her last years. That Parker, who absolutely adores her, will develop a stronger bond and memories of her.
Mother-daughter relationships are complicated. But this is one of my greatest joys: witnessing the life that borne and raised me. To contemplate the life she’s lived and how admirably she continues to thrive. To soon be able to spend more time with her. To look at her as not only my mother, but as the incredible woman she is and always been.
