I went over to a friend's house, a Guatemalan family, where we did karaoke along with other guests from Mexico (I speak Spanish fluently). The hosts didn't have any 'American' songs, so we just enjoyed a fun evening of robust singing of very sentimental and classic Spanish songs by the likes of the famous Latino idol Pedro Infante. These songs were as well known to the other guests as would be, for me, "Blowin' in the Wind", or "Big Girls Don't Cry" or "Somewhere Over The Rainbow". So we listened and joined in to the extent possible, and had loads of fun.
One song came along tenderly addressing the singer's mother, talking about how sweet and gentle and loving she is, how tender and giving she was. The singer adored his mother, missed her terribly. My misty-eyed Guatemalan friend spoke tenderly about her beloved mother, and showed me a picture on the wall of a warmly smiling and round mamacita.
And I felt so alone.
I really tried to imagine how that felt, to have such a tie, such a fondness. To be able to feel so warm and filled with rich and loving memories, to have felt so secure and nurtured. To miss one's mother so terribly. I felt like I was trying to imagine some foreign culture, some alien life. It's like there is an empty space in that part of my heart, a space that never got filled. I grieve that loss.
My father died in 1993. I have never missed him. I have never cried at the loss, and feel utterly no need to do so. I have never wondered, "What would he say about this or that?" Not once. It makes me sad to admit that... a loss for him, a loss for me. But, that is another subject.
Make no mistake ... I continue very engaged in her care. I tell her I love her, and I do. She has suffered some possible cardiac problems over the last few days, and I'm very worried and am talking to staff to ensure the best care, and I am going to see her to hold her hand. This post may sound cold, and that's not the whole truth of the matter. I feel tenderness toward her, and she expresses her gratitude and her desperate need for me. We laugh together and spend time together. We have a glass of wine and dinner each Tuesday. I pick up her room, and bring her treats.
If I were to compose a song about my mother, I could honestly say she had a sense of humor, she was intelligent, she was articulate, sharp and observant. An excellent speller and perfect grammar. I could write a verse about how she gave all she could, based on her own coolish upbringing. But I'm utterly unable to wax poetic about her sweet warmth or rich love or tenderness. It feels weird ... and very alone.
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6 comments:
Please know you're not alone. I would be in the same position.
Nancy
I've been thinking about this post. Perhaps we should celebrate teh strong women our mothers were, the fact they were such individuals who no doubt instilled strength in us too. Perhaps instead of singing a song to the burturer, we sing a song to the women warriors!
Thank you, Robin. That's why I appreciate comments on the blog so much - I feel less alone. Thanks for taking a few moments to comment!
Hmmm ... Robin ... how interesting, your second comment, about my mother being a strong woman. I've been pondering that for a few days. Strong? I've never thought of her that way.
Makes me remember the day my oldest cousin described my mother as a very funny woman. I was shocked. I'd never thought of her as funny, mostly, I suppose, because her humor tends to be sarcastic and I'd had many wounds from her humor. But it was so interesting to see someone admire my mother for her humor, a quality I'd never have attributed to her.
So - my mother as a strong woman? I need to keep thinking about that.
I myself have become a very strong woman, but I honestly believe that's resulting from my adult choices. I was strong enough to leave home at 17 years old, and move to New York City in 1968. At the time, it felt very much like an escape just to survive - and I have developed my strength ever since then.
Still, my mother as strong woman? I will continue thinking about that. Thanks for the thought-provoking response! Hmmm.
Nancy
In re-reading some of your posts, I can see why you think "strong" is the wrong word and I agree. I was thinking more of their generation--at least the women who raised kids in the 60s and 70s who didn't self-destruct! Your mother gave you strength in a roundabout way, as you grew from pulling away and making your own way. I don't know which is tougher--seeing the "entitled princess" or the demanding boss trying to turn us into attendants. And not happy with what we give.
Thanks, Robin. Your comment really did get me thinking about my mother's strength, since none of us is one-dimensional, and I want to be aware of strength where she has shown it. But when I mentioned this exchange to my sister, she commented that perhaps 'rigid' was more accurate - a type of strength, but makes for a more difficult life.
Thanks for the thought-provoking exchange.
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