Tag Archives: family of origin

Grief: It’s Complicated


So my mother went to God Monday afternoon.

I am Irish.

I am a writer. This is how I process. One side of me feels this is maudlin: don’t share private stuff. I hear hisses, “you’re looking for attention.” But the fact of the matter is that I don’t really care about anyone’s opinion about how I go about my processing. I know that the people who love me and who know me either by my writing and also in my carbon-based life form, that you know I’m pretty solid in being who I am and that I don’t need attention. I am a doer. I am not a navel gazer by nature, but sometimes it happens.

I started this post Tuesday morning after walking my youngest son to his first day of 4th grade through a vast jungle because the county is renovating his school, and once we got home, I was determined after talking to a friend, that I would write about how things are. I sat on my deck amidst cicadas calling for their mates in a last-gasp attempt at breeding. I was safe beneath the market umbrella shielding me from overzealous early acorns. It was elemental. I was in a cocoon.

Monday morning, I was writing about the strange BBQ-induced dream I had about Queen Latifah in NoLa. I spent better part of that morning reading an essay with my oldest son to help him with an English project. We got donuts that morning.

I was sitting on the deck with my husband when my father called. He tried the house line first. Naturally, we couldn’t find the handset, so no one could answer the call and we hate speaker phone, so we missed his call. As we scrambled to find the handset, he called my cell. He was very calm.

“Your mother is on her way to the hospital. She has had a heart attack, so say the ambulance workers….” I repeated the words. Dan held my hand; my body began to tremor. “This is it.” I thought. I knew.

My husband grabbed the keys; I started texting my brothers with the news of the heart attack. My neighbor came over to be with the boys and we drove to the home of my raging adolescence not 10 miles away. A place I visited seldom because of all the emotional weight it had.

My mother is dead. Gone to God. Up with the angels. Singing show tunes and stalking Liz Taylor and wearing fantastic clothes — truly she had amazing taste.

My relationship with my mother was complicated. She was troubled. Lots of anxiety, depression, self-medication, alcoholism. I don’t say these things to speak ill of her; for I know that these were facts of her life. Despite all these things, she was alive in the way she knew best how to be. She served her interests: the arts, theater, Broadway, Moliére, Monet, Shakespeare, Graham Greene, Danielle Steele (she was human!), Italian food, one-act plays. As anyone knows who deals with anyone with an addiction: it is not just something they do; it becomes them, part of their very basic cellular being.

Sunday night Thing 3 and I were watching “How the Universe Works.” I planned to get my son some picture books of Hubble telescope images; we share a love of astronomy and the Universe.

Mom was ethereal. She had one toe on the ground. Just one. It was what she could manage most, because her brilliant mind was in her interests and tending to her anxieties. Yet I was two boots, solidly, defiantly planted three inches into the earth. Level headed… Always wondering about her: Who’s in there? What are you thinking about?

My toes? One foot’s toe was always tapping, expectant, waiting, hoping for a transformation, a return to earth. My older brother noted proudly yesterday over Thai food for lunch that our family of origin maintained its mass of 5 people for 42 years; not an easy feat no matter how chaotic the tribe.

Her death was entirely sudden. She was on her way to the car to ride with my father, her husband of 51 years and mate of 59 years, to the ice cream parlor. My mind is sweet with the idea that she died awaiting fudge ripple or a root beer float.

My cousin took these pictures coincidentally about the time my mother died when she was out and about my hometown of Buffalo, NY. My cousin likes to take pictures on impulse, on instinct and intuition.

look at that little orb almost perfectly centered (that was like mom, a little stage left all the time).

look at that little orb almost perfectly centered (that was like mom, a little stage left all the time).


and –i believe– here she is, on her way up.

My relationship with my mother was complicated. Is complicated. Was complicated. Whatever.

Now I am arranging with funeral directors in Buffalo to arrange for the transport of her remains, her shell, her corpus, for its final rest in her hometown nearby her beloved aunt and I hope my brother John whom she never met. John has been on my mind for years. I don’t talk about it much, but I wonder about him. They are together now, she has waited for this.

I am in and out of rationality. Up and down. Believing in God and forgetting about God. Believing my Catholic stuff and heaving it at the same time. She was ready. Her body was ready. Was I ready?

It was like we were having a rationality contest Monday in front of the doctors and the police officers when they were telling us again and again how it was that my mother died.

“She wanted ice cream,” I muse silently to myself. It doesn’t matter how she went. Her pain was infinitesimal. She went the way all of us wish to go: with a good thought on the mind and a merciful shut down of the heart.

When I was with my father in their home of 30 years, the police officer had come back in to share an update. Previously, we were confused about where she was and how she was doing. The police officer had some news. He knew where she was. The police officer was with my dad so he wouldn’t be alone. Surviving spouses have historically not fared well in these situations — car accidents, self-harm, harm against others: all grief-driven mishaps.

He came in with his update. He started talking about where she was, the accurate location. I grabbed my phone to start plugging in the address on its GPS. “I’m sorry, can you repeat that hospital name?” I wanted to go see her. Tell her we were there, it would be alright. My husband heard all the officer had to say; he insisted my father and I stop what we were doing. He said to listen. “Mary did not survive. I’m sorry,” the officer said.

It did not compute. “I’m sorry” computed, but the rest did not.

When he said, “Mary did not survive,” I had a nanosecond of relief. “Mary? Who is this Mary? I know only Mimi or Mom.” Then I said, “Mary?” and he said, “Your mother. She has passed.” And all of the fluid evaporated from my organs and went straight to my eyes. I am drinking water constantly, none of it quenches.

I had a feeling. For a few days. I thought last week, “I don’t know if she will make it to my next birthday. I don’t think we will be together this Thanksgiving.”

Noises are too loud. Lights are too bright. Questions, even “When are you going up to Buffalo?” seem too probing. Emails about anything but this situation seem intrusive, selfish.

When I was first married, I would tell people, “We’re on our honeymoon,” and they’d give us a free appetizer or a drink or a better table. When you have a baby, balloons festoon the house.

When someone dies, you don’t really get to say anything; there is no physical or outward sign. “My mother died today. May I have a milkshake?” was what I wanted to say at Baskin-Robbins near the hospital where I viewed in a vortex of cognitive dissonance her 79-year-old yet ancient corpse. “That is just her box,” I said to Dad. He nodded violently.

I look back at the last 7 months and I sense that God and I have prepared myself rather eloquently for this. There were new tears in the family fabric over the spring. I went back into intense therapy to deal with some of them. Toe tapping. Expectations. Expectations that were not unreasonable, but expectations that were considered hostile. Proper care, better care, more care. I exerted myself and executed a boundary. I was cut off because of it. It’s ok… it’s part of the passage that got me to here, where I am. Then the 30 Days of Jung series I wrote. Then the yoga retreat. Then the beach with my cousin – we are like sisters who don’t fight, she said, laughing. She has three sisters, whom I love dearly; I have no sisters. My mother had no sisters. Her aunt had no sisters. I am the end of the very short line of “daughters with no sisters born of daughters with no sisters” in my family.

Last night on another business call with my uncle, her last surviving brother, I silently sobbed as he listed off the churches and other logistical content. I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“Do you think she knows I loved her? Pete?” I asked, pleadingly.

There was a patient, knowing, loving, tender pause.

“Your relationship was complicated, but I can say this without a doubt for it is told time and again everywhere: One can not experience that depth of intensity of feeling without love.”

It helped. He always says remarkable things. He is someone I don’t keep in touch with, but our bond is deep and real. He is my mother’s brother. He knew her best of all, she adored him. He was her go-to.

I mourn her loss. My loss. The loss. Yet I know, that if she were to call me today, if everything were the same, if she were not dead, that I’d not be interested in talking about Robert Preston and his role in “The Music Man” or Judy Garland in “Meet Me In St. Louis” — I just wouldn’t and I would be annoyed that she would insist that we talk about it. This is how we were, but this example is a microcosm of how we were; so many different perspectives, views, interests and ways of living. It wasn’t impossible, it just wasn’t always possible for us to be reading from the same sheet of music.

I fought valiantly, irrationally, desperately as a child and young woman for her sobriety, health, presence. I never gave up, hoped forever probably that she would pull through, change, improve … deliver her intentions. It might’ve been folly, but that was my charge. I never gave up; even last week, I kept the heat on her improved condition, even if she was against it.

I just got word that my mother will be celebrated in the church where she received her First Communion, Confirmation, Marriage — and so it should be, her death. I fought for it. There was an objection: bigger church, more people, better parking. “Fuck that,” I thought. “Rest her soul in the place where her DNA is. Her parents were married there for Christ’s sake. It’s in her ecclesiastic DNA too.”

I won that battle. I served her. I hit it out of the park. I am Over The Moon. She will be buried near her favorite aunt with her son who never lived past three days. Her circle is completing. She is being honored. I may have been a difficult daughter in her lifetime, but I will be damned as I sit her typing, if I am not going to fight for her honor in her death.

Toe tapping works.

Thank you.

when i was 10.

when i was 10.

in 2005 ?... 2007 ?

in 2005 ?… 2007 ?

Rest in peace, among the angels, Mom. Get the truth on that whole “Who really wrote Shakespeare’s stuff,” will ya? Let me know.

I wrote about her here: The Eccentric Aunt.

And this, is my absolute favorite ever:

mom, enraptured while looking at the lake.

mom, enraptured while looking at the lake. 1934-2013

What I Will Gain by Quitting — 2: Five days after Facebook Lent Give-Up


This post is incredibly self-absorbed, so if you click X right now, I’d not blame you. However… what if what I have to say strikes a chord with you?

Here is my first entry about this topic: https://mollyfielddotcom.wordpress.com/2013/02/12/what-i-will-gain-from-quitting-journal-entry-1/

So it’s been five days since I left Facebook for Lent. (I think of it more as a matter of convenience actually, as I look back on it now because I’m not terribly religious, but I am spiritual.) The first thing I’ve noticed, and have allowed myself to admit is that by being on Facebook for so long, I’d become programmed or conditioned into thinking about my life, my day-to-day, or even my extraordinary experiences as status updates or as blog posts.

Often, I would wonder,

“Is this clever enough, will I get a Like?”

“Will it impress or somehow engage someone on a deeper level, or will it be ignored?”

“Do I want a deeper level? Do I even want to engage? Am I lying still to myself about all this?”

This is deep stuff and I am a deep thinker.

from http://featuresblogs.chicagotribune.com/headcandy/2009/02/10-tips-for-giving-up-facebook-during-lent.html – this is a 4-year-old article. Its best line: “Write down the last five things you did. Wait ten minutes. Read the list. Ask yourself if you give a &%$#.”

Now, after a few days off the grid, I find myself itching to go there, during moments of perceived boredom, during moments of downtime; and I don’t know why yet. In reality, I am a SAHM, so there really isn’t any downtime; something always needs mending, cleaning, attending. I don’t know why I think I’d be better off reading about someone else’s life: it’s a distraction. A way of not dealing with my own.

Is it truly connection?

What is the point?

Is it to compare and contrast?

These are queries; and I haven’t a clue. I don’t judge anyone else; Facebook has been invaluable to shut-ins and people who have little outside exposure. But what about the rest of us? Those who are gregarious and social by nature? Is Facebook turning us, those people into shut-ins? I remember that Facebook lets 13-year-olds on it. I remember how it started: as the revenge tactic of a snubbed young man who decided to release his anger publicly at the woman who rejected him; but that wasn’t enough: he had to pull other women into the fold and embarrass slander them too.

The entire Facebook concept was begat of rejection, shame and vengeance. Of course we are told it has evolved since then, and it largely has, but still there lies a mustard seed of its essence: comparison and emptiness. I am kidding myself if I believe otherwise. Watch “The Social Network” if you aren’t savvy to its origins. Often I would be tired after being online. Seldom refreshed. – Me.

I used to be a news hound. I still am, or at least I thought I am. But I find myself discarding my news updates in favor of going on Facebook. I used to exercise diligently. I used to have amazing self-discipline. That has wandered away. I am hopeful that I will fill the ever-growing void of Facebook with self-engagement, with self-empowerment.

. . . . . . . . .

Last week, for Valentines Day, a “holiday” I would normally reject, I made “lovesagna” (instead of lasagne), I made red velvet cupcakes and I dipped strawberries in chocolate. All of this, this wellspring of familial enthusiasm for the babies I created with the love of my life was encouraged by a meeting with a eldercare consultant, who knowingly nodded to my snub of Valentines Day, my referring to it as a manufactured holiday. It was never really celebrated in my house as a child; my family of origin was not a dependably happy place. Lots of pain, secrets, privacy. I told her these things; we must get to know these consultants in a way we are not comfortable with. They need to know things: like how we engage with our parents. That was a very difficult exchange.

She understood my reluctance, my inwardly directed shame at not being a better daughter; at not tending to my aging and needy mother. She understood my hesitancy to over-perform with people who did not over-perform for me. Who left me waiting outside the camp grounds or the dance alone or with teachers or counselors who’d had places to go and who knew that although it wasn’t my fault, I was the target of their heat vision. So much pain, but so much joy too. She answered me with, “You can not always give back what was not easily given to you.”

She listened to my recollections of the day and others like it and quietly said later on, “I just believe we should celebrate something every day, and if we are given this gift, to celebrate the most wonderful thing of all, the one day we can let it all out there, and put it out for the world to see, we should. We just should.” And she was right. I’ve never given much celebration to anything major or minor occasions in my life; a remnant of my parents’ emotional parsimony and narcissism. I need to change that. I am demonstrative with my kids, but I am not honoring my true inner cheerful human person when I get vexed every time a happy event comes around just because my parents had issues with it.

How this dovetailed though, with the Facebook sacrifice (ouch) is that I wouldn’t have done those things, I wouldn’t have gone to the store, gotten the makings, gotten out the pans and the mixer and the gear to make those foods because why… I would have gone on Facebook instead. I would have logged on and said “Happy Valentines Day!” and I wouldn’t have meant it. Not one syllable. I would have Liked other people’s stuff, and Liked their stories, and I would have Shared some sentiment of the day, and I would have grumbled inside, fueling my inner misanthrope and calling myself a hypocrite because I would have been denying my inner self: the private person I am, the deeply thinking and deeply feeling person I am, the analyst, the artist, all of it denied rejected to stay popular with the crowd. To do what everyone else is doing.

I celebrated Valentine’s Day and the best part of all of this is that I didn’t say it on Facebook, but I said it privately, to my family, and I meant every syllable. For the first time in a very long while. Probably ever.

Yesterday, Sunday, I watched nothing but old movies on the couch. I watched “Gaslight” and “How to Catch a Thief” and then later I watched the not-as-old, “A Beautiful Mind”; I was struck by them all. Every single one of those stories was about masquerade in one fashion or another. We all have vulnerabilities.

Today, I am waking with less self-consciousness of my thoughts; whether they are “Share” worthy. Wondering if any of it matters. But I miss my close FB friends very much. But I don’t reach out; I feel slightly alone, I feel slightly sad about my decision. But this is how it goes. This is where the growth is. This is where the pay dirt is. As my very wise therapist said years ago when I was addressing my addiction to chaos he said, “all resistance is to change.” How right he was.

Thank you.

ps – here is the next entry: https://mollyfielddotcom.wordpress.com/2013/02/24/what-i-will-gain-by-quitting-facebook-for-lent-3-resisting-urges-feeling-left-out/