Monthly Archives: May 2017

They love me just the same every day

I did not know last Mother’s Day would be my mom’s last Mother’s Day.  She wasn’t diagnosed until late June. Her disease was vicious and swift. No time for last anythings. When my dad died, we had lots of lasts, because though his prognosis was bleak, they were wrong.  He outlived his six months by almost a year. My mom’s six months were only three.

I did not spend her last Mother’s Day with her.

Selfie from the last row of the James Taylor concert. This would be the last picture of us together.

In February or March, James Taylor concert tickets went on sale, and I bought them for Mother’s Day.  We would have dinner and see her favorite performer at the END of May, so no need to spend the actual holiday together.  She didn’t put tons of value on WHEN we saw each other anyway.  No big deal.  Our Mother’s Day was May 31st. A Tuesday. We had good food, good wine, and good music. I spent actual Mother’s Day with my own little munchkins.  I don’t think they loved me more that day.  I think they love me just the same every day.

This year, we have far too much to do, renovating one house and moving out of the other, to spend an entire day celebrating motherhood.  I will be sad, but guess what? I’m sad every day.  Not always on the surface, but it’s still very fresh.  I won’t go out of my way to be extra sad because the calendar tells me to.

So, I don’t feel bad that I didn’t spend my mom’s last Mother’s Day with her.  I spent other days with her, and she was my mom on every one of them.  The day is nice, but it’s just not necessary.  Don’t let it stress you out this weekend.  Well, not any more than any regular Sunday with your family would at the very least ;-).  Peace, Mamas.

Every song he played had Mom saying, “Oh! I’m so glad he’s playing this one!”

Me, too

Because I wouldn’t see him until show time, my spouse hugged and kissed me and wished me good luck last Thursday morning.  He asked, “Will this be the biggest crowd you’ve ever spoken to?” I responded quickly, “No. But it will be the biggest crowd I’ve spoken MY OWN WORDS to.”  I was going to share a slice of myself, just a sliver of a very rich story, with 700 people.  But I wasn’t nervous.

I wasn’t nervous until I saw the other twelve women I got to share a stage with.  Until I saw my name on my seat.  Until I caught glimpses of my family and friends waiting in line outside the door.  Strangers, fine, but ohmygoodness, MY people are here! I became nervous not for the speaking, but for the revealing.  Because even the very closest people to me, the people I share every part of my heart with, don’t know all the story.  And forget the people who don’t know my heart at all, who are new friends I volunteer and occasionally drink with.  They certainly don’t know my story.  But truly everyone has a story, and the beauty is in the telling.

I remember our first cast rehearsal.  We took pictures and read through our pieces.  Photos first, and in the waiting (each woman had individual shots taken before our group shot), we chatted.  We shared pleasantries, “Where are you from? What do you do? Do you have kids?”  The questions women ask.  Then we heard each other’s stories.  And we suddenly knew each other one hundred times better.  I had a lengthy conversation with one of the women about her work and hobbies and passions, and then BAM! I find out she almost died. Because even though we talked for twenty minutes, that didn’t come up.  And gracious, you don’t lead with that!

I’ve been leading with part of my story for a few months, though, because of our circumstances.  A conversation typically goes like this:

“We’re moving this summer.”

“Oh, wow! Where?”

“To my hometown.”

“Oh, how fun! But why? Did you or your spouse get a new job there?” (Commentary on why our lives should not be ruled by our work another time.)

“No, my mom died last fall, and we’ve decided to renovate and move into her house.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.  It’s good, though.  Really great decision for our family.”

“I’m so sorry. But happy for you.”

“Thanks.”

And then we usually change the subject.  Because sometimes stories are so HARD in conversation.  People don’t know what to say or ask, what is allowed, rude, or intrusive. So, actually, the stage is kind of the perfect solution.

My smile is so big because my spouse is photobombing my selfie. Man, I love him.

I got to share my story, or a small piece of it anyway, to a crowd of 700 people, about 40 of whom I know and will see again.  No awkward conversations necessary.  Except by choice.  Because after and still (via email and DMs and in person), women are telling me, “Thank you for sharing your story, it’s my story, too.”

That’s the power of storytelling! Nothing connects us like the power of “Me, too.”  One of my friends said my story was one of the most relatable, and I totally get that.  My story had few enough details to be somewhat generic.  Few enough extraordinary circumstances for more people to say, “Me, too.  Ohmyheart, me, too.”

I was nervous because of the revealing, not the speaking (though I was surprised at how little eye contact I was able to make, how much I needed to keep my hands down instead of gesture, for fear of shaking), but then it was indeed the sweetest part.  Life is too short to keep our hearts concealed.  Awkward conversation and stage fright and embarrassment and all the hard things.  Sweet, sweet stories, no matter how difficult, are what sustain us.  Stage or no stage, I hope you find a way to tell yours.

Do As I Say, Not As I Do

Photo Credit: Ann Marie Photography

***On May 4th, I was honored to speak with twelve other women at this event.  This is not my account of the event, just my script.  Look for my thoughts, feelings, experiences next week.  Peace.***

Do As I Say, Not As I Do by Emily Heinis

When I had my first baby, each guest at my baby shower wrote a piece of advice on a notecard. They weren’t read aloud, but collected anonymously for me to bring home and read later. I could tell most of them from the handwriting.

From my sister: When they are bad, send them to my house

From my best friend WITH kids: Don’t panic when they start eating their boogers-immune system boost!

From my best friend with NO kids: Your baby is so lucky to have you as a mother.

And then, in my mother’s unmistakable handwriting: Do as I say, not as I do.

I sat pregnant and agape on the nursery floor.  And I cried.  Because this was the first time that my mom had admitted, and in writing even!, that perhaps she hadn’t been the worlds’ best mother.

I don’t have enough time to give you a detailed account of my “difficult childhood.”  Stuff happened.  Times were tough.  Some of that stuff and those times were my mother’s fault.  But her notecard was so important because I never knew if she felt it.  Remorse, accountability, anything.  Because we never talked about the stuff and the times or the feelings that came with them.

I had my baby.  And another one two years later.  With motherhood came more feelings.  The intense, visceral, ridiculous loving bond I feel with my children? I never felt that from my mom.  Does SHE love ME this much? Did SHE worry about ME like this? I dreamed of sitting down with her over a glass of wine and a game of Scrabble and mustering the courage to talk about the stuff and the times, instead of our normal chatter.  But I just couldn’t.

Then, last summer, my mom was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer and given mere months to live.  My courage to bring up the stuff and the times and the feelings suddenly had a deadline.  I wanted an explanation or an apology or SOMETHING.  I had thought I would have years for these conversations to come up naturally.  I thought she’d live with us when she retired.  We were going to be the next Dorothy and Sophia! I’d thought for a long time we’d even write a book together.  It would of course by made into a movie, starring Meryl Streep as Mom and Jennifer Lawrence as me.  But now, we were running out of time.

At my therapist’s suggestion, we looked through old photo albums together.  That worked for some good stories I had never heard, but it didn’t lead to any feelings talks.  Real talks.  And she was in so much pain, I couldn’t bear to cause her more.

Then one day as I was leaving, I told her I hoped she didn’t think I was an insensitive bitch for not being an emotional wreck over her illness. I told her I was keeping it together around her, to help her remain strong, too.  She said she knew and thanked me.  I said, “Well, I learned it from you.” And she replied, “At least I did something right.”

There it was: she had opened the door.  She was acknowledging again that it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows.  But hearing her say it.  With the feelings.  Suddenly and completely, MY feelings changed.  I was defensive.  “Mom,” I said, “Don’t say that.  Look at me.  I’m awesome.” “Of course you are,” she replied, and we both laughed.  Because neither of us had the courage to say more.

A few weeks later, she took a turn for the worse and rather than needing an explanation or an apology from her, I suddenly needed her to know how much I loved and appreciated her.  I didn’t want her to die thinking she was a bad mom.  Because really, she wasn’t.

I was able to list tons of things she did for us and instilled in us and provided for us. Things like work ethic and forgiveness and humor and the importance of family. And I DID list them.  I knew she would shut me down in person, so I wrote her a letter.  I left it with her to read on Sunday afternoon.  On Tuesday, she called us to her.  On Thursday morning, she died, just three months after her diagnosis. We never talked about my letter.

Since her death, I have found tons of evidence that she loved me as much as I love my kids, that she worried about me and protected me.  She simply didn’t express her love for me in the ways I expected or wanted.  I will NEVER know why she made some of the choices she did.  But with tragedy often comes clarity, and I learned this: focusing on the negative for so many years made me an ungrateful daughter. My mom chose never to talk about the negative.  She wasn’t sunny and optimistic, she just chose not to dwell on the past.

“Do as I say, not as I do,” wasn’t the most helpful advice she could’ve given me on caring for my newborn, but her words will live with me forever.

 

(Ann Marie Photography, official photographer and sponsor of LTYM Twin Cities)