My mom died one year ago today. I somehow survived one full lap around the sun without my guiding light. Grief is an emotional vampire that, at times, sucked me dry of my reserve. I felt trapped in an endless, starless night... unable to see the dawn.
So, I faked it.
I smiled through the crippling pain. I laughed through the unrelenting heartache. I rejoiced through the hot tears that burned my cheeks. I didn't curl up in the fetal position to mourn my mommy because she never gave me that example during her 11-year duel with ovarian cancer. She wanted more for me, and I wanted more for my son. Don't get me wrong -- I host pity parties for one -- but I don't overstay my welcome. Even though my mom's no longer here, she showed me the way. And I still ache for her guidance every day.
Here's 17 things I miss most about my beloved mom.
1. I miss her flip phone. She was the only person I knew who had one... and had her ringtone set to Abba's "Take a Chance on Me" to complement her whole retro non-techie vibe. She had no idea how to text and, most of the time, she had no idea where her phone was. It was part of her charm.
2. I miss her reassuring smiles, her warm, comforting embraces, her unparalleled compassion for anyone fortunate enough to look into her soulful, doe-shaped eyes. When the doctor told her he wasn't sure she would make it through the night, my mom consoled him. After all, he was the one who had to tell her she would probably die... and how hard was that? After the doctor, she comforted me the way only she could. And then she applied lipstick, brushed her hair, and cracked a joke about how she could at least represent well in the intensive care unit.
3. I miss her voice. I talked to her at least four times a day. How is it possible I have survived 365 days without her telling me what the f*ck to do?
4. I miss asking her questions only she can answer. Did I ever do [insert kid behavior here] as a child, mom? What was I like when I was 4 years old? How was I like my son? How was I different?
5. I miss her inappropriate humor, her ability to deliver 1,000 dirty jokes flawlessly. She didn't forget punch lines, stammer or even warn you that she was about to tell a joke. She could have had a boo-free career as a stand-up comedian.
6. I miss telling her about my life. Mommy, I finished my children's book. And, remember Jeff from high school? He's illustrating it. I am going to make your dream of publishing a children's book come true. I am writing my blog and for other publications. Can you believe some people actually give a sh*t about what your mouthy daughter has to say? But, enough about my writing. I separated from my husband after you died. I got pneumonia... oh, and basal cell carcinoma. I took myself to surgery and drove myself home (and managed to fit in some shopping while I waited for clean margins... yes, that butterfly necklace from Tiffany's I bought was in memory of your beautiful spirit). I can't bear to tell you about Alex the Great; you should be here to enjoy your grandson. But I will say his love sustains me, just as you knew it would.
7. I miss seeing her sitting across from my son, telling him made-up stories that kept him entranced. There was a magic about my mom. She was a hybrid of Mary Poppins, a fairy godmother and Marie from The Aristocats... but she could cackle better than the evil witch in The Wizard of Oz if need be. She was so animated she didn't need any props. She was the one I wholeheartedly trusted with my son, who went out of her way to make me dinner and reorganize my spice cabinet during naptime (even though hers was a mess). She surprised me with things that filled my heart with pride (Mom, Alex still remembers how you both picked out flowers and planted a garden for me).
8. I miss strategizing about our Thanksgiving menu, beginning in October every year. I was so thankful for her... even when she got in my way in the kitchen. I wish I could bump shoulders with her just one more time.
9. I miss driving aimlessly with her, listening to her sing songs over the radio. I remember all of those "aha" moments -- the ones where we discovered we both loved the same song. It happened with Al Jerreau's "Mornin'" on our last trip to Story Land with my son for her birthday. And with Michael Buble's "Haven't Met You Yet." It reminded both of us of my son when I was pregnant. I hear so many songs, so many words... and they remind me of my mom. I do "the Mimi dance" with my little boy in her memory. I still blast the music, sing off-key with wild abandon and stick my hands out of the sunroof for a laugh. I do it all for her.
10. I miss her handwritten letters, her cards, even the annoying emails she forwarded. I miss that she took the time to "Elf Yourself"... and did it for me and pretty much everyone she knew.
11. I miss taking her to chemotherapy. I spent months of my life in the hospital. Literally... when you add up all of the hours I spent at her bedside, it adds up to months. No matter what we were dealing with, how dire the news or circumstances, how excruciating the treatment, how infuriating the commute home -- we always managed to laugh. Sometimes, we'd even have belly laugh crying fits when she was attached to an IV. It was pretty funny when a nurse donned a hazmat suit to administer the poison that flowed through her veins.
12. I miss Christmas mornings at her house. The jingle bells on the front door, the cheesy Santa dancing on a motorcycle, the tree decked out with ornaments from my entire life. She stayed up wrapping all night long on Christmas Eve -- every year -- and would inevitably forget where she hid a gift. I would get it sometime in June of the following year. She was the most thoughtful gift-giver .. not only on Christmas or Hanukkah (yup, lucky me celebrated both), but also just because. I long for those little gifts. No one does anything like that for me anymore.
13. I miss the things that once drove me crazy. She would put me on hold to answer another call and talk to the person for 10 minutes. She ran late ("You wouldn't believe it, but I got caught behind a family of turtles trying to cross the road, Jodi"). She called me out if I was being a b*tch. All of it was better than the horrifying silence I suffer through every day without my mom.
14. I miss her validation. She helped me believe in myself. She dared me to dream. She told me the truth. I hope she knew how much her opinion meant to me.
15. I miss her at grandparents' day at my son's school (just yesterday, my son said, "When Grammy Mimi died it broke my heart, Mommy"). I miss having a mom on Mother's Day. I miss surprising her with things to make her smile, with impromptu day trips (she was always game), with movies on a rainy day. I feel so alone without my mom.
16. I miss her companionship. She was my very best friend. A part of me was buried right next to my mom.
17. I miss her love. No one loved me like my mom, and no one ever will again.