A Mindful Guy Mourns

November 18, 1937 – my mom was born. Today she would have turned 76.

I miss her, more than simply because she was my mom. She helped shape my mind, my core values, my work ethic, my sense of self. When I see myself, I see a lot of her.

She was always proud of me, even when I did things she didn’t approve of. Not during my childhood; I had a pretty down-to-earth childhood. I didn’t get into much trouble, I got good grades, and I wasn’t out partying or hanging with a rough crowd.

No, I mean later in life. She didn’t approve of some of my childish choices, mostly because if a guy made a childish choice it only reminded her of my dad. And when I became one of Jehovah’s Witnesses, she had a real struggle with that. But in time, she saw that I hadn’t really changed a lot. I was still her son.

It’s quite coincidental that the year which marked my last talk with my mom was also the year marking the last time I stepped into a Kingdom Hall. She had watched me grow as a public speaker, and was so proud of me. She got all the attention after any talk she came to hear; people from across the congregation just gushed over her.

Don’t tell anyone: she really got a kick out of that.

You may not see the most amazing aspect of this, but it stands out to me very strongly: she came to a Kingdom Hall to watch me give some of my talks. It was quite against her non-denominational church views to go there, and she would hear things which didn’t ring true to her believing ears, but she went anyway. Just to see and hear her son do something he was good at and enjoyed doing. To see her son, and be proud.

When 2008 was progressing, she had a tough time health-wise. She always had her oxygen tank in tow, she couldn’t sleep much with all the prednisone she had to be on, and her hospital stays were becoming more frequent. She had significant arterial blockage, and even with it cleared out her body was not really recovering. She struggled to spend time with her grandsons whom she adored beyond words, simply because their energy and enthusiasm to see grandma was exhausting. Yet it never stopped her, because she was able to see them, and be proud.

We had some very in-depth talks as 2008 progressed. Somehow all the joking and light-hearted nature of our previous chats about mortality changed. We were serious about the matter. We said all the things we wanted to say, the things we needed to say. When my mom passed away, there was never a moment where I thought, “I wish I had taken the chance to tell her….” We both had the chance, and we both took it.

So I wonder, here on her birthday in 2013, why I feel that I should have done more to mourn the passing of my mother.

I think it may be cultural, as I discussed with a friend of mine recently. It’s like I should have done more. I should have lost control and crumpled in a heap and wailed non-stop for days. Sat in shadows dressed in sackcloth and rubbed ashes on my forehead. Society expects huge displays of grief, and although I cried and struggled, I did not fall apart except in my dreams. (To this day, if my mom appears in my dream, we invariably sit and talk until I crumble into inconsolable wailing and I wake up due to the intensity of it all.)

I cried loudly over my dad’s passing in 2011, falling in a gradual slide over the edge of grief. I had little relationship with my dad except at a distance, simply because his own guilt in life was enveloping and I would soon be overwhelmed by his desire for forgiveness, all from a son who never held his sins against him.

Yet I grieved far less publicly over my mom. Indeed, I mourned far less intensely for her than the man I had little to do with.

Folks will have their theories, and I know the next time I see my therapist I’ll mention all this, but I have a personal realization:

What if I have grieved exactly the right amount for my mom, and I merely think I should have done more? Could I be beating myself up because I didn’t do as much as I thought I was supposed to do?

I think so. I’m often angry for not meeting my own self-held expectations.

My mother did not leave according to my schedule, nor according to hers. But we both saw the departure at hand. We both gained the closure so many never achieve. She certainly wouldn’t want me to be unable to let go. She wouldn’t want the son she loved and was so proud of suffer so.

I believe I have mourned the correct amount, neither too much or too little. Even as I try to finish writing this while crying loudly, I realize it’s time to forgive myself and admit that I have done what I needed to.

I miss you, mom, but I think I’m going to be okay.

And, in a closing that only you and I would get: I hope the Perry Como album sounds good on the bus trip to who-knows-where.