Home Spirituality Life on Purpose A daughter’s reflection on her first Mother’s Day without Mom

A daughter’s reflection on her first Mother’s Day without Mom

I’ve been dreading this day for a month.

Two months ago, my sisters and I were planning a Mother’s Day celebration that included my five siblings, spanning 21 years from oldest to youngest. Though we all made sure we saw Mom long before Mother’s Day, it seemed like she was going to defy the odds of multiple strokes and other setbacks to enjoy one final celebration with her children.

 

LOP largeInstead, Easter was her last celebration with some of her kids as the rest of us were sure to check in by phone throughout the weekend. I saw the photos of the day as I cleaned up the final remnants of our beautiful Easter dinner at home with my kids and friends.

Singing professionally at church means that sometimes you make sacrifices on the holidays. Even if I had left from church to drive to Connecticut, I wouldn’t have made it in time for the celebrations. But still, I wondered as I viewed the pictures on Facebook, if I would regret sitting this one out.

Turns out I did. Mom suffered a massive stroke that left her bedridden and slipping in and out of consciousness just hours after that Easter celebration. She died one week later.

My anticipatory excitement for planning one last hooray for Mother’s Day turned into a puddle of tears and waves of grief that threaten to keep me crying most every day since her death one month ago.

I have friends and acquaintances who have lost their mothers.

But now, all I can say to those friends is, “I’m sorry. I had no idea. It hurts so bad.”

I had one glimpse into this painful reality through the up-close and personal loss of my dear sister who died just nine short months ago. My niece and I bonded as we fought alongside my sister in her battle with a debilitating disease. And when my sister died, I felt her daughter’s pain deeply and promised to mother her as if she were my own daughter.

I also apologized to my older niece, for not understanding her pain when, 28 years ago — she was just 15 years old —she lost her mother in a car accident. At that time, I was a new mom of three days. Caring for my first-born son insulated my broken heart, as I said goodbye to the only sister who could answer the many questions I had about motherhood.

Saying goodbye to my second sister nine months ago was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do in my life — until I said goodbye to Mom.

A steady stream of children and grandchildren kept vigil for a week at her side, to comfort Mom and tell her stories, and to pray the prayers she taught us to pray.

Her last night on this earth was spent cradled in my arms. Her frail body was warm to the touch and she comforted me more than any comfort I could offer her in these final hours. I drifted in and out of sleep singing hymns and praying prayers, and whispering goodbyes. I told her stories of heaven that I had read in the Bible and in accounts from others who lived to tell them.

As I struggled to hold on, I told her to let go, with promises that our lives will go on in peace because of all she’d sacrificed these ninety-one years. As I drifted in and out of sleep, spooned around my mother’s little body, I thought of the many lessons she’d taught me.

Especially in this past year, with great concern in her eyes, mom reminded me to take care of myself. She told me she couldn’t lose another child and that caring for my own needs was the only way I would continue to care for my family, most especially for my disabled daughter with special needs.

Mom exemplified the saying that we should give our children roots and wings. She recounted my traumatic birth, recalling that the Lord saved me from death because my life held a purpose for God, which I would know if I listened with my heart.

She believed in me and pushed me to accomplish the things I was called to do. I kept telling her she wasn’t allowed to die until I published my first book.

She waited 90 years before the book was published, but in the final five, Mom would say, “Write the damn book and maybe these difficult things will stop happening to you.”

My daughter hasn’t had a major brain surgery since the book was published. A mother always knows.

Like all of us, Mom struggled with some anxiety about the future and worried about her eight children, two of whom preceded her in death. But in her final days, Mom greeted death with the joy of eternal life.

Two weeks before she died, I was sitting cuddled close to my mother on her couch. I was trying to get her to wear a miraculous medal, a religious pendant dedicated to the Virgin Mary. The medal belonged to my deceased sister and had been given to me by my niece.

But Mom would have none of it. She wasn’t one for wearing jewelry and her faith was never worn on the outside, but rather lived concretely in her daily life. She patted the medal in my hand and let out hearty laughter as she assured me, “I’m on my way out of this life and headed home to heaven. You have a whole life ahead of you and lots more work to do. You wear that medal and remember that Mary is taking care of you.”

Her laughter was contagious, even as tears streamed down my face. My son caught that poignant moment in a photo that I will forever treasure. When I look at the photo, these words come to mind from Proverbs 31:25: “She is clothed with strength and dignity. She laughs at the days to come”.

I recognized Mom’s final gift to me as I sat beside her casket. Through my tears, I marveled at the beauty of this blue casket adorned with simple tiles of seagulls in flight. Their beauty consoled me. I recalled her telling me of her visits to the funeral home last summer. She pre-paid the expenses, picked out the casket and even put a deposit on a luncheon for after the funeral. Mom always loved the color blue, watching birds in flight and making sure her kids were well-fed.

To my own children, who have honored me with the gift and privilege of motherhood, my hope and love for you is forever. I know one day we too, will laugh at the days to come with a joy that is eternal.

To those who share this bittersweet Mother’s day without your mom: I am sorry for your loss, but hopeful in our pain. As we cherish the memories of our mothers, we can grow to live well, from the lessons that they taught us.

Mom’s final lesson to me were words scribbled on a piece of yellow lined paper. Along with songs that she wanted me to sing, she included a message she wanted proclaimed during her funeral Mass:

“Remember to say, ‘I love you’, it may be the last time you do.”

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Eileen Benthal is a writer, speaker and wellness coach with a B.A. in Theology from Franciscan University. She is the author of Breathing Underwater: A Caregiver’s Journey of Hope.

Eileen and her husband Steve live in Jamesport and have four young adult children. Their youngest, Johanna, is a teenager with special needs.

Eileen can be reached at CareforaCaregiver.com.

 

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Eileen Benthal
Eileen is a writer, speaker and wellness coach with a bachelor’s degree in theology from Franciscan University. She and her husband Steve live in Jamesport and have four young adult children. Email Eileen