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I'm reading "Like Death" by Guy De Maupassant, and was struck by this passage about the woman character writing after her mother's death:
"We buried her yesterday, and since her poor lifeless body has gone out of this house it seems to me that I am alone in the world. We love our mothers almost without knowing or feeling it, for such love is as natural as it is to live, and we do not realize how deep-rooted is that love until the moment of final separation. No other affection is comparable to that, for all others come by chance, while this begins at birth; all the others are brought to us later by the accidents of life, while this has lived in our very blood since our first day on earth. And then, and there, we have lost not only a mother but our childhood itself, which half disappears, for our little life of girlhood belonged to her as much as to ourselves. She alone knew it as we knew it; she knew about innumerable things, remote, insignificant and dear, which are and which were the first sweet emotions of our heart. To her alone I could still say: 'Do you remember, mother, the day when--? Do you remember, mother, the china doll that grandmother gave me?' Both of us murmured to each other a long, sweet chapter of trifling childish memories, which no one on earth now knows of but me. So it is a part of myself that is dead--the older, the better. I have lost the poor heart wherein the little girl I was once still lived. Now no one knows her any more; no one remembers the little Anne, her short skirts, her laughter and her faces."
It's something not often mentioned, how we lose the link with our own childhood.
So very true and it's that much more heart-wrenching when you are still a child yourself when your mother dies. It is akin to a catastrophe, to be quite honest.
Interesting. I lost my mom and my dad in the last decade. I dream of them often. When I dream of my dad, I'm so surprised to see him - I had thought he was dead! In my dreams of my mom, there isn't a thought she's dead, she's just there, as herself. It's like there's a part of my mind that won't accept she's gone.
Funny, I've experienced it both ways - first, with the person just being a normal part of the dream, but sometimes knowing that they're dead and being happy to spend time with them in the dream.
I can still recall the first two years of discomfort at the loss of my mother. It affected my "reality".
A dear friend of mine..had just lost her son. We were both begotten in our grief. She said...you are blessed! I said..because I lost the person who was my best friend. Who for years I fed..changed clothes..gave medicine..and worried day & night? Yes..just as you could describe that very loss the same way...we have much in common. She huffed off with the how dare I try to say my bond to my mother was equal/equivalent to her loss of a son. I said..it just is that the special cord had been severed. Be it the mother ..or the child. I spoke no more of that bond loss...with her.
The author had it dern near right...for some of us ..it's those childhood moments that keep us sustained. The impression left is still there...
While my mother lay dying I asked her, "Is this being hard for you?" She answered me, "Not as hard as it's going to be for you."
Ouch. Quite the stark and honest answer.
It's been over a decade now and what I've noticed is how the nature of my grief has changed. Seems like I can look back at times she hurt me or disappointed me and have a deeper understanding of who she was and what made her the person she was. Sometimes I think, "Oh, you poor woman. You didn't know what to do." That's a new way of looking at Mother.
Along with all the warm memories, that added insight into the more painful ones has become a healing force for me. Grief doesn't go away forever but it can change.
My MIL and Mother died within a month of each other and startled me into the surprising state of feeling like a three-year-old orphan for a period of time. After reading this passage I'm thinking it was a sharp and sudden reliving of that private childhood that was now lost forever - the perceived one of security and support.
Some people haven't enjoyed a nurturing relationship with their mother. I didn't. I was not blessed with a healthy, nurturing, loving mother. My mother was mentally ill, and then she developed dementia. So overwhelmingly, my memories of my mother include defensiveness, frustration, fear, irritation, and pity.
Now granted, my mother passed away just a week ago, but this is the honest truth - I literally don't recall ever one time picking up the phone just to talk with her or share something - honestly, the less she knew about my emotions, the less she could try to manipulate situations. Now in her defense, she did try to overcome some of her emotional and mental health issues, but she desperately needed professional help and she refused that. What this left our family with was a woman in the grips of bipolar disorder, who would fitfully reach out, try to make amends, try to be loving and affectionate, only to fall back into the grips of mania or depression within a few days. What a roller coaster ride. By the time I was in my early thirties, I was so tired of it all that I vowed never to allow myself to be lulled into complacency again with her.
And long story short, I ended up "inheriting" her. No one else was there for her as she slipped from bipolar disorder into dementia.
It was a very long, very difficult road with my mother and right now I basically feel relief and peace. And I'm not even sure I'll ever feel distraught over her passing, or her absence in my life. I mean, I already went through a couple of rounds of professional counseling and I feel like I have assimilated my emotions and memories about her, I've already grieved over an idealistic relationship that was never really there and the dashed hopes that it would ever be there, and I had already reached a point of forgiveness, acceptance, and basically resignation by the time she passed away.
So there's another perspective, and I hope it doesn't sound terrible. It's honest though, and it's valid.
Hopefully those who had a better experience with their moms can be even more grateful as they read this different account.
My mother was physically abusive for a few years when I was young. She was verbally abusive for many.
When I was little, she told me that she could hurt me in ways that the family doctor and school nurse couldn't find. Thanks mom.
She continued to criticize me for years after I'd moved away and married.
She did a few things right. She took really good care of my dad. The worst day of her life was the day that he died. She never really recovered from that.
She also took care of my nephew when he was in college. He needed a place to stay in the summer, and more cash he could make working part time. She relentlessly bitched at him, but that's what goes with the territory. She fed him, paid for his needs, and bought him a used car so that he could work.
My sister could deal with her, but lived thousands of miles away. In the end, she became my responsibility.
Oh, damn, I just remembered that she used to mock my stuttering when I was young.
My mother was physically abusive for a few years when I was young. She was verbally abusive for many.
When I was little, she told me that she could hurt me in ways that the family doctor and school nurse couldn't find. Thanks mom.
She continued to criticize me for years after I'd moved away and married.
She did a few things right. She took really good care of my dad. The worst day of her life was the day that he died. She never really recovered from that.
She also took care of my nephew when he was in college. He needed a place to stay in the summer, and more cash he could make working part time. She relentlessly bitched at him, but that's what goes with the territory. She fed him, paid for his needs, and bought him a used car so that he could work.
My sister could deal with her, but lived thousands of miles away. In the end, she became my responsibility.
Oh, damn, I just remembered that she used to mock my stuttering when I was young.
Yikes!
My mother wasn't nearly as physically abusive to me as she was to my middle brother, who became her "whipping boy." But I have dealt for years with misplaced guilt over that (I've moved past that but it took awhile). I learned to stay out of her way, retreat somewhere, be quiet, read a book, that sort of thing - but my brother was more angry about it and frankly more rebellious (though I don't blame him for that). So he "caught more hell" than I did.
My mom did do some things right. Every night we all sat down together as a family for dinner. I always had neat, clean, attractive clothes. We always had a neat, clean house. To her credit, though I absolutely despise oatmeal or pancakes for breakfast, she did get up every morning before we went to school and cooked - you got it - oatmeal or pancakes. She threw each kid good birthday parties too. My mom was very "dutiful." She was attractive and she made sure her kids were too, and her house. She was "arm candy" when it came to my dad's work and their socializing and she was expected to host and entertain, so she did so. But she was very inhibited about showing her own feelings, and this came out as hostility and aggression in other inappropriate ways. Hell, she was bipolar, what am I even saying? She was mentally ill and one can only keep a lid on that for a little while before it explodes - though the explosions were always internal, directed at the people who loved her the most (and who I believe she loved as well - she just couldn't hold her mental illness in check without meds or therapy, which she absolutely refused).
It's been over a week now and I hate to say it but I am not grieving over my mother. I am sad sometimes, but not at all overwhelmed. But I had taken the time and effort to sort through all these issues already, and with my mom's slide into dementia and utter brokenness, I had the time to say goodbye to her beauty and wit - and I did. That is what I miss about my mom, but I've already grieved over that. I was so ready for her to pass on - her body and mind were so broken and useless to her and I wanted her to finally be at rest, at peace, a state I had never seen her reach before but I knew it was there for her.
I'm so glad she finally made it to that point. I believe in an afterlife and I believe I will see her again, and when I do, she won't be mentally ill. I will be glad to see her then and she will be glad to see me. Meanwhile, now I have more peace in this world and I am relishing it. My mother was a lot of things, but a peacemaker was not one of them.
I'm reading "Like Death" by Guy De Maupassant, and was struck by this passage about the woman character writing after her mother's death:
"We buried her yesterday, and since her poor lifeless body has gone out of this house it seems to me that I am alone in the world. We love our mothers almost without knowing or feeling it, for such love is as natural as it is to live, and we do not realize how deep-rooted is that love until the moment of final separation. No other affection is comparable to that, for all others come by chance, while this begins at birth; all the others are brought to us later by the accidents of life, while this has lived in our very blood since our first day on earth. And then, and there, we have lost not only a mother but our childhood itself, which half disappears, for our little life of girlhood belonged to her as much as to ourselves. She alone knew it as we knew it; she knew about innumerable things, remote, insignificant and dear, which are and which were the first sweet emotions of our heart. To her alone I could still say: 'Do you remember, mother, the day when--? Do you remember, mother, the china doll that grandmother gave me?' Both of us murmured to each other a long, sweet chapter of trifling childish memories, which no one on earth now knows of but me. So it is a part of myself that is dead--the older, the better. I have lost the poor heart wherein the little girl I was once still lived. Now no one knows her any more; no one remembers the little Anne, her short skirts, her laughter and her faces."
It's something not often mentioned, how we lose the link with our own childhood.
I am a victim of this. My Mother moved into my home for 1 year and then had to go to a facility. SHe moved a lot of sentimental things and I already am sentimental. I remember her in my heart, and I also learn from her both in her advice which was abundant, but also things that she did that I believe caused her demise. We all have our own demons etc and ways of dealing with the skeletons in the closet.
I lost my mom when I had young children and a terrible marriage. That passage expresses exactly how I felt. So alone in the world. I didn't know how I was going to raise my children without her guidance. I felt like I had been orphaned as my dad died when I was a teenager.
Many years have passed, many times I have wished for a few minutes to spend with her. My memories of growing up are all gone. The family has passed. My second husband, my best friend and the most wonderful man I have ever known, passed recently. My heart has been heavy ever since.
I'm reading "Like Death" by Guy De Maupassant, and was struck by this passage about the woman character writing after her mother's death:
"We buried her yesterday, and since her poor lifeless body has gone out of this house it seems to me that I am alone in the world. We love our mothers almost without knowing or feeling it, for such love is as natural as it is to live, and we do not realize how deep-rooted is that love until the moment of final separation. No other affection is comparable to that, for all others come by chance, while this begins at birth; all the others are brought to us later by the accidents of life, while this has lived in our very blood since our first day on earth. And then, and there, we have lost not only a mother but our childhood itself, which half disappears, for our little life of girlhood belonged to her as much as to ourselves. She alone knew it as we knew it; she knew about innumerable things, remote, insignificant and dear, which are and which were the first sweet emotions of our heart. To her alone I could still say: 'Do you remember, mother, the day when--? Do you remember, mother, the china doll that grandmother gave me?' Both of us murmured to each other a long, sweet chapter of trifling childish memories, which no one on earth now knows of but me. So it is a part of myself that is dead--the older, the better. I have lost the poor heart wherein the little girl I was once still lived. Now no one knows her any more; no one remembers the little Anne, her short skirts, her laughter and her faces."
It's something not often mentioned, how we lose the link with our own childhood.
Thank you for posting this. I have been feeling much what he describes since my mother died and I wondered if I was crazy for feeling so much of my past is gone now. It's such a profound and far reaching loss. I want to read that story now!
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