One of the worst things about losing my mother, other than the way she died and the actual loss of her in my life, was the feeling that in losing her, I'd lost my own identity.
I gradually came to see that some of that was trauma and depression, but some of it was because my mother and I were both very close and, in many ways, very similar.
We looked alike, so much so that her friends gasp now when they see me. We had similar political beliefs, similar taste in home design, books, and television shows (with a few notable exceptions), and of course, we both loved dogs to the point of obsession.
The paintings on the walls of my living room were once hers. Many of my most beloved pieces of furniture were once hers, or were gifts from her. I have her old bedding, some of her clothing, and boxes and boxes of photos that belonged to her. I lived with her in houses were we walked on the rugs that are on my floors right now. I am typing this sitting at an old Woolrich display table that was, many years ago, my mother's kitchen table. My office supplies are sitting on it in a wicker basket that was where she used to keep her placemats.
And then there are my dishes. I had a full set of Portmeirion Botanic Garden dishes, a gift from my mother after a trip to the UK with her then-husband, Tom Hughes, who was a Welshman. (Portmeirion is in Wales, where she and Tom had a home.)
Over the years the number of pieces I had fluctuated, as some were broken or lost in various moves, and my mom passed on some pieces of her set to me when she divorced and downsized. And then in my move to Michigan, I somehow lost or left behind all my soup bowls.
I bought white ones and used those, but the other day, on a whim, I Googled "Botanic Garden soup bowls." There was a set for sale on eBay at such a good price I'm half-sure they're fake, but I went ahead and bought them. I didn't hesitate, and didn't think about it.
When the box came, I opened it, unwrapped the bowls, and burst into tears.
Because when I looked at the pattern on the dishes, it brought my mom back to me so sharply that it was like someone kicked me in the stomach.
After I stopped crying, I washed the bowls. And while I was drying them, I thought about dishes, and whether, had I not had these dishes already, had my mom not given them to me, had she not loved this pattern so much, these would have been the dishes I'd have picked.
It doesn't matter, really. They're just dishes. I like them just fine, above and beyond the sentimental value. But it's just one more way I wonder: Who am I, really, without my mother?
Most of the time these days, I think I know. Moving to Michigan helped, as I have no memories of her here other than those I brought with me. Every day I figure out whether I do or don't like something independently of what she liked, or the limitations I willingly placed on my own desires to care for her in the last few years of her life.
But sometimes I feel like part of me really did die with her. Because so much of who I am is made up of memories I only share with her. Memories of days I helped her arrange her furniture, or she helped me with mine. Memories of our shared dogs, shared vacations, shared jokes.
Memories of watching Rosemary and Thyme, passing cozy mysteries we'd just read between us, sharing sweaters and table linens and rugs and catalogs.
And memories of the white painted display cabinet where she kept her Portmeirion dishes, plates slotted into the plate racks, the sun from the kitchen window shining on the bright surfaces and painted flowers.
Oh, Christie, hugs!
Paul and I were married for 37 years; more years together than we were apart. In fact we joked about that often.
The past year and a half since his death has been quite a journey. Although in the Marine Corps he would be deployed over seas, we could still communicate and we were still a 'we.' Now that I am a 'me' rather than a part of a 'we' it has caused me to do some reflection - just as you have.
Who am I by myself? How much of who I am is because of his likes and dislikes?
It has definitely been a journey. Although I like who I am today, I have also found I am not so different today than I was with Paul. Which is wonderful.
I think of Paul often - as you do your Mom - and we should think of those who meant the most to us. But I've found that I am enjoying the memories now rather than crying at them. In fact, this weekend I watched a DVD of Paul's favorite movie. One that I could not have watched last year without dissolving into puddle. But now I was able to enjoy it, talk to friends about why Paul liked it so much, and to smile at the memories.
{{{Hugs}}}}
Posted by: Liz Palika | 03 September 2012 at 06:13 PM
Wow, this is just so touching and timely. I simply love your writing, we've never met but I can relate so closely to what you say in your posts. And as I go through the most difficult couple years of my life it is so helpful and meaningful to me right now. I too, every day, think about running away from the bay area to simply escape and find a better place for us and the dogs.
I traveled to be with my mother now, after just being laid off, to help her with my dads final weeks or days (we don't know). I can't really imagine what it will be like without her when that time comes. Or my dad, as that time is coming. I literally do not know what to think, or what to do. Not having my dogs here doesn't help! But your writing helps, and I thank you for that.
- Jen.
Posted by: Dogthusiast | 03 September 2012 at 06:41 PM
What a sweet post. I still have both my parents, but they are in their late 80s so I know the day is coming. I have my mom's grandmother's china, which I cherish. Thanks for sharing your heart.
Posted by: Stephanie | 03 September 2012 at 07:35 PM
Reading your touching memories of your relationship with your mom just confirms to me of how much more alike we all are, than different. Much happiness to you and those you love.
Posted by: Karin Shainman | 19 December 2012 at 02:31 PM