Motherless

On March 30, 2011 at 2:45 p.m. in Conroe, TX, that is what I became. And every day for the rest of my life, that is what I will be. It has left an empty hole in my heart where she lived.

My mother was an amazing woman. Everyone who knew her spoke of her smile that lit up the room, her kindness, the way she shared her love and her home with anyone and everyone.

My mother was a beautiful woman. Even at 83 years old, she barely had a wrinkle on her peaches and cream skin. She had gorgeous, curly and wavy white hair that was soft as silk to the touch.

My mother was my father's lover and best friend for 65 years of marriage and four years of dating beforehand. The hole in his heart is so much more than I can imagine.

She was remarkable in the way she filled our childhoods with adventure, never let us think we were poor because we always had enough to eat and a roof over our heads, and filled our home with music.

My mother played the piano and my whole childhood is filled with memories of standing around it while she played, singing hymns, Christmas carols, whatever more popular songs we could talk her into playing and old favorites from her youth and earlier life.

My mother smiled her way through life. And I learned from her that this is an excellent survival tool. It makes you feel better and, in most cases, it makes those around you feel better, too. She knew this secret and used it to bring joy to the sorrowful, peace to the weary and hope to the hopeless. All of my school friends loved her. And this is a big reason why.

My mother and I didn't always get along. Her death has made me reflective and turned my thoughts inward. I see some things in myself that remind me of her. And there are some things about her I wish were part of me. I think she made me strong. Some of those difficult things between us when I was young made me capable of coping with parts of my adult life I never imagined. And I feel nothing but love and gratefulness for her being in my life.

There is a story of our travel to Texas after Kandi called to say, "Come now," and what occurred leading up to the moment of her death. But though I have attempted to write it, I find it too personal to publish on my blog (despite a small readership). Those intimate details, of tearful, softly spoken words, whispered secrets, coping skills or lack thereof are only for those of us who were there, sharing in this heartbreak together.

What I will tell you is that I wish I had been a better daughter. I know I am who I am and living so far apart made that difficult, but I wish I'd had the opportunity to be a better daughter. I will tell you that Kandi has been the very best of all of my mother's children in how she cared for my parents, and continues to care for my father. I will tell you that I am eternally grateful that we arrived before she passed away so that I could feel her hand in mine, touch her, kiss her and whisper words I needed to say to her. I am so grateful we didn't wait until after as initially planned, that I can't even express how much it ultimately meant to me to be there. I had not expected that. Now I know I HAD to be there. And I will tell you that I want to be a better person than I was before all this because of this great and painful loss.

The truth is, I lost my mother about a year or so ago. Her body weakening caused her mind to weaken, too, and I no longer had her to call and listen to me when I sorrowed or had concerns I needed to share. My mother was the first person I called when I got pregnant with my daughter, Rachel. She was also the first person I called with my five subsequent pregnancies and the miscarriages that followed each one. I knew that because of her first child being stillborn, she could understand my sorrow. I knew that like me, she had always wanted to be a mother and wife. She was blessed with five surviving children and then later adopted Judy in every way but officially. My mother knew how to love and that is what she did. So when her mind changed so drastically, I only called with funny stories about our pets or happy accomplishments of her granddaughter's or when I got my jobs after being a stay-at-home mom for more than ten years. She was always so proud of me, of Rachel, of Jay. I did not call her when my marriage fell apart last November and we separated for a little while. I didn't tell her how hard it was to pick up all the pieces and make our marriage good again. I just told her everything was fine. And it was so hard not to have her there. But now she knows all the details, knows we are still working at it, because I know she watches out for us. So when we had to put our dog down a few days ago, on April 20th, I spoke to her while I cried in the shower - my place to do that so I don't worry my daughter or stress my husband - and I know she heard me and mourned with me. So in a way, I guess I do have her back.