What is grief but separation anxiety multiplied a thousand times? That's what it feels like to me. I've always suffered from separation anxiety. When I was a kid, I couldn't lose sight of my Mom in a store or I'd panic. I was lucky, she was tall and I could usually see her towering above the aisles in Woolworth's.
Once when we were shopping in a local ladies store, Mom strapped me into a little seat attached to the wall and handed me a book. I was supposed to sit there and read until she came back for me when she was finished shopping. I waited what seemed like forever and finally, when I was sure she'd abandoned me, I wriggled myself out of that seat and raced to the fitting room area looking for her. I caught a glimpse of what I thought was her muskrat coat through the curtain of one of the change rooms and barged right in, wrapping myself into the familiar softness of the fur and letting out a muffled holler of, "Mom!". The nice lady unwrapped me from around her waist and said, "I'm not your Mommy sweetheart but I sure wish I was..." My own Mother heard the commotion and came looking for me. She apologized to the nice lady and took me home without saying much. I'm sure she was tired of having me for her shadow seven days a week. That's why she left me at home with my Dad some Saturday mornings so she could shop in peace.
Dad was quite capable of taking care of me but he wasn't Mom. I was fine the first half hour or so. Then, I'd start working myself into a frenzy thinking she wasn't coming back. I'd find a piece of clothing she'd worn, lay down on my bed, bury my face in the smell of her and cry inconsolably until I either fell asleep, or she came home, whichever came first. Usually, by the time she came home, I was in such a state that I'd run to greet her and throw up at her feet. I'm sure she thought I'd outgrow it eventually. But even after I got married at the tender age of sixteen, my heart ached for my Mom.
We were always good friends and not being 'permitted' to see each other because of the circumstances surrounding the marriage was unbearable. So we arranged clandestine meetings at department store lunch counters or at her home on afternoons when we knew we wouldn't be found out. Mom was everything to me.
It's only been seven weeks since she took wing and still the grief is so fresh. My wise young yoga instructor says that we carry our Mothers with us in our heart chakras and that's why the grief is so raw and close to the bone. I believe that. Mom and I missed spending only a handful of Mother's Days together. Because I was born on Mother's Day we usually celebrated both events around the same time. When I was growing up Mom always told me that I showed up on the doorstep on that blessed Sunday morning in a pretty box tied with a big pink bow. Imagine my surprise when I read her journal entry that simply says;
"May 11 - Catherine Ann arrived Mother's Day at 10:42 a.m. Admitted to hospital at 8:30 a.m."
My Mom wrote a journal nearly all of my life. These yellowed pages are a gift to me now. To be able to look back on special occasions or life events and read her impression is like time travel. I wonder if she had any idea how precious her words would be to me someday; that they would be like the article of clothing I once buried my face in to keep her close. I wonder.
The rest is pixie dust...
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