Lonely

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. 

On Mother's Day

This will be the first Mother’s Day without my mom. Last year was the last Mother’s Day I had with her and I think somehow I knew it would be. When your mother is very ill and battling an aggressive stage IV breast cancer, it is easy to know such things.

I am at the age now where a lot of my peers (Facebook friends?) are becoming mothers. Amongst my closest friends, however, motherhood is still something that we have yet to experience. Despite this, over the past couple of years I’ve begun to feel like I should be a mother. (Although, to be fair, being wished a “Happy Mother’s Day” by strangers at a restaurant and a grocery store might have precipitated that a bit.)

Last Mother’s Day, I remember feeling left out and kind of alienated.

It was much the same feeling that I had during my visits to see my mom in the hospital and going to the Oncology Ward, and later to the Cardiac Care Unit, instead of going to the Maternity Ward like most women my age.  I felt oddly out of place and not where I ever thought I’d be. I felt years ahead of everyone else (losing a mother prematurely will do that to you) and yet left behind. I’d see happy couples and their families enter the elevators with precious bundles, while I would stare blankly at the flashing lit floor numbers in the elevator or offer a sad smile without eye contact.

In the elevator, the thoughts of “where I should be” would race through my head very fast yet clear, but most of my energy was focused on my mother and her health. I did not have time to contemplate my own hypothetical motherhood.  There were bigger battles ahead and there were bigger and more real fish to fry.

Now there is silence because my mother is gone. Those thoughts of “where” are more persistent and gain more of my attention. However, the “where” isn’t motherhood necessarily and it’s not where I “should” be . . .now it’s more where do I want to be.

On Mother’s Day, I want to be with my family and I want to remember my mother. I do not know how I will feel and I may just want to be alone, but I know I will see things more clearly. I will not feel such pressure due to self-inflicted expectations because I will embrace that my journey is different and unique. My timeline will never be like everyone else’s. It never has been and it never should be.

“Truth is by nature self-evident. As soon as you remove the cobwebs of ignorance that surround it, it shines clear. “ - Ghandi