A Letter To Mom: If You Could See Me Now

Circa 1984: Me and Mom

The last time I wrote about my mother was Mother's Day of 2013. And yet as Mother's Days continue to come and go, I find myself feeling further and further removed from it, primarily and directly because the number of years my mother has been dead continues to increase with each passing observance. I guess that is what happens, though, isn't it? You might notice that I did not say that my mother is "deceased", "passed away", or "gone". I wrote that she "has been dead". While that might seem harsh, you would at least grant me that it is the truth. I hate writing it, not because I don't like the word, but because I am using it to describe my mother. Even so, I would bet that it jars me less than it does most, because I have spent years facing and accepting the fact that she is dead, rather than deluding myself into a comforting fantasy of her continued existence, somewhere, somehow, benevolently looking down upon her favored son. Delaying grief via denial is rarely the healthy choice, it is instead only a diversion. Look, she died. It was the saddest fucking day of my life. But even the worst days eventually end, don't they?

Mom in her 80's

What is comforting to me is knowing that in her 86 years, she lived a great deal, part of which included making me. I can't tell you how happy I am about that happening! Her death truly flipped me over and turned me inside out, but it also reminded me that you can do a lot in 86 years, if that is how many years you have. It reminded me that when it is over, it is over, so I had better get busy living. It reminded me that nobody hears prayers after they are dead, so you better say what you want to say while they are alive. It reminded me that no amount of creative thinking can surpass the scientific fact that my mother is imprinted in my very cells--that every gaze, every touch she bestowed was received not only on the surface, but also by the interior. She is, for lack of better terminology, inside me. Who needs heaven when I have her in my DNA?

Whenever Mother's Day approaches, I find myself wondering what Mom would think about my life if she were alive to see it today. She was always proud of me, but boy, if she could see me now. I would, of course, have to catch her up a bit.

***
May, 2015

Dear Mom,

Good gracious I fucking miss you. 

You have been dead for over six years now. Mother's Day is coming up soon, and yet again I won't have anyone to buy flowers and a card for. Thanks a lot, Mom! What am I supposed to do with Mother's Day for the rest of my life? I feel like the "little boy that Santa Claus forgot". Did you think about that when you shut down your body at the age of eighty-six, long after your mind had
deteriorated from Alzheimer's? Nooooooo. Your excuses won't cut it here, Mom. Would it have killed you to have just once, before you died, thought about how it would affect ME? Look at me, I am raving to a dead person, that is what it has come to. But at least I am not as bad as that guy at the gym who sings along to his private music like he is a pop star. Sigh, what does one do when after they have lost the one person who will give them undivided attention no matter where, when, or what. What does one do?

Comedian Louis C.K. has a joke that says how a lot of things happen after you die, just none of them include you! I think that is funny. Well, a lot of things have happened in my life since you died, and while none of them include you, they all are a reflection of you. In fact, my whole damn life has been full of choices influenced by our relationship. My life is because of you, then was developed with you, then was in reaction to you, then in response to you, then in respect to you, then in celebration of you, and finally, in honor of you. 

1980

You are gone, but I won't let go, so I suppose we should at least catch up. 

***
The first thing you must know is that I finally passed my exams and am now a fully licensed psychotherapist. It was a ten year process, but I love being a therapist, Mom. I have learned so much about compassion and patience, and sitting with someone's pain. There is more to being a therapist than sitting with someone's pain, of course, but that is certainly a big part of it. Nobody "sits" with another's pain anymore, I notice. People assuage, they comfort, they utter bland reassurances, they run away, they publicize, but rarely does someone simply sit, witness, hold, and honor the process. If this weren't necessary I would be out of a job, but it is, so I am not. Our culture does us a great disservice by shaming pain, or maybe the blame should be on the free market for selling happiness as the highest state of being. Whichever it is, I am here to confront the problem and ease the pain.

I feel a sort of "love" for my clients, but it is not the usual kind of love. It is a love based on caring and service, knowing that it may not be reciprocal. And yet I am only able to feel that for my clients because of what I have concluded about love in the outside world. A great deal of that I learned from you. You taught me that love is not easy, but it is also not often a choice. You taught me that love feeds hope, and that it feeds life. Love softens death, and calms the tiger. Love can be quiet, or it can be loud, but it is most often quiet because it does not need to be loud. (Lust is loud, but love is quiet.) You also taught me that love can breed fear--fear of loss, disappointment, need, and change. Fear shows up in the therapy office all the time. I sit with clients who want so badly to control love, and I tell them that they can neither control it nor deny it without disastrous results; so the best policy is to walk with it, notice what it wants to show you, then make some sort of choice. 

Mom preparing a Christmas dinner

Remember that time when I was a teenager, Mom, and I was in so much conflict about my homosexuality that I was acting out like a total ass? You asked me why I was doing this, and you wanted to know what happened to your "Tony". I answered you by saying that I was trying to get you to stop loving me so much (I felt like a fraud of a son). To this day I remember your response. You looked at me and quietly said, "If you think I can do that, then you don't know anything about love." And truth be told, I didn't. I didn't realize that no matter what I did, no matter who I was, no matter who I wanted, that  you would never stop loving me. Never. Not even a bit less. Even if I felt, at that moment, like I did not deserve it. 

On that day, with that response, I learned something about love. 

***
You have probably guessed that I don't dance professionally anymore, Mom, but I certainly do dance in my apartment. Music is still a driving force in my life--you passed that on to me. In fact, I think of you every time I play Shirley Horn or Cassandra Wilson or Harry Connick Jr. When I listen to music I wish that you were there with me, because you knew how to listen to music--you listened with your body. I remember that time when I took you to see Cheryl Bentyne perform, and you and I were moving in our seats to her glorious vocals, like some secret language between us. At one point we noticed a man sitting in front of us who was staring straight ahead, motionless, with a grim mouth.

Mom in her 80's in Montana.
It's all about those shoes.

I knew at that moment that we both felt sorry for that man, so unable or unwilling to let go to the music, as though he were immune to a magic that was affecting all those around him. You got the music, Mom, and when it was playing we didn't need to say a thing. 

You would love my apartment, but you would blush at some of the artwork, because there is a penis or two in the pieces. But I would not hide them when you visited, because the paintings are beautiful, and I am not ashamed of my appreciation of penises, and I suspect that at some point in your life you appreciated them too. You would be comfortable in my home, and we would have fun, visiting coffee shops and farmer's markets for sure, but most of our meals would be eaten here since I would cook up a storm for you. Do you know how much I love to cook, Mom? I even know how to make your Chicken Cacciatore. My comfort in the kitchen started from watching you--the way you set a table, your willingness to vary the menu, your insistence on serving a salad with every meal. Granted, what you cooked was based in the 70's aesthetic, meaning home cooking as well as plenty of TV dinners, casseroles, and pot pies, but you were a product of the culture, like everyone else. And your homemade tacos were the best.

You would notice that I have hundreds of books in my place, and almost as many pieces of clothing. The book titles might confuse you, but you would like the clothes in my closet. I buy things that flatter the long legs you "gave" me, and like you, I have remained slender. I favor style over fashion. Don't you think for a minute that I didn't notice everything about your attention to detail and beauty. I took it all in, and have applied it to my life and surroundings. 

My friends love me and show me great care. 

Mom at her sister's wedding.
She was in her 50's here.

I am sure that I would have them over one night and make a big fuss about you visiting. You might be a bit embarrassed, but I could not help myself from showing you off. My friends always seemed to love you, but the boyfriends not so much! You could be cold at times with those who required my love, but you just felt that nobody was good enough for me, and I confess that you have me convinced of that myself. You didn't really do me a favor in that department, Mom, but what can I do at this point. 

Not that it matters that much. I am getting older, which means that I am simplifying, slowing down, and enjoying my own company. Granted, for me slowing down means that I run at the speed of most thirty-five year olds, but it is a slow down nonetheless. It is welcome though, because for so many years I never stopped. I couldn't stop--I wasn't ready to be with myself. But now I am, and I wish I could show this to you. 

***
Anyway, Mom, I have to go finish another essay I am writing. It started out as a Mother's Day post, but I think it is turning into something more political. It is always good to cloak your opinions in sentiment, I like to say. I am a writer, and I have a lot to say, and some people like to read what I have to say. You would be surprised at how big my mouth is now, but I am pleased to tell you that there is less anger coming out of it now than when I first found my voice. I smile more now.

But oh, the world gives me lots to talk about, Mom. It is, in many ways, a grand mess. There are some horrible people doing horrible things to others in the name of who knows what, but I suppose that has always been going on. You would not like it, I suspect.

1970--I was eight.

You would not understand why people are glued to phones all day, why dating has become something like thumbing through the Sears catalog, or why Kim Kardashian is famous. Meanwhile there are just as many rooting for love and simplicity, who refuse to listen to the story our culture has written. I wonder which camp you would be in, Mom, but not so much. You were always ahead of your time, while still being rooted in it. I wonder who you would have been had you been born in the 50's or the 80's instead of the 20's?   

But what I really want to tell you, Mom, is that beyond the gifts and graces that you gave me, I have really become a self-made man. The life you would see around your son these days started with you, but has blossomed through my own efforts. I have always had a vision of a good life, even when it did not feel so good; not a life full of material goods and success, but one full of people, laughter, support, food, sharing, care, celebration, simplicity, respect, music, nature, and love. That has always been my vision, and this is the life that I want to show you now. In the truest sense, I have made something of myself, Mom. I have become a kind man, and I wish more than anything that you could see me now. You would smile and be proud, knowing that you did alright. You did alright. But above all, I did alright. 

I carry you within me every moment. Happy Mother's Day.

Your son,
Tony

Summer 1980--Saying goodbye

"This House" #2: Relevance and Dementia

Good gracious, what happened to this poor little house. I found this place about a block away from where I live--yet another example of a hundred year old bungalow that is bound for the wrecking ball very soon. As mentioned in previous posts, the neighborhood I live in used to be completely populated by these small homes, and when the culture in Hollywood shifted in the 70's, so did the state of its old homes. Whereas originally there may have been a single family living in this place, as time went on I have no doubt that it housed perhaps multiple families, or even multiple individual renters. As old Hollywood decayed, the new culture re-purposed the old abodes into flophouses for broke actors and/or dealers.

It is a shame, really, but I can't spend time grieving over it, because I am more fascinated by change than homeostasis. This particular house has given it a good fight for nearly 100 years, and I would bet that it is ready to give it up. It is no longer relevant to the neighborhood. I am sure that its wood floors are tired of being stomped on, its old walls are sagging from the weight of holding up the ceiling, and it even seems as if the roof is just about to collapse on the whole thing. If I were to take a guess, I would suppose that the last tenants were perhaps a large family of immigrants, or perhaps even a descendant of the original owner--someone who spent their days behind drawn curtains and dust, peeking out at the new world from old world eyes.

The fencing around the house is the sign of death--the indication that demolition is just around the corner. I always look at the fencing as a sign that the house is in "hospice". Once it is torn down, it will be temporarily a vacant lot such as this one, recently cleared.

I remember walking past this lot only a month ago and there was a doomed home on the site that included a brick fireplace and a backyard with a shed. A shed! My imagination went crazy thinking of the place in its prime in what--1935? I am pretty sure that the next time I walk past this cleared lot there will be some new construction already beginning. I am curious what they will build, since the lot is across the street from this new mod palace:

You know how much a 2bed/2 bath will run you at the swank place? Well, since they are sold as condos, you will be renting from the owner at the tune of $2695/mo. And that is actually not too bad for new Hollywood. It is interesting to me that the website for the building fails to show the surrounding "neighborhood", which includes a mix of old homes, cleared lots, and stucco apartment buildings--but then people don't really "live" in their neighborhoods anymore, do they? They just drive through them to get to their underground garages and beautifully isolated interiors.

***
My mother would hardly recognize the world today, but I doubt that she would even be looking that closely if she were still alive to look. She died in 2009 at the age of 86 from old age and Alzheimer's, and the world she left was very much changed from the one she entered way back in 1922. Even at the time of her death, she was not what one would call "caught up" to all the modern technologies.

My brother and I tried to get her into "emailing" at one point during her 70's, but she never warmed to it. We thought it would be a great way for her to keep in closer contact with the family--you know how the internet opens up the world for a lot of older folks who are less inclined to get up and out. She knew how to type, so I thought it would be an easy learning curve, but it did not take.

These were the days before Facebook took over the world, so she never entered that fray, but I have a feeling that would have not been successful either. I don't think that it is because she could not figure out the technology of emailing, I actually suspect that she just did not care that much to keep in touch, as she was already beginning her retreat into the more primitive recesses of her mind by her late 70's . Five years later, when she was fully affected by her brain condition, her world had diminished not only in space, but in time. She carried herself through the care home as though she were a 20 year old blushing ingenue, and I was damned if I was going to let anyone break the illusion, if that were even possible.

How Mom probably "saw herself" in the midst of her dementia--young and beautiful again.

I often think that, although I don't favor dementia, this would be a quite pleasant way to end one's (the apostrophe is correct here!) elder years. How wonderful it would be to primarily forget the fact that one's body was shutting down and their brain was eroding. How lovely it would be to instead inhabit an imaginary vista where one's youth and vitality were restored to their full glory! I remember Mom walking down the hall with me, her arm in mine, stopping to flirt shamelessly with any man who might be sharing the same visiting hours. You might think it would be sad and pathetic to witness, but I found it relieving. She had gone back to the world she knew best, where the rules were familiar and her power as a woman was at its peak. Facebook could have grown eight legs and stomped out Manhattan and she would not have cared in the least. A final and welcome bliss.

On the other hand I think that if my mind started to go, I wouldn't hesitate one second to take the gas pipe.

Not all forms of dementia are overt. Retreats of the mind can happen in many different ways, and some are chosen while some are not, but I have a hunch that aging is the trigger for many a retreat of the mind, including some of my own. Lately I have noticed that I am very specific about which technologies I adopt, to the point where I could legitimately be considered "unusual" in my selectivity. I have never had a smartphone, which at this point, ten years into the IPhone, seems a bit ridiculous to everyone but me. I would not even know where to start, truth be told, because I feel so far behind.

But I do feel immune from the constant pull of electronic attention that seems to affect everyone in the city, without regard to age, race, or economic status. I do not have a car, even though I have been driving since the age of 15. I prefer to bike and use public transit, and I prefer to not spend money on such wastes as car insurance, registration, and gas. The last car I owned was sold eight years ago, so I am behind the curve on the new features and options, and would once again have to do some catching up were I to resume car ownership. Once when I was trying to move a friend's car, it took me 10 minutes to figure out how to get the damn thing started.

Neither of the above peculiarities bothers me that much, since I would never describe myself as a person who is retreating from the world; in fact, I am more in the world now than I have ever been. But I will admit that as time goes by I get the feeling that it is less and less my world. I no longer keep up with the pop music charts, I have abandoned the pursuit of fashion in preference to "quality clothing" that will last for years, and I only recently started watching Parks and Recreation, even though it has been on for seven seasons and recently concluded its series run. I don't really have a problem with any of these descriptions. I do feel that I am less a creator of the current world. But I also wonder if one of the indicators of retreat is having less connection to what is current, or perhaps less caring for it altogether. While I would like to think that I am showing greater discretion in what I give attention to, I am not entirely convinced that this is not really just the beginning of the retreat.

Perhaps time will tell. For me the line in the sand is to never become the person whose sole barometer of the outside world is checking what is featured in the "seasonal" aisle at Walgreens. This is an activity, for your information, that I do currently enjoy! But I do not wish for my world to ever completely reduce down to being that small. Unlike the once beloved but now neglected and discarded old homes on my street, I want to remain relevant, at least to the greater neighborhood.

I want my life to be more than just the seasonal aisle.

leaving the grief behind--for mom

my good friend marlene has a number of weeping buddhas in her home, and she told me that she finds comfort in them. there are those who doubt the veracity of the figures as an actual expression of buddhist principles, but as an existentialist, i could give a shit about whether "meaning" is officially authorized or not.  if you get something out of something, then in my book, it has validity.  anyway, as the story goes, the figure depicts a warrior who has discovered that he has just killed his own son in a masked battle.  the warrior sits on the ground with his head in his hands, consumed with grief.  they say that the figure has the power to take away one's grief if a person rubs its back.

okay.  i have heard crazier things.

once, when i was visiting marlene, i noticed one of the figures on a table, and i decided to test the theory and rub its back.  mind you, i was not actively grieving over anything at the time, rather, i was excitedly anticipating a lovely homemade dinner with conversation from the aforementioned marlene.   but i thought to myself, there is the buddha figure, what have i got to lose?  so i rubbed its back.
the backs on the weeping buddha figures are usually very muscular, which, in my opinion, accentuates the poignancy of the weeping.   you might agree with me that there is great power in the image of a strong man displaying the vulnerability of emotional pain.

the wooden back muscles of the figure felt smooth and cool to my touch, yet there was "life" to the surface of the figure, perhaps due to the fact that they are usually carved out of wood.  i don't know if i can honestly report that i felt calm and serene, but there was certainly a sensual aspect to the rubbing, and i will leave it at that.  i don't blame marlene one bit for collecting these things.  i don't blame her one bit.

***

my mother lost a child, a daughter, but i never saw her even once approximate the weeping buddha pose.  had i known of the depths of her loss and grief, i surely would have purchased a weeping buddha for her to rub.  as it was, i was scarcely aware of the incident at all, due mostly to the fact that it happened before i was born, but also due in part to my mother's reluctance to talk about her daughter's death--at least not until i asked her about it as an adult.  when i did finally discuss this with her, i discovered that my mother was nearly destroyed when it happened.  fortunately for her (but not so fortunately for me), i popped out a month after my sister's death and demanded immediate and constant attention, thus distracting her somewhat from the paralyzing grief.  the role that i played in this drama was one that i never auditioned for, nor was it one that my mother intended on casting me in, and yet it was a role that created a certain unbreakable bond between me and her--even if it was a bond encased in ice.

and yet let it not be doubted:  my mother loved me beyond the stars and the moon.  of this there is no question.

Mom as a young woman

she died years ago, and during the stage of her dementia when she was aware of her failing body and mind, she was buoyed by the belief that when she died, she would finally, after nearly 50 years, see her beloved daughter again.  i get that. she didn't have much else to look forward to at the time.  a once strong, stylish, and beautiful woman, she was, in her 80's, slowly reduced to a frail, old woman who wore sweatshirts everyday, and she was aware that her time was nearing the end.  i can't fault her for finding comfort in the idea of a long overdue reunion.  i can't fault her one bit.  but i don't believe it myself.  the way i see it, my mother is not with her daughter, she is just dead.  not an easy sentence to write, but then who said that death was an easy subject to write about?  my personal grief has mercifully faded in color over the years after the initial burning shrapnel of losing her, though i am certain that it will never fully recede.  there is simply no preparation for living without the one person with whom i had been connected to since i came into being.  there is no "closure" when it comes to that grief--but that does not mean that one can't go about one's life.  (i would like to strangle the person who coined the term "closure".)  my blogger friend ron writes similarly about his journey through grief around his mother's death.

mother's day used to be hard, but now it is more like valentine's day and easter--just another holiday that everyone else celebrates while i go about my usual day. and yet, and yet, it seems a bit unfair that i no longer get to celebrate the holiday just because mom is gone.  i have written previously about what i would do on mother's day if she were still alive, and i hold to that imagined plan, but these days i am more likely to reminisce about how close we always were, and how much i miss her on a daily basis.  there is a bittersweet gift one gets when their mother dies, in that you stop being someone's child.  figuratively speaking.  that, in itself, is an unexpected "gift from beyond the grave", in that it has forced me to consider my own legacy in this world, knowing that one day i too will die.

but not yet!

with the average life expectancy rising to the age of 100, i am with all probability square in the middle of my life, as it were.  though i often miss being my mother's "child", i do relish being an adult with purpose and agency, a celebration that could not have happened had my mother not given birth to me in the first place.  in that respect, i will always be my mother's child.  and so i leave the grief behind, somewhat, and move into cherished recollection and increasing gratitude, because, let's face it, i am alive.  

happy mother's day, mom.  happy mother's day, from your child.

the last picture i have of us together, in the care home.  she was holding her "baby doll".