Mother’s Day

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Today is Mother’s Day. It is also my 60th birthday. The two days always fall within the same week if not on the same day and I always feel cheated because there will be only one celebration instead of two. Turning 60 doesn’t seem so significant. In reality I am only one day older than I was yesterday. As for Mother’s Day, I doubt that the day will be special in any way. My daughter is in Paris and my two sons probably don’t even remember that this day is not only Mother’s Day, but also my birthday. What is significant about this day is that it is one more Mother’s Day that I will not be able to call my mother or send her flowers.

My mother died twenty years ago. I remember those last weeks very clearly because it was the year I was turning 40. My children were young, ages 1, 5 and 8. I had planned to send my mother 40 roses for my birthday to thank her for my life. However, things don’t always go the way we plan. First of all, I didn’t have the money to send her 40 roses. Second, my mother was in the hospital on my birthday. She had been in the hospital before because of her diabetes and the problems it caused, but this time she called me and requested that I come visit her, something she had never done before. I viewed this request with foreboding.

My husband and I celebrated my 40th birthday at a restaurant. What I remember most about that meal was me crying because I knew this upcoming visit would probably be the last time I would see my mother. My daughter and I flew to Rochester the next day. For two weeks I visited my mother daily. My daughter played by her bedside and visitors came and went. Some times my mother was lucid and other times she seemed near death. I remember she said to one visitor in my presence, "I'm too young to die." The physicians gave us no hope and my family discussed funeral arrangements. During that time and in my absence my oldest son “graduated” from the school he had attended for six years and my father-in-law died unexpectedly. The following week I returned to Kentucky with the intention of returning to New York in a few weeks with all of my children. My mother died before I could return.

I was not my mother’s favorite child. I don’t ever remember my mother hugging me, telling me she was proud of me, or saying she loved me. I can count the vacations we went on together on one hand. Many times during my childhood I felt unloved and unwanted. What I do remember is that my mother was always there when I needed her. I miss her every day.

“On Mother's Day I have written a poem for you. In the interest of poetic economy and truth, I have succeeded in concentrating my deepest feelings and beliefs into two perfectly crafted lines: You're my mother, I would have no other!” ~Forest Houtenschil
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