What I said at my Mother's Funeral (L)

Someone close to me said if you're going to speak at a funeral what you say should be honest, real, and not sugar coated re-creations of the past. Now, I won't name any names, but he's my brother and he's sitting right there. And any of you that know him, you know he said a few swear words in there with that little piece of advice. So, I will tell you, when we were growing up, Ma lost her temper as often as she lost her car keys. Though she improved as we got older, she was often irritable and extremely particular, I would get flop sweats going to the grocery store to shop for her, standing paralyzed in the aisles scrutinizing her list, trying to find exactly what she was specifically describing. If you came home with the wrong kind of garbage bags, or the wrong kind of anything, (which you inevitably would) you were going to hear about it. She was consistently critical. When I would bring my babies to her, their feet were never the right temperature, if they had on socks, she'd strip them off and tell me how hot their poor feet were. If they didn't have on any socks she'd cup their feet in her hand and chastise me bringing out my baby with no socks, I soon learned to carry a pair with me on all Mema excursions. Ma was bossy, even before she was immobile, she'd set herself down in a chair and lord her dictatorship over the kitchen, doling out tasks for us to do and then watching every step, correcting you as you went. She often drove me crazy, when I was 6 months pregnant with Shea, Ma and Old most generously opened their home to my family when our house was under reconstruction, and for two months I most ungratefully wondered exactly what sin of my past I was paying for, to have to live with her again and not be able to drink. I always believed my sister Allison was her favorite. By believe, I mean, I can guarantee you if I look at my sister right now she'll be nodding knowingly, if not a little smugly.

All of these things are true, and so is this—I loved her, needed her, craved to be with her— beyond reason, beyond doubt, beyond even sometimes my own comprehension. I've sometimes wondered, is this a particular disease of being the youngest and if so, is their medication to cure it?

Fortunately, I've never sought a cure, I just continued over the years to seek out her love, company, stories of the past, and simply the sound of her voice. And many times, I’m sure, I was irritable and drove her crazy right back.

There are aspects to my dedication of hunting and gathering and revering all things Ma and Mema that I understand. She was an interesting, multi-dimensional, sometimes controversial character, and the only time you could possibly say her company was dull was when she was asleep, which was admittedly a good deal of the time as the years went on. You wouldn’t call her an angel, you’d probably call her a pistol. I think what people loved about her was her honesty; she told it like it was and didn’t really care if you liked it or not, the first word she mouthed after she woke up from her tracheostomy surgery was “bullshit”. She was smart, funny, and irreverent. And even after years of fog inducing drugs and infections, she was sharp as a tack. I used to sneak down to the nursing home at night to play Rummy with her, sometimes bringing a little audience member in the form of one of my girls. The very first time I played her there, she was laying in bed having just had a Vicodin for sleep, I beat her by a small margin, and I thought, “Finally I've found a way to even the playing field!” If she was sitting up in her wheelchair, I knew I didn't have a chance. Eventually, it became clear that first game was the last I’d win, she’d just been a little rusty. After many games as she'd lay in bed, Vicodin onboard, having to pull herself up on her little triangle grip thing each time to see the play on the tray of cards, beating me time after time; I finally started asking her for tips to improve my game.

She was truly a caring woman, in fact she was criticized in the first years of her job as a social worker for caring too much about her clients, and even in the last years of her work when she would spend an inordinate amount of time playing solitaire at the office, people would still stop my sister and I and say what a difference she had made in their loved ones life who was a client of hers. She may sometimes have seemed to have forgotten precisely what time the workday began (or lunch ended), but she never forgot she was an advocate for her clients, not for the state.

Ma knew how to sincerely say she was sorry, a skill many people never master. I heard her put this skill into necessary practice many times after she swore like an angry, bossy, severely wounded sailor, as the nurses moved her from her wheelchair to her bed at Knox.

But for me this was an especially healing trait, years ago, my mother did an amazingly simple thing after our childhood of her not being the mother to us that she had wanted to be. She said she was sorry. She said she wished she could have her babies back and do it all over again. And a very simple beautiful thing occurred inside of me, I forgave her. And about 13 years later another amazing thing occurred, I had my third child under the age of 4, and suddenly I understood her, a little bit more, probably than my siblings, who only have two right now. Good luck, John.

She always provided for us, we never went hungry or cold, or without a ride, a birthday cake, or a place to sleep, she always kept her home open to us, our friends, and later our children. When we'd come home from college, she'd stock the pantry with lucky charms, mac and cheese and all our favorite foods. When I was sad and homesick in another country or just another county, I could always count on ma for sending me copious amounts of letters. Our Christmases were always elaborate, wide eyed wonder affairs where all of our dreams came true, regardless of how we were struggling financially.

She was a strong woman and a capable woman, she was never afraid to drive in a snowstorm, change a tire, or jumpstart a car.

She loved, spoiled (corrupted), fed, played with, taught (corrupted) and snuggled all of her grandchildren with indulgent and often overindulgent love and generosity. I remember once when Sarah was little, her father telling her “When an adult tells you no, no means no—unless it's Mema”. I can only hope they absorb and carry on within them the lessons she showed them about unconditional love and not the lessons she taught them about lighting matches.

But what my mother truly had was a magnetism I can’t put words to. I can only provide evidence of it. My sister and I live about 5 miles away from my mother’s house. A week never went by that one of us didn’t see her, until they put a few states between us. We gathered around her home every holiday, every family birthday, without fail until her home became a nursing home, and then we gathered there. My father kept a vigil by her side these last few years, finally giving her the years of courtship and devotion she deserved. At Knox, she was a difficult case who medically should have been considered a bit of a thorn in their side, instead she became part of their family. Last night we read something the nurses had composed about Ma that moved us and more importantly made us laugh, realizing that they had truly known and loved her just the way she was, as we did. I see it also in the lifelong friendships she’s made.

My father, my sister’s family, my brother's family and my family, we orbited around her— many planets to her sun, even though sometimes she’d yell, sometimes she’d snap, sometimes it was hard to tell if she was even all that pleased to see you (she always was). But we’d come back again and again, to get a little more of the something that she never knew she had. Her pull is a magnetic force I’ve never felt anywhere else. I can’t remember a day in the past 11 years that I haven’t wanted to see or talk to my mother. And I can’t imagine that will change. I know my brother felt it, when instead of feeling burdened that Ma was in Rhode Island and the responsibilities that brought, he felt grateful to be with her and be needed by her. I know his wife and children felt it too, as they made the nearly hour long trip out every weekend to visit her. I know my nieces felt it even years beyond when “Mema Central” was still open and helping to raise them, as Sarah gave up a weekend at college with her friends and with her boyfriend to come and see Mema in Rhode Island, and especially when Leah was with Mema when we went to say goodbye. I know my children felt it and feel it too—from Shea plowing into Ma’s house every time we went there making a bee line for Mema as he called her name, finally presenting himself to her with a simple “Mema, I here now”; to Fiona, referring to Mema as her “other Mommy”; to Gwenyvere who said to me the other day about Mema dying, “It seems like someone turned the world backwards and didn’t tell me.”

I am so grateful that I had these past years in Maine with Ma, when she could still ride alongside me taking, advantage of the adventurous spirit she had instilled in me. I have loved and appreciated every moment and thing she has given to us from our lunches at Denny's, going to Walmart (which Gwenyvere dubbed “Mema's store”), ice cream at Dormans, tea at Aunt Ediths, bunnies and dollhouses at Ames, so many rides, trips to islands and orchards, church and donuts, drives over the mountain and especially all of the stories she shared with me of the old days--to all my babies she has held, sung to, played with and loved. I thought she was a big part of my world when her label was “Mommy”, but as “Mema”, she achieved world domination.

I told my mother weeks ago, that she’s never just lying in a bed. That I carry her with me, I take her with me on all the little adventures and rides that she trained me for: taking pictures of autumn trees, taking rides to look at Christmas lights, telling stories of the past, seeing movies, staying up way too late at night, listening to the sound of a loon calling, even just shopping at Walmart and JC Penny. She is somehow, my everything, and now I have to figure out a way to pick up my babies and walk new paths without being able to tell her the tales. I will miss the sound of her laughter, the stories of her life, the sound of her voice.

Years ago, after receiving a grim prognosis for my mother’s life, I said to my husband that I didn’t think I wanted to live in a world where my mother didn't exist. Since Sunday night, I’ve been waiting for that feeling to descend upon me, that I no longer have a mother. Many sad and heavy moments have come, but that sensation has not. Because I still have a mother, she’s just not here anymore. She is within me, about me, around me, in every corner of my life, in every inch of my soul, she is there, and will always remain— my mother.