Tag Archives: Loss

On A Motherless Mother’s Day, Remembering to Heal and to Laugh

mom and me - Copy

You wanted to know how I am—meaning since my loss, since my mother died. I say, “doing okay,” because sometimes I am okay. Sometimes I forget, and life feels normal. I say, “You know, it comes in waves,” meaning grief comes in waves, meaning sometimes it’s sharp and sometimes it’s dull and heavy and sometimes it lifts into nothing.

“Doing okay. You know—it comes in waves.” It is a comfort to me to say this because it sounds healthy. I am being honest, real, but not falling apart. I mean to reassure you. Friends like you distract me, which I appreciate more than you can imagine. Work distracts me. Other people’s lives and problems and needs distract me. If I couldn’t work, if I couldn’t listen, I wouldn’t be back. But I can so I am.

I’m being honest because you asked in a way that I trust. I can tell you care. A lot of people care, a shocking number of people care, which is nice, but which overwhelms me, makes me feel guilty because –What if I forget to acknowledge your caring? What if I forget to express my gratitude?

Because I am forgetting a lot lately, forgetting to manage the things I normally manage with little difficulty, forgetting what day it is. Forgetting who has to be driven where and picked up when and who just saw the orthodontist and cannot eat anything hard for a few days.

Sometimes, like I said, I forget she’s gone. I think I just haven’t called her yet today, that she’s still in her apartment in the city and later, when I’m out walking the dog, I’ll give her a call. Sometimes I do pick up the phone to give her a call. And then I remember.

Sometimes, of course, I am not okay. You know that, I’m sure. Because when I say it comes in waves, meaning grief, I’m referring to the surges. There are times when the weight in my heart is so heavy I cannot remain standing, and collapse on my kitchen floor, literally. I make sure one is around then but the dog, who comes and licks my tears away. Sometimes, there are too many tears to lick, and my face winds up a swimming mess of sorrow and dog drool.

Sometimes I think: how is it possible for me to be here on this earth, when there is no longer her? She has always been here in my life, since my first breath. Before.

And there is the sadness about my father too—whom we lost twenty-three years ago.  Not that I’m mourning him again, just mourning them together. My parents as a unit. Of our small family—just us three—no one is left but me.

Still, I am lucky. I have so much of them left: photographs, manuscripts, letters, mementos. Works of art that Dad created with Mom as his muse. A book about Brooklyn that Mom wrote and Dad illustrated for the children in one of her first-grade classes.

My mother was a story teller, as you well know. Over the years, she’s told me the stories of their life together before me. The sixteen years that they were Mel and Lorraine, before we were The Williamsons. In recent weeks, going through her apartment, sorting her endless things, I’ve unearthed boxes photographs that accompany the old, before-Lisa stories. One crumbling envelope reveals the trip to Maine where there were fresh blueberries and cream every morning. Another holds their trip up the coast where they tried to cook out on the beach and were assaulted by bees. Here are the gatherings at their first apartment, in Flatbush. Lola and Sam’s wedding. A waiter at the Vanguard in 1951.

My favorite photograph is a later one from a trip to Barbados when I was already out of college. This is how I remember them best together, smiling, free to enjoy one another and life. And me. I make an imprint of this image on a scrim inside my mind, bringing it up during those moments when I need them.

mom and dad jamaica Continue reading

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Emotional Scar Tissue

??????????????????????????????????????I write a lot about body image and identity–the connection between the body—shape, weight, height, physical capacities—and the self.  The body you live in is a house for the self; from
your body you negotiate the world.   People make inferences about you based on what they see, and those inferences, whether you believe them, whether you know them or not, are part of your ascribed identity.

But today I’m thinking about the pieces of identity no one can see on the outside.  The Trials, losses, illnesses, upheavals.  Though people can’t necessarily see the tough stuff you’ve been through, it’s part of you.  Being bullied as a child by a “best friend,” losing a parent, enduring the aftermath of a house fire—these are pieces of my baggage, which I’ll carry to my grave.  They are not all of me, but are included in me, inextricable parts of my identity.

I’m thinking about loss a lot lately.  Last week, my husband lost his aunt, a brilliant, wise and sensitive woman.  I’m thinking about the way her illness and death have affected those who were closest to her, her children, her husband, her beloved sister, how the strength of her love and the beauty of her memory will one day heal them.

A week earlier, tragedy struck our town not once but twice, as a college-bound high school senior took his own life, as a terrible accident took the life of the parent of one of my daughter’s schoolmates.   Our town feels like a different place today.

You are forever changed by your experiences of suffering.   You may be far into the healing process by now.  Possibly you have finished healing and are happy despite your suffering.  But you are YOU because of it.

Sometimes the strongest layers of the self come from our emotional scar tissue.

For so many artists, poets and writers, this scar tissue is one of the richest sources of creativity.  Though I am not blogging much these days (my energy is focused on a “revise and resubmit” arrangement I have with a literary agent), over the next few weeks, I am going to devote some posts to fellow bloggers who have channeled their life-trials into creative works—books, blogs, blogs-that-will-be-books—that are sure to touch and enrich the lives of others.

Valentine’s Eve Remembrance

My father and me in 1993

When you lose someone you love, the loss becomes part of you.  As time passes the loss changes shape, weight, texture, but you carry it everywhere.  It’s experience that changes you, wisdom to share in measured doses, depending on how willing another is to receive.

My father died of cancer seventeen years ago today:  February 13th, 1995, the day before Valentine’s Day.  We sat shiva for just three days before we felt him urging us to get back out into the world and live—on his behalf, on our own.  I remember walking outside on February 17th and thinking what a lonely place it was without Mel Williamson.  Lonelier still for those who’d never known him.  And then something happened—I don’t remember what—I saw some interaction between strangers on the street: something Dad would have made a comment about or laughed at, and I remember smiling.  A private smile, between me and Dad’s memory.

Since the day he’d died, I’d been getting back memories of the real him—not the fragile man who’d been in his bed for the past year and a half—but the hearty, brilliant, loving and funny guy my Dad was before.   But that day, walking, thinking of him, imagining his smile, hearing his rich bass laugh in my head, it was suddenly clear: I’d be okay.

In the beginning, I cried every day—many times a day—missing him, longing for him, saying angrily, he should still be here!  But mindful of his pain, I’d add: not like that.  The first year was hardest; there was still so much I wanted to ask him and tell him.  The next four years were the next hardest.  With every milestone, including my wedding in 1999, I’d think it: you should be here, Dad.

Once I met a woman who lost her father before I lost mine.  She told me: the first ten years are the worst.  Then it gets easier.  And it’s true.  Sometime after the tenth anniversary of my father’s death, I stopped feeling angry that he was missing so much of my life—and by then my children were born.  I actually started enjoying the wistful moments: what would Dad have thought of this?  What would he have said to that?   My children enjoy hearing about him; I enjoy seeing traces of him in them.  It is easier now.

As I gain distance from my father’s death, I want to share the balm of time that’s made my loss easier to bear.  But when I meet others who have recently lost parents, or who are losing them, I hold myself back from saying things like “you’ll get through it,” or  “it’s hard, but it will be okay.” Everyone’s loss is their own, as is their pace of recovery.  I can’t tell you how it’s going to turn out for you and your loss.  I can only say, you’re not alone, and if you need to talk, I’ve been someplace similar.

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In June 2010, I published Soul Food Shiva, a more detailed essay about losing my father to cancer, in the Defenders Online.  You can read it by clicking here.