Tomorrow is Mother’s Day again. The third one without my mother here with me. It still stings when I listen to advertisements reminding me of Mother’s Day and it’s tough to be around friends and family talking about what they're doing for or with their mom on Mother’s Day.
I’m not a mom yet, so it’s a very bizarre, in-between type of day. I know lots of moms and honor their motherhood - so, yes, there’s meaning in that. It’s not as though I’m totally exempt from the holiday just because my mom isn't alive.
A few days ago I met a new colleague while at a work conference. The air around this woman was not jovial in the least - she seemed sad and reserved. She didn’t smile. I didn’t know if it was her personality or if she just didn't like me, but I noticed it immediately. There was something categorically sad about her.
One morning I made an off-hand comment about my stomach feeling bad or feeling slightly out of it due to the absurdly high pollen count that day. (If you know me, my favorite thing is to complain about "not feeling well." I'm usually tired, allergy-laden, or something else. This is something I get from my mother. I am completely self-aware.)
Later that day, I ran into my sad colleague again and she offered me some of her ginger ale. I thanked her and told her that I was okay. She asked how I was feeling. I told her I was feeling so-so. Maybe the ice around her was melting a little bit towards me.
After that last conference program, I ran into my sad colleague as walked to our cars in the parking lot. She asked how long I'd been working with the library system and we talked about the future of librarianship. She told me about her experiences in libraries (she’d started working in public libraries in 1999). She told me that as public librarians, we are very much like therapists. I agreed with her. She told me that her therapist told her that during a session and I was shocked at her openness. Therapy, unfortunately, isn’t something people are completely open about, especially in the black community that we share.
“I see a therapist because I lost my daughter last year,” she adds.
And I stop. I mumble my condolences and suddenly see her in a different light. I feel her pain. I see her pain. I think about how hard it must be for her. My heart breaks because I know her pain - albeit I have no idea how it feels to lose a child, but I do understand gut-wrenching lost. I know how it feels after one minute, one year, two years and soon I'll know how it feels after three years before many, many more years - many more milestones, many more Mother's Days, birthdays, Christmases, etc.
I think of my grandmother. I think of my mother. I think of the daughter that I don’t have yet. I think of this woman with the seemingly inexplicable sadness all around her that can be explained very simply: she was grieving and she missed her daughter.
We talk some more after this revelation and then go grocery shopping together. We don’t feel like going to dinner with our other colleagues. We decide to use our per diems to buy food and eat it alone in our hotel rooms, respectively.
Mother’s Day must be so hard for her, too.
