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Mother’s Day doesn’t feel joyous for me anymore. It’s no longer another day I get to spend with my mom, showering her with delicious foods and treats. I can’t make up songs and inappropriate cards to give her. There are no more tricks to play. This was never another day to me or another gift to get — this was another opportunity to thank her. To leave gifts at her feet for her witty, delightful and fucked-up sense of humor. Sacrifice beef for hibachi dinners as a token of my appreciation for her sacrifices, all the hot meals she missed for us. Gifts of candles to light to commemorate the good times and reminisce around our dysfunction. I used to love Mother's Day.
“You’re a fucking sicko… but you make me smile… I love u” [text response to me Mother's Day 2022]
This day began corroding almost four years ago, and is now the beginning of my personal Hell Week. This week, I will vividly remember each day of my mom dying because even with this she couldn’t be rushed — good for you, ma. Also, you can suck a chode, Sally Wets-Herself.
It was almost a full week of will she, won’t she? Doctors and nursing rotating in and out, lifting our hopes and crushing our reality. Each day had it’s own worst event — the day with the spasms, the day I told my sister she should fly home, the day I signed the DNR. It's blurry but there is a reel of specific events that plays in my Regal dome. Somehow, on that Mother’s Day, while my mom laid unconscious in a hospital bed, I joked with my Meema and her siblings how I hope when she wakes up, she has a permanent Swedish accent. There was nothing to look forward to. Joking was the only way to get through that day, that week, the coming months and even years. Then, I had no reason to smile, let alone laugh. So I gave myself one. This is how I take care of myself, and my special power with others. This is an internal part of me that I am incredible thankful for. It steps up and pushes me through the worst of times. An internal flame that reminds me that in darkness, I am light… in the form of laughter.
“I’m at the cemetery and read your text aloud to Meema and Grandpa and literally laughed out loud”
[text response to me Mother's Day 2022]
Losing my mom was the worst event to ever take place in my life — I literally challenged the universe just this past Friday in a fit of optimistic rage, shouting out, “what’s the worst that could happen? It’s not like my mom can die. Again!” I laugh to keep from crying. I miss my mom an indescribable amount. I would sacrifice infants and cute, baby animals to spend just one day with her, and I gotta be honest — I wouldn’t feel badly for making that selfish choice. I would start eating tuna fish and putting mayo on everything if I knew that would get this bitch to talk in my fucking dreams! I would consider beastiality and cannibalism (I cannot be clearer that I do not want, condone, or think I, nor anybody, should do these things… just really driving the point home), if someone told me that could bring her back. And, I know. I saw Practical Magic. I’m aware that anything that comes back is a more evil version of themselves, but I don’t care. I want her back. Damnit. I really get when Sally says, "I don't care what he comes back as. As long as he comes back. Please do this for me. Please? Please? Please? Please?"
But, I know she can’t come back. I am sane and lucid, and fully understand that the closest I will get to connecting with my mom again might be a medium or maybe a really incredible Peyote trip when I’m sixty. So, until then, I dream, I honor, and I give laughter during the hard times.
One of my best friends recently lost her dad. I had met him a couple times and knew there relationship wasn’t the best. She texted me to ask if I could just talk with her about what to do, because no one tells you what to expect when those who were originally expecting are now dead (see my earlier post about the need for a Funeral Handler). In asking for help she completely recognized that this could still be sensitive for me even three years after my mom dying. Honestly, I had just recently gotten to a place that I was feeling okay. So, I gave her a call.
“Hey… I’m sorry..? Actually, I’m not sure. Am I sorry? How are you feeling?”
Since we’ve known each other for over two decades, that’s how I started the conversation. She giggled. She filled me in a bit on what had happened and how she was feeling. Eventually, she put the call on speakerphone so I could help guide her and her mom — this woman pulled me out of a Jamaican bar by my ear when I was 15. They didn’t know how to plan a funeral with Catholic undertones, and while my only experience was one, it was one more than them.
I told them how the hospital takes care of moving the body to the funeral home once you pick the place. And how the funeral home walks you through everything, “yeah, they have this fucked up mad libs booklet for the mass at the church.” It was oddly nice to remember how me and my siblings sat in this creepy basement surrounded by dozens of coffins in all different varieties, and explained to this complete stranger how my mom was a Met’s fan and a fucking patriot. I tried to remember each step and roughly the cost. I joked with them, “you gotta consider inflation though!” I remember how overwhelming this felt. It’s a lot to take on, and this is just the beginning of it. They ask their questions. Share who found him. What his place looked like. It’s the perfect time to remind them that I can only wish someone would find my dad dead already. “You know, Hope. This is exactly what we needed.” A bit of relief. That’s all I needed when my mom died.
I showed up for her the day of her dad's funeral because showing up during these times matters. I know I was too prideful to ask or truly show my disappointment when people didn't show up for me. I brought a dozen warm pretzels from Philadelphia's famously delicious Center City Pretzel Company because it's warm, comforting, and fills a belly -- I remember having no appetite. Physically, I sent her a screaming goat, silly socks, and a squirrel finger puppet. Emotionally, I sent her a hug, some chuckles, and some ease in her coming days.
My mom’s death wasn't a round-trip that I get to come back from. It’s a time-share. I’ve signed the paperwork and I am in this for the long haul, contractually. Every year, I take a trip to this fucking resort I never even wanted to visit. But, no longer in vain. I know what's coming now so I prepare accordingly for mood swings and triggers. I don’t text my friends and tell them what an awful time I’m having or sulk by myself because woah is not me anymore, y’all. It was okay to be woah, but I'm happy to no longer go by that.
Now, when I’m there, I send postcards and pictures and emails to those I know at their own fucked up resorts. I send jokes and make absurd comments so if the power goes out on their island, they remember their beacons. Where they can toss those stupid contracts into, even though it won’t mean a damn thing. It doesn’t matter — we process how we process and it’s fucking valid.
This year, I wrote and recorded myself rapping to the tune of Eminem’s The Real Slim Shady about how dope of a mom my sister is. Not because she asked for it. But because I know the real gift on a day like today for someone who's lost someone so significant it's traumatic, is relief. She referred to me as "The Real Feminem" and I would say that was my gift in return. I laughed for three whole minutes reading that text when I woke up. True relief.
“Thank you for being a Hope in my life especially for the times when I’ve seem to have lost it… there you are… in my dreams” [text response to me Mother's Day 2022]
In your days or dreams… but don’t play with me because then I’ll make my way over to your nightmares. <3 Hope to Help