A Sad Anniversary

Today marks the sixth anniversary of my mom's death. I still can remember almost every detail of that entire day, from getting a call from dad before sunrise, to my brother picking me up and driving over to the house I grew up in. I can recall talking with my sister in those pre-dawn hours as mom wanted to know what the big event was that all us kids were there. The conflicting emotions and the nearly insane paralysis that slowly overtook me throughout the day as mom slowly drifted away still reverberates in my mind. I remember when she finally went: how strangely calm I was when everyone else seemed so destroyed, just sitting at the end of the bed, slowly rubbing one of her feet. I remember the warmth of the sunshine when they wheeled her body out into the van and the gentle coolness that marked the end of a long, hot summer.

There's no doubt about it: my mom and I did not see eye to eye about a lot of things, and, even now, I have no idea what she really thought about me. Those last few years were filled with fights and arguments, mistrust and expectant silences. I suppose she always thought I was judging her and I was never sure when she might blow up. She was a hurting woman, filled with more self-doubt that even I could muster. She felt that forgiveness was weakness and "family" was the end all of existence. She cared too much about what others thought of her, and thought too little about her own life and behavior.

It's been a hard six years. My little brother and sister have been hit the hardest by mom's passing and I have worried about them more than anything. Fortunately, they seem to be growing up and letting the past strengthen them rather than let it anchor them in place. My other brother always seems to take everything in stride (unless you annoy him!). Dad has remarried and seems to be getting along just fine. For my part, I still harbor a bit of guilt about the way my relationship with mom never seemed to be as good as it was when I was kid. About the time I started reading and thinking on my own, mom didn't know quite what to do with me and, in turn, I didn't know what to do with her either. I could have found better ways of helping her to deal with her own struggles, perhaps.

I made my amends the day mom died, though by that time I have no idea if she could even hear me--she had slipped into a coma by mid-morning. I still pray that she heard me. I know since then, I have been much more caring about people, more able to empathize with others' pains and sorrows; that much at least can be said is a good thing and worth remembering on this sad anniversary.