It’s 7:47a, and I’m sitting on the couch, patiently waiting for my Mother’s Day breakfast-in-bed—breakfast-in-bed that has morphed into “We’ll get you McDonald’s in the morning, Mom. What do you want?” Of course, both girls are still fast asleep at this point, Chrissy right next to me on the couch because she has yet to find her bed after moving home from college. And I’m loving every second of it.

This day holds an undercurrent of sadness for me every single year, and I know I’m not the only one.  Whether you lost your mother, had an abusive mother, or would really love to be a mother but aren’t, this day can hold some melancholy.  I was feeling a push to write today though I haven’t quite figured out why; I do know that my heart is full of this strange combination of gratitude and sorrow which is both comforting and confusing.

First, I’m incredibly grateful for my girls.  At dinner last night at their dad’s house (yes, we get along so well that we can all eat dinner together), they had me laughing to the point of tears; then we hung out and watched “Boss Baby” because I’m the mom (and recent birthday girl!) and they have to do everything I say this weekend; it’s a rule.  And I know that I’m lucky.  I know that I’m so lucky that (1) I was able to have kids in the first place, and (2) that both girls are healthy (both mentally and physically).  Those facts are not lost on me.  I did nothing to “deserve” or “earn” this: I got damn lucky.

And then there’s the melancholy.  It goes beyond “I miss my mom” although that is certainly a piece of it.  It’s all of the associated losses that accompany that death.  I’m sad that she never knew my girls; I’m sad that they will never know her because she was remarkable. I think I always took that fact for granted until my new therapist asked me to talk about my mom/my childhood.  As I did, I began to marvel at how freaking wise my mom was at such a young age.  She was gone at 42 and by then she had a laser-like focus on what is important in life and what isn’t; she also was fanatical about being kind and not judging, just loving: “I have yet to meet an evil person.  Some hide the good a little deeper, that’s all.”  Those were words in the journal she started keeping once she found out that she had cancer.  She didn’t just spout words—she lived what she believed. She was very laid-back, but if she EVER heard me remotely making fun of someone (as middle schoolers tend to do), the hammer dropped, hard.  There was zero tolerance for that type of behavior in my home growing up, and I’m thankful for that.  My girls experience the same hammer, and I hope their kids (should they have any) will feel the same.

[Small disclaimer here to state that my dad also gets mad props on Mother’s Day since he’s been pulling double-duty since I was just over 13.  He’ll get a blog, too, someday, but this one is about Linda Lou.]

Well.  I just spent an hour re-reading my mom’s journal.  I haven’t really read it since 1985 when she died.  I’ve perused a few pages here and there, but I haven’t really sat and read the entries.  Reading them today is no accident.

My memories of my mom are those of a kid thinking about a parent.  I don’t think of her as a human; I think of her as my mother.  Reading this journal reveals to me her humanity.  If you ask my family, she is essentially canonized: St. Linda of Manchester, pray for us.  And she was a helluva woman—I’ve said as much.  But her journal reveals the complete picture:  the fear and frustration and anger and aggravation. I can’t share most of what she wrote (because it’s such an absolute treasure for my family), but these lines jumped out at me:

“I’m so afraid. I can’t stand it. It’s all crazy. And I do it.  I do it all and pretend there’s not much wrong. It’ll all go away. Bullshit—But why me—why this family?!! And how long? What happens next, what happens to old fat face next?! She’s so brave. She’s such a pain in the ass!”

So I’m sitting with this, rolling around in it, really feeling this mother, this HUMAN that I never really knew.  It makes sense that she was petrified and angry but that’s not the picture/memory I have of her.  This is a new layer.  It’s a bitter layer, a sad layer, a complicated layer—but it’s a layer that makes her less “THE MOTHER” and more “Linda, the human” which—at this point in my life—is more needed and more appreciated than perfect remembrances.

I’m not an idiot (well, not always).  I know that terminal cancer with seven kids (four still at home) is not the same as my depression. I know that.  Yet somehow sharing in those very human moments with her feels comforting.  It’s a reminder of the humanness of suffering.  I tell my patients all of the time that all humans suffer, all humans fail, but those can be hollow words. To FEEL my mom’s suffering is a gift.  Makes me feel more connected to her than all of those happy memories that I have (but those are cherished, too).  My picture of her has always been one of perfection.  Having her humanity revealed is a gift.

It may be melancholy, but I’m still grateful for Mother’s Day.  I’m especially grateful for this Mother’s Day and the time spent with my momma.  I’m going to be sad today, and I’ll probably cry multiple times.  And I’ll be sure to share these moments with my daughters so they will have a glimpse of their mother’s humanity since my default is to protect them from it.

We were supposed to clean all day today.

Right now, that feels absurd.  Who gives a fuck about dishes in the sink when there are memories to be made?

Go.  Be human.  Make memories.