It’s Mother’s Day. The most depressing time of the year for me.
In the past, it never was that big of a deal. Oh, we’d celebrate the day. My brothers and sisters would all get together for lunch and shower mother with affection. We’d all give her cards, and sometimes flowers and gifts, but in many ways it was just another day for me. My Mother and I had a very special relationship. There wasn’t a day that went by that she didn’t know what she meant to me. My heart was always opened to her.
She died on Mother’s Day.
The date of this holiday changes every year, which seems to double the annual period of grief. Now there are two days when the pain of loss is amplified. The actual date of her death and the date nationally recognized as Mother’s Day.
I’m not a mother. I wanted to be. Desperately. But I lost my children: my hopes and dreams. My twins lost through a painful miscarriage. I feel that loss most on Mother’s Day when it seems everyone around me is celebrating. Restaurants and stores all herald Mother’s Day specials and promotions. Service employees try to recognize the mothers they serve and in doing manage to push that painful button for those who had sought that role but suffered infertility or loss. And distracting yourself in social media is not the answer on this day. Being “triggered” takes on a whole new meaning for people like me on Mother’s Day. It’s better to stay away from the crowds.
It’s raining today. Not a good day to hike or explore, which always help lift my spirits. The steady drops against my windows seem to mirror my mood. I hurt for the life I missed, for the relationship I would have had with my son and daughter. I miss my mother. Before I start another project to fill the hours, I’m taking a moment to feel the sadness, to remember and to grieve again. Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Maybe that’s a kind of celebration of Mother’s Day.
Tears are often memorials to love, which is by far the greatest gift of life.
by G. Anne Bassett 