Missing my mother at christmas

A YEAR OF HARD FIRSTS Experts talk about the holidays being a time of highs and lows, a magnifier and amplifier for where we are in our lives. When we’re in a good place, mentally and

physically, it’s easier to see and feel the joy in this time of year. For those experiencing loss, a change in circumstances, isolation or loneliness, the holiday season is a reminder of

what we might be missing and how we come up short.  The first year after losing someone, there is a list of firsts: the first Thanksgiving without them at the table, the first birthday or

anniversary that passes. The experience of any good memory without that loved one is a year of fresh paper cuts and bruising grief, and it looks different for each one of us. What I hadn’t

counted on this season was missing the actual act of _caring_ for my mother. That feeling would hit me out of the blue when I least expected. Was it the “duty” of caring for her, the dignity

of the role, or the reward of feeling needed that I missed? Of course, I loved her, but I was also proud to pay it back for all those years she cared for us, especially as eye-rolling,

rule-defying teenagers. It’s impossible to untangle all the emotions that go into caring for another person. Resentment, duty, responsibility and obligation can coexist with love, devotion

and gratitude. It’s so different for each one of us.  In a very short time, we’ll face that first Christmas without her in the world. We will look around the table at the nine grandchildren

and now the very first great-grandchild that she never got to meet. One of her daughters will raise a toast to her, our unsung hero in so many ways. She was the quiet force behind us all,

the original blueprint for so many aspects of how we all have moved through the world. The past year has been a chance to take stock of how I showed up as a caregiver. Many long-distance

caregivers live with the persistent thought that they are always falling short, never doing enough. My mother never made me feel that way herself.  I’ve made peace with the fact that I did

the best I could. There were times, at the wheel on the drive back from Boston, I would find myself exhausted and overwhelmed, cursing the fact that they hadn’t chosen a place nearer to my

sister and me. But those angry moments of caregiving have been largely erased from my memory. That’s a gift of the passage of time.  My mother thought cardinals were a sign of hope. She

would clap her hands together in delight each time she saw a red bird outside her window. After she died, I found a tiny ceramic replica of the bird and bought one for each sister. Mine sits

near the phone on my desk, staring out the window as she used to do, watching them at the feeder. When I feel that phantom limb of an impulse to reach for the phone and talk to her, I look

at that little bird. The sharp stab of realization morphs into love and gratitude. While she may not be present in this world, she is still with me, and with all of us, in the way that love

lives on.