I've been to many funerals in my lifetime - family, friends, neighbors, business colleagues - but the funeral about which I know the least is my mother’s. I assume I was there, but maybe not. Perhaps my father did not want to be bothered by a howling infant and left me in the care of a sitter. I know nothing of Mom’s funeral and am clueless as to where she was buried. We never visited her grave. “She is not there in the ground,” my father said when I asked why we never visited her grave. “No reason to go to some cemetery and cry.” So we didn't.
The only tidbit of information I know about her funeral was something my sister Sharry shared with me when I was a teenager. “She wore her beautiful blue satin dress,” Sharry said wistfully, “She used to wear it when she hosted her bridge club. I thought she looked like an angel in that dress so I guess it was the right one for her to wear through eternity.”
My father’s mother came from Chicago to live with us and help out. She stayed until my father remarried when I was about 18 months old. I don’t remember Grandma being with us and again the only bit of information about her stay came from my sister Sharry who claimed that her life-long weight struggles were caused by Grandma. “Nearly every afternoon Grandma would take us to the drug store and she always bought me a chocolate milkshake,” Sharry told me more than once, “Then, she would tell me how fat I was. No wonder I've always had issues with my weight.”
Missing from my life during that time, and all the years since, was anyone from my mother’s family. Mom was an only child. She had an upper-middle-class upbringing that even included what was called a “finishing school” education - a pseudo college for privileged young ladies where they learned the arts of cooking, entertaining and conversation, and the management of a home. The only job she ever had, according to my dad, was as a sales clerk in a stationery store.
My father claimed, “Your mother was an only child because her mother was a frigid woman who only had sex one time - the one time she got pregnant.” I doubt if that hard statement was true, but it certainly was an indication of my father’s lack of affection for his mother-in-law. My grandfather, Leroy, was a successful bank supplies salesman and Grandmother Norma was a homemaker/librarian who spent most of her time hiding her husband’s alcoholism from the world.
"Your grandfather was a happy, easy-going guy. Everyone liked him," my father shared, "I liked him, too, when he was sober. But, he was an obnoxious, stupid drunk. One of those guys who lose all inhibitions and common sense when they drink too much."
Grandmother Norma kept track of the drinks Grandfather Leroy consumed and quickly escorted him from dinners and parties before his drinking got out-of-hand. She "controlled" his drinking by letting him drink at home. Today we would say she was an enabler; back then she was a smart wife who knew her husband's limitations and weaknesses and did her best to keep them a family secret.
Unfortunately, my mother's mother did not live long enough to make sure her husband's secret went to the grave with him. When transporting my grandmother from one hospital bed to another after gall bladder surgery, a nurse lost her grip and Grandmother Norma hit the floor - hard - hard enough to cause a rupture, internal bleeding, and death. The nurse was reprimanded and wrote a letter of apology to my grandfather and my mother. No law suit, no compensation. A very different time than our current litigious society.
With the gatekeeper gone, Grandfather's drinking spiraled out of control. "He missed work so many times and made such a fool of himself at the office and at his clients' businesses that he lost his job," my father shared, "I was in the Army and we were stationed in Alabama. Your mom got worried reports from neighbors and friends about his behavior. When he was on a binge, he hung out at rough waterfront bars. He gave away hundred dollar bills and spent nights with whores. After he got drunk one night and set his house on fire, I had to request an hardship discharge so we could go back to Baltimore and look after him."
"Looking after him" proved to be nearly impossible. Grandfather Leroy was forced to live with my parents, but escaped many times. He was found each time, until the last time. Missing for several days his body was found in the harbor near the waterfront bars he frequented. He died from drowning or perhaps from the hit to his head that was either the result of striking something in the water when he landed there or was inflicted by someone who stole his missing wallet. I don't know if the mystery of his death was ever solved.
By the time of my birth, my mother's parents were deceased and the only relatives of hers that I ever knew, even sparingly so, were her aunt or great-aunt (not sure which) whom we called "Nanty" and a cousin Lee and her son Woody. My father didn't like Lee much, though I have no idea why, so she and Woody were not part of our lives after my mother's death and I only recall seeing them one time. Nanty, on the other hand, was wealthy, so my father did his best to stay in her good graces. She lived in a private retirement home where I remember visiting her when I was very young - maybe three or four years old. Her apartment had dark, heavy, large furniture that reminded me of something you would expect to see in a haunted house. Nanty was a tiny woman in a big wheelchair who was cared for by a short, round African-American woman who rarely spoke, but would sneak me little white shortbread cookies (Perhaps I should blame her for my weight problems!). Nanty died sometime before I turned five, but I don't know when she passed or if my father ever received the inheritance he hoped for.
Because I had no memories of her and because what was left of her family was nearly nonexistent in my lifetime, I considered my mother’s early death to be of no consequence to my life or who I was. I know, stupid, right?
Fast forward to the year I was 48 and seeing a psychologist for depression caused, I believed, by my declining marriage and ongoing problems with my father. “So, let’s talk about your mother,” Dr. L said gently.
“Why? She has nothing to do with me,” I replied in an annoyed tone, “Why do you keep bringing her up?”
The doctor paused for several seconds, thinking of how to respond. “Because I believe she has everything to do with your current problems. Our problems are always related to our past and losing your mother at such a young age is a big deal.”
I sighed heavily, “I never knew her. She was not part of my life. My problems are the people in my life now, not someone who left before I knew her.”
“It is not that simple,” the doctor replied cautiously, “The fact that she was not in your life had a huge influence on how you think and react, how you see yourself, how you let others treat you. I really want to explore how your mother’s death affected you as a child and how it affects now.”
“I think it’s a waste of time,” I replied. “Can’t we actually talk about what is going on in my life now?”
Dr. L ignored my question as she stood up and walked over to her ceiling-to-floor bookcase. “There is a book I want you to read so you will understand how losing a mother is probably the biggest influence in anyone’s life, but especially to a daughter. Hmm, I’m sure I still have a copy,” she said as she perused the long shelves of books.
I changed position on the couch where I sat, crossed my legs and looked out the window, totally annoyed with the book hunt. “My life is crap. I am so depressed I have to force myself to get out of bed and she wants me to read a book,” I thought disdainfully.
“Darn. I can’t find it. Well, you can get a copy at the bookstore down on the corner, “ Dr. L said as she wrote on a pad. “It is called "Motherless Daughters". It’s a very famous study on how the death of a mother affects a daughter at different ages. It may be hard to read and some parts may not seem to apply to you, but I want you to read the whole book. I wrote the name down for you. Buy it today, if you can, and try to read it before your next appointment so we can discuss how it made you feel.”
I took the piece of paper with the book’s name scribbled on it. “Alright,” I said, “but I don’t see how this will help.”
I left the psychologist’s office and swung by the bookstore before driving back to work. I was glad the store had a used copy - it would be even more annoying to pay full price for a book I did not want to read and did not think I needed to read.
I started “Motherless Daughters: Words of Courage, Grief and Healing” by Hope Edelman that night. The chapters are divided by the ages that the mother loss occurred: The First Five Years, Five to Ten Years, Ten to Twenty Years, and More Than Thirty Years.
“Good,” I thought, “Mine is the first chapter. I can get my part over with fast and then skim through the rest.”
I started reading and then I started crying. The tears came in a steady stream as I realized some of the stories under “The First Five Years” were stories of my life. It was clear that I survived the loss of my mother, even though I never knew her, by developing certain coping mechanisms that influenced how I treated others and how I allowed them to treat me.
I feared losing another loved one, so I worked hard to be a “good girl”, thinking, as a child thinks, that if I am good, nothing bad can happen to me. To be a good girl required me to do what others wanted me to do. I became a people-pleaser so no one would be upset with me or not love me or even not like me because I was frightened that if they did, they would leave me as my mother had.
I was terrified of loss. I held tight to everything - people, pets, things. People called me “soft-hearted”, but a better term was fear-hearted. Death was overwhelming for me. Even finding a dead bird on the beach one day left me tearful and disconsolate for days. I held onto everything, including unhealthy relationships that I should have allowed to die.
At some deep level, I thought I contributed to my mother’s death. Of course, it did not help that one of my sisters had a theory that Mom was starving herself to lose her pregnancy weight and her extreme dieting weakened her heart. But, more likely, my guilt went back further, stemming from the death of my brother Michael. Michael, born before me, had a defective heart. After numerous operations, he died at the age of eight months. My father had shared with me that my mother was terribly depressed after Michael’s death and at the advice of their quack family doctor, I was conceived to “replace” Michael. Intuitively, I now know that my mother was not ready physically, mentally or emotionally to have another child. She was not through grieving Michael when she was faced with the burden of another pregnancy. She was sad, tired and weak from Michael’s many months of medical care and his subsequent death. She had nothing left to give me and to recommend that she have another baby as soon as possible was what would now be called medical negligence. At a soul level, I know she did not really want me because she was not ready for me. She wanted Michael, not me. I could not replace Michael. Unknowingly, I carried this huge guilt inside of me and it flavored every aspect of who I was.
I believe my mother died of a broken heart. Today there is medical evidence that severe stress can cause more heart damage in a matter of months than an unhealthy diet creates over many years. The stress of my brother’s life and death did, I believe, weaken her heart. Then an unwanted pregnancy and another child to care for just weakened it further.
And, so, I cried as I read and all of these revelations came to me. When I finished the chapter for my age group, I continued through the others and the tears continued to flow. I cried for myself and all the other girls and women who have lost their mothers. I cried for my mother and the pain and sadness she experienced. I cried, for the first time, for the loss of my mother.
Two weeks later, I was greeted by petite Dr. L at her office door. She smiled broadly and said, “Well, good morning, Becky.” She closed the door behind me as I sat in my usual spot on her couch.
Dr. L sat down in her upholstered wing back chair, crossed her legs and opened my file. “Ah, yes,” she said brightly, “you were going to buy and read “Motherless Daughters”. How did that go?”
And, the tears started. . .
The only tidbit of information I know about her funeral was something my sister Sharry shared with me when I was a teenager. “She wore her beautiful blue satin dress,” Sharry said wistfully, “She used to wear it when she hosted her bridge club. I thought she looked like an angel in that dress so I guess it was the right one for her to wear through eternity.”
My father’s mother came from Chicago to live with us and help out. She stayed until my father remarried when I was about 18 months old. I don’t remember Grandma being with us and again the only bit of information about her stay came from my sister Sharry who claimed that her life-long weight struggles were caused by Grandma. “Nearly every afternoon Grandma would take us to the drug store and she always bought me a chocolate milkshake,” Sharry told me more than once, “Then, she would tell me how fat I was. No wonder I've always had issues with my weight.”
Missing from my life during that time, and all the years since, was anyone from my mother’s family. Mom was an only child. She had an upper-middle-class upbringing that even included what was called a “finishing school” education - a pseudo college for privileged young ladies where they learned the arts of cooking, entertaining and conversation, and the management of a home. The only job she ever had, according to my dad, was as a sales clerk in a stationery store.
My father claimed, “Your mother was an only child because her mother was a frigid woman who only had sex one time - the one time she got pregnant.” I doubt if that hard statement was true, but it certainly was an indication of my father’s lack of affection for his mother-in-law. My grandfather, Leroy, was a successful bank supplies salesman and Grandmother Norma was a homemaker/librarian who spent most of her time hiding her husband’s alcoholism from the world.
"Your grandfather was a happy, easy-going guy. Everyone liked him," my father shared, "I liked him, too, when he was sober. But, he was an obnoxious, stupid drunk. One of those guys who lose all inhibitions and common sense when they drink too much."
Grandmother Norma kept track of the drinks Grandfather Leroy consumed and quickly escorted him from dinners and parties before his drinking got out-of-hand. She "controlled" his drinking by letting him drink at home. Today we would say she was an enabler; back then she was a smart wife who knew her husband's limitations and weaknesses and did her best to keep them a family secret.
Unfortunately, my mother's mother did not live long enough to make sure her husband's secret went to the grave with him. When transporting my grandmother from one hospital bed to another after gall bladder surgery, a nurse lost her grip and Grandmother Norma hit the floor - hard - hard enough to cause a rupture, internal bleeding, and death. The nurse was reprimanded and wrote a letter of apology to my grandfather and my mother. No law suit, no compensation. A very different time than our current litigious society.
With the gatekeeper gone, Grandfather's drinking spiraled out of control. "He missed work so many times and made such a fool of himself at the office and at his clients' businesses that he lost his job," my father shared, "I was in the Army and we were stationed in Alabama. Your mom got worried reports from neighbors and friends about his behavior. When he was on a binge, he hung out at rough waterfront bars. He gave away hundred dollar bills and spent nights with whores. After he got drunk one night and set his house on fire, I had to request an hardship discharge so we could go back to Baltimore and look after him."
"Looking after him" proved to be nearly impossible. Grandfather Leroy was forced to live with my parents, but escaped many times. He was found each time, until the last time. Missing for several days his body was found in the harbor near the waterfront bars he frequented. He died from drowning or perhaps from the hit to his head that was either the result of striking something in the water when he landed there or was inflicted by someone who stole his missing wallet. I don't know if the mystery of his death was ever solved.
By the time of my birth, my mother's parents were deceased and the only relatives of hers that I ever knew, even sparingly so, were her aunt or great-aunt (not sure which) whom we called "Nanty" and a cousin Lee and her son Woody. My father didn't like Lee much, though I have no idea why, so she and Woody were not part of our lives after my mother's death and I only recall seeing them one time. Nanty, on the other hand, was wealthy, so my father did his best to stay in her good graces. She lived in a private retirement home where I remember visiting her when I was very young - maybe three or four years old. Her apartment had dark, heavy, large furniture that reminded me of something you would expect to see in a haunted house. Nanty was a tiny woman in a big wheelchair who was cared for by a short, round African-American woman who rarely spoke, but would sneak me little white shortbread cookies (Perhaps I should blame her for my weight problems!). Nanty died sometime before I turned five, but I don't know when she passed or if my father ever received the inheritance he hoped for.
Because I had no memories of her and because what was left of her family was nearly nonexistent in my lifetime, I considered my mother’s early death to be of no consequence to my life or who I was. I know, stupid, right?
Fast forward to the year I was 48 and seeing a psychologist for depression caused, I believed, by my declining marriage and ongoing problems with my father. “So, let’s talk about your mother,” Dr. L said gently.
“Why? She has nothing to do with me,” I replied in an annoyed tone, “Why do you keep bringing her up?”
The doctor paused for several seconds, thinking of how to respond. “Because I believe she has everything to do with your current problems. Our problems are always related to our past and losing your mother at such a young age is a big deal.”
I sighed heavily, “I never knew her. She was not part of my life. My problems are the people in my life now, not someone who left before I knew her.”
“It is not that simple,” the doctor replied cautiously, “The fact that she was not in your life had a huge influence on how you think and react, how you see yourself, how you let others treat you. I really want to explore how your mother’s death affected you as a child and how it affects now.”
“I think it’s a waste of time,” I replied. “Can’t we actually talk about what is going on in my life now?”
Dr. L ignored my question as she stood up and walked over to her ceiling-to-floor bookcase. “There is a book I want you to read so you will understand how losing a mother is probably the biggest influence in anyone’s life, but especially to a daughter. Hmm, I’m sure I still have a copy,” she said as she perused the long shelves of books.
I changed position on the couch where I sat, crossed my legs and looked out the window, totally annoyed with the book hunt. “My life is crap. I am so depressed I have to force myself to get out of bed and she wants me to read a book,” I thought disdainfully.
“Darn. I can’t find it. Well, you can get a copy at the bookstore down on the corner, “ Dr. L said as she wrote on a pad. “It is called "Motherless Daughters". It’s a very famous study on how the death of a mother affects a daughter at different ages. It may be hard to read and some parts may not seem to apply to you, but I want you to read the whole book. I wrote the name down for you. Buy it today, if you can, and try to read it before your next appointment so we can discuss how it made you feel.”
I took the piece of paper with the book’s name scribbled on it. “Alright,” I said, “but I don’t see how this will help.”
I left the psychologist’s office and swung by the bookstore before driving back to work. I was glad the store had a used copy - it would be even more annoying to pay full price for a book I did not want to read and did not think I needed to read.
I started “Motherless Daughters: Words of Courage, Grief and Healing” by Hope Edelman that night. The chapters are divided by the ages that the mother loss occurred: The First Five Years, Five to Ten Years, Ten to Twenty Years, and More Than Thirty Years.
“Good,” I thought, “Mine is the first chapter. I can get my part over with fast and then skim through the rest.”
I started reading and then I started crying. The tears came in a steady stream as I realized some of the stories under “The First Five Years” were stories of my life. It was clear that I survived the loss of my mother, even though I never knew her, by developing certain coping mechanisms that influenced how I treated others and how I allowed them to treat me.
I feared losing another loved one, so I worked hard to be a “good girl”, thinking, as a child thinks, that if I am good, nothing bad can happen to me. To be a good girl required me to do what others wanted me to do. I became a people-pleaser so no one would be upset with me or not love me or even not like me because I was frightened that if they did, they would leave me as my mother had.
I was terrified of loss. I held tight to everything - people, pets, things. People called me “soft-hearted”, but a better term was fear-hearted. Death was overwhelming for me. Even finding a dead bird on the beach one day left me tearful and disconsolate for days. I held onto everything, including unhealthy relationships that I should have allowed to die.
At some deep level, I thought I contributed to my mother’s death. Of course, it did not help that one of my sisters had a theory that Mom was starving herself to lose her pregnancy weight and her extreme dieting weakened her heart. But, more likely, my guilt went back further, stemming from the death of my brother Michael. Michael, born before me, had a defective heart. After numerous operations, he died at the age of eight months. My father had shared with me that my mother was terribly depressed after Michael’s death and at the advice of their quack family doctor, I was conceived to “replace” Michael. Intuitively, I now know that my mother was not ready physically, mentally or emotionally to have another child. She was not through grieving Michael when she was faced with the burden of another pregnancy. She was sad, tired and weak from Michael’s many months of medical care and his subsequent death. She had nothing left to give me and to recommend that she have another baby as soon as possible was what would now be called medical negligence. At a soul level, I know she did not really want me because she was not ready for me. She wanted Michael, not me. I could not replace Michael. Unknowingly, I carried this huge guilt inside of me and it flavored every aspect of who I was.
I believe my mother died of a broken heart. Today there is medical evidence that severe stress can cause more heart damage in a matter of months than an unhealthy diet creates over many years. The stress of my brother’s life and death did, I believe, weaken her heart. Then an unwanted pregnancy and another child to care for just weakened it further.
And, so, I cried as I read and all of these revelations came to me. When I finished the chapter for my age group, I continued through the others and the tears continued to flow. I cried for myself and all the other girls and women who have lost their mothers. I cried for my mother and the pain and sadness she experienced. I cried, for the first time, for the loss of my mother.
Two weeks later, I was greeted by petite Dr. L at her office door. She smiled broadly and said, “Well, good morning, Becky.” She closed the door behind me as I sat in my usual spot on her couch.
Dr. L sat down in her upholstered wing back chair, crossed her legs and opened my file. “Ah, yes,” she said brightly, “you were going to buy and read “Motherless Daughters”. How did that go?”
And, the tears started. . .
