Mom Is The Gift

Last September I opened an eblast from a small stationery company titled “Dealing with Disappointment and 5 Coping Mechanisms.” The vibrant co-owner was paralyzed in an accident while building a home with Habitat for Humanity.

She wrote about a tornado destroying the tiny studio that she designed and built with her own hands. She can’t rebuild it as she can no longer walk. She talked about her chronic bladder stones and that she feared another surgery might end her life.

She shared her anxiety about not being there for her daughter and how she snuggles with her at night and cries.

I replied to her heart-wrenching email.

Dear Tiny,

I’m sorry to hear about the loss of your studio. You seem to be managing the grief well. I suppose the universe didn’t think you needed it anymore and wanted to move you to a different space. 

What really hit home for me was the fear of not seeing your daughter grow up. 

My mom was diagnosed with a terminal kidney disease when she married my dad. They said she wouldn’t live to see 40. 

I remember when I was three, she couldn’t walk because her MS attacked her legs. She later gained her ability but was always aware that her legs could go out at any moment. 

At 15, she was crying to me in the kitchen, “I just want to live long enough to see you married.”

I missed out on countless Saturdays with my friends because I had to take my mom to the hospital for pain management from migraines and kidney stones. There was always a strainer by the toilet. 

My mom had Alzheimer’s, but it was a sudden heart attack that finally got my mom one evening when she was 74. 

People apologized that she died so young. I would reassure them that she died old. She got a bonus 34 years. 

When she died, I said to my dad, “do you think she lived so long because I never got married?” (I’ve been engaged five times. I’m not a closer.)

Maybe. The point is I always carried that day in the kitchen with me.

Yesterday, September 9^th, was my mom’s birthday and the City of Beverly Hills told me I got the Recreation and Parks Commissioner position. 

I think it’s a sign that she’s still looking out for me and that she’s proud of the woman she raised. 

I loved your eblast and the sharing of tools. You clearly have an abundance of them. 

Please don’t cry about leaving your daughter. You never will. 

This week she replied to my email.

Tara,

Just the other day, I was thinking again of what you said: "Please don’t cry about leaving your daughter. You never will." Your story, those words, they've left an imprint on my heart. Thank you for this gift.

I've started to write a letter to Ellie every Sunday, and it has quickly become a sacred tradition for me. I often picture her reading my words someday when she needs them most...and even if I'm not physically here, I *will* be right there with her. It has helped (and also been tear-inducing at times). I know you "get" it.

Our exchange made me think about the relationship between a mother and her child. It’s easy to celebrate Mom for all obvious things she does from being a chef, to a chauffeur, to a life manager.

Perhaps Mother’s Day should acknowledge the things that can’t be seen, like a mind that is always worrying about making the best choices for her daughter, like a heart that’s in a constant state of anxiety, and a soul that just aches to be connected.

My most treasured items from my mom are her hand-written cards and letters to me. This Sunday, gift mom with some carefully chosen words from your heart. Express gratitude for the tools she gave you to become the person you are today. Pledge to spend more time together.

For those who have lost their mom, honor her on Sunday, by writing a note of gratitude or an update of the good things that are happening right now in your life. Read it aloud at the portal 11:11. I promise you that you’ll feel her.