My mother passed away at the age of 90 in October of this year. It’s been difficult to come to terms with her being gone mostly because we had a complicated relationship. As I have met other women recently who are the “only” daughter of an exacting mother, there is comfort in knowing that it’s not just me. I carried a burden of my mother’s expectations for decades and it’s ironic that when I arrived in Sequim, WA this summer for her 90th birthday, it was one of the few times that she was actually proud of me. I had driven my RV, Abeona, on a 4,000-mile solo trip across the United States and I was finally living the life she wanted me to live. 

My mom was born in New York City in the middle of the depression. Her parents and her older brother, Dave, moved to Wilmington, DE by the time she was four years old.  My mother’s perspective on life was shaped by growing up during the depression and a meticulous, regimented father (10th of 11 children) who was an accountant for DuPont. She started elementary school a year early (a nun decided that she was tall enough to start school) and ended up being a valedictorian for her Catholic High School. She had a perfect SAT score; she was the first in her family to obtain a Bachelor’s of Science at the University of Delaware. That is someone who either had a lot of expectations for herself or was held to a high standard, or both. I don’t know which it is but leading up to her meeting my father and having three children within the next six years, she had achieved a lot for a woman in the 1950’s. 

My mom always claimed that the happiest day of her life was meeting my dad but the second happiest was giving birth to a daughter (I don’t know how my two older brothers feel about this). She had a lot riding on having a daughter and she was going to make sure I fulfilled her dreams, it took me over 50 years to figure this out. My brothers and I all took piano lessons, we all played instruments through elementary and middle school. I assume this was important to my mother since she played the piano and my grandfather was an accomplished pianist. My parents rarely (like twice a year rarely) took us out to restaurants or bought us new clothes or the latest bike. I look back at photos and I realize we all have funky haircuts because my mother always cut our hair. I think I got my first proper haircut in junior high when I started earning money by babysitting. Frugality was paramount in my house growing up. This frugality led to my parents paying for any college we could get into, which now I see how generous that was but as a teenager in a penny-pinching home where my friends would get cars for their 16th birthday or pearl necklaces for Christmas seemed tremendously unfair. 

My mother ruled the family room in my house. I can see her after working a long day in a medical lab at the local hospital, making a dinner with hamburger helper and finally retreating to the family room and her recliner, glass of sherry and a cigarette. My father would be grading papers or reading in the living room with Joan Baez or Beethoven on the hifi. My brothers and I would be around the television in the family room with my mother watching The Waltons, M.A.S.H. and All in the Family. She cried at all the sad parts of shows and cheered loudly for the Eagles to get a touchdown. She was much more demonstrative than my more stoic father. Any time I had to call home from when I was sick at school even up until college, I would choke up when I heard my mother’s voice. She was safety and would, make it all better. She also did not suffer fools. There were plenty of times when I was sent to school because I didn’t have a fever. I remember getting very nauseous before a solo at a choral performance in elementary school. I said I was too sick to perform, she wouldn’t have it.  I ended up performing. 

My mother was there for probably the most critical diagnosis of my life when a I was told I had to terminate a pregnancy at 20 weeks. She was by my bedside after maxillofacial surgery when my face looked like a bowling ball. She sat with me as I labored for over 24 hours with my first child.  She took charge of caring for my 7-month-old daughter while I worked 60 hours a week and my husband was cross country selling our home. She was there when I gave birth to my second child. She and my dad were there every Christmas morning waiting for my children to open presents. No one made a better cinnamon toast in the world and her chicken and dumplings were delectable. 

I was on my way to Mount Washington, NH in my RV when my mother called to tell me to come to Sequim WA after breaking her femur. She wanted me. I can’t remember a time in my life when my mother truly asked for and needed me. I was there within 48 hours. In those two weeks, the roles reversed. I was the patient, doting mother addressing all her fears, she was vulnerable, fragile and scared. I held her hand and tried to make things right. My daughter came with her husband as well to help relieve my brother who had cared for her for over ten years. My mother rarely spoke about her mother who had passed away from cancer when she was 28 and I was one. In her delirium she called out for her “Mommy” in the weeks leading up to her death. Behind her bed were the pictures of her mother, Mary, and her grandmother, Gertrude Mary. It all felt full circle. Her mother was taking the baton and pulling her through to the other side. We all carried the name Mary.  My mother was born Mary Ann, my name is Catharine Mary and my daughter Natalie Mary. The Madonna that sat in the room that was originally my grandmothers.  All of us Marys.  Joined by name and blood and love. My mother passed away ten days later with my brother holding her hand. I’m fortunate to have had my mother so long and now she can spend eternity with her mother.

I was talking to a friend who had a similar relationship with her mother.  She said that since her mother passed that she has a much better relationship with her. It is about how I frame it now. I’m glad I was there to hold her hand; to reminisce and tell her I love her. I told her as I left her for the last time that I would be back in 3 weeks but that it’s OK if she can’t wait for me. She pointed to the sky and said that she would see me there. In the end, my mother needed me and was proud of me and that has given me the closure that I needed.