Personless

“A mother is she who can take the place of all others but
whose place no one else can take.”

― Cardinal Mermillod


I remember the first shower I took after my mother died. Turning the faucet, adjusting the temperature, stripping down and hopping in. It was surreal. I had never once in my life bathed without having a mother. She'd been alive my whole life. I know, makes perfect sense, but I couldn't wrap my brain around it. How can I do anything, when everything I ever did, she was alive. It was like the world had stopped spinning for me. Everything was a brand new experience, and not brand new and shiny, but brand new and scary. For thirty-eight years, everything I did, I did having a mother. I had never ever, not one single time, done anything without having her. While she may not have actually been there, or been in the forefront of my mind, she was always there. I always knew she was there, someone to fall back on, to love me unconditionally. Something as simple as bathing, as breathing, seems so much harder, so different, when you don't have that someone. And now, for the rest of my life, every single thing I will do, I will do not having a mother. Seems so simple, but trust me, it is not.


I will rock my child to sleep without a mother. I will have arguments with my husband, without a mother. I will wash dishes, walk dogs, write letters, drink wine, go dancing, eat good foods, bathe in the sun, swim in the ocean, build sandcastles, sing songs and live the rest of my days without a mother. I will never get to ask her a question, hear her opinion, or receive her guidance on anything that ever happens to me again. I'm on my own. Every breath I take, I will take motherless. She who gave me life, brought me into this world and nurtured me, is gone. Forever.

Yet, it is natural, it is ordinary, it is normal. It is in no way unique or extraordinary. Millions upon millions of women, all of them daughters, are doing the exact same thing. They are living without a mother. One day, my daughter will too.

How can something so ordinary be so mothereffinexcrutiatinglypainfulthatitmakesyouwanttojustquititall?

I'll tell you how. Because she wasn't "just" my mom. She was a million times more than that. She was my mom and she was my person. IN fact, due to her declining health and our role reversal, she was more my person than anything. And not everyone loses her person to sudden death. And not everyone loses her person and her mother at the exact same time. It's the double whammy. In losing her, I lost both, I lost almost everything. I am clinging to what I have left and trying to keep sane. It's not easy, but I am making progress.

She, my mother, my person, is the one I called for every little thing often five times a day. She is the one I ran to when the mailman was grouchy and made me cry, or when I felt insecure about a new haircut. She would listen and discuss my hesitation about public school over and over again, never tiring of the conversation, never wishing I would just shut up and make a decision. She was proud of me, in ways that no one else ever is. She admired my creativity, my writing, my generosity with others. She validated me, my thoughts, my feelings. She loved to hear the same stories about my girl over and over again, wanted to know exactly what we were doing each and every day. She loved to look at my designs over and over again. She never tired of them. Every sale in my Etsy shop was an EVENT to her, and she wanted the full details. Any complaint made by another was just ridiculous in her opinion. I was her golden girl I guess you could say. I was loved so hard and I loved her so hard back. This woman would spend hours with me, searching bolt after bolt of fabric just to find the perfect scrap of pink. She is the one who felt my anguish when I had to bust out the seam ripper AGAIN. She laughed at my jokes and I at hers. Nobody could make me belly laugh like this woman. The inside jokes were in the millions. Jason thought we were crazy. We probably were, in the best possible way. We moved, she moved with us. Not just once, but three times. I wouldn't dare go anywhere without her. Jason knew, it was a package deal. She was such a huge part of my life, she was at least half of it, and had tons of influence on the other half. She was my mom and my person and she was mine.

And then she died. She died and I didn't want her to. She died on a day that I had no idea it was going to happen. She died unexpectedly without saying goodbye. She died on an ordinary day where I was just sitting around doing absolutely nothing important. She just died. And she took my mother with her.

I will never, not ever, find another person like her. She was my mama and she was mine.