I’m at that age where more than a handful of my girlfriends are orphans. Some are a little younger than me, others a little older, but a fair amount of my girls have lost both parents.
It’s that time of year when if you’re ever going to be sappy, you have full blown permission to do it right now. I just came from listening to two good friends, both of whom recently buried their moms. Both of whom are missing them a lot, missing the conversations you can only have with another woman who has known you your entire life. A woman who was already an adult with her own fears, regrets, joys and hopes when you were born. One who, no matter how she expressed it, really, deep down inside, wanted you to have a better life than she did. Even if hers was wonderful she wanted yours to be even better.
Last week I spent a few hours on the phone with a girlfriend for whom December marked 40 years since her father died and 5 since her mother died. She was, like I am, extraordinarily close to her mother. She is, like me, an only child, single and childless. She talked about sitting in her apartment and mentally ticking off the prescription meds that had accumulated in the house, calculating which had expired, which hadn’t and what would actually be needed for an effective dose to make December a poetic triple header for that family.
I don’t care how old you are when you lose that second parent, you’re an orphan. It’s not the same as being parentless when you’re five or even fifteen, but when you’re fiftyish it’s lonely in a way you haven’t experienced before. When a woman loses her mother, she loses a part of herself, a connection to her childhood, an anchor to her past. And the more you loved, the more complicated the relationship, the bigger and blacker the lonely. I imagine it’s a little bit harder for those of us who don’t have children of our own to anchor us to the here and now.
I’m blessed. I still have my mom. I think about what will happen when I don’t. I think about it a lot. I’ve experienced the edge of that abyss a few times: her seizure, car accident, cancers, depressions. My friends miss talking to their mothers about their shared interests, this mother/daughter had art, that one had education. My mother and I have depression and suicidal ideation. I’m the reason she doesn’t kill herself. She’s been the reason I didn’t kill myself. Death and dying were always part of our conversations. Since I was a little girl I’ve said “Can I have that when you die?” referring to some thing of hers I coveted.
Jeez, Louise, I can hear you say – what a thing to share. There are other things, of course, but it’s the biggest thing we have in common, the thing we can talk to each other about that no one else would understand in quite the same way.
She’s healthy. She’s got a beau. I bought a video camera and now and then I take it out and just tape the inconsequential conversations that make up a visit. We talk about nothing and everything. She’s what I run from and what I hide behind, my fortress and my fear. We are not merely connected, but enmeshed, like ganglia cysts whose roots entwine themselves in and out of tendons and nerves, we are part of each other. We’re partners, locked in a dance where the music never ends.
I used to think we were unnaturally close and complicated. But listening to my girls I realize it’s the dance of mothers and daughters everywhere–seeing yourself reflected in another woman’s eyes; recognizing parts of her in things you do and say unconsciously; hating that you do that thing she did that drove you crazy and missing her more in the moments you do it.
Big Edie and me, we are the last of the line. Who will I talk to when she’s gone? Who will I take care of and worry about and who will worry about me? Hopefully I won’t find out for a good long time…
I was orphaned in 2000, many years after my father died when I was 17. Try as we might, we really had nothing in common. I was, and still am, closer to her older sister than I ever was to Mom. In fact, I doubted for years that she even loved me. Then I found a picture, one I’d never seen before, taken when I was very young. The expression on my mother’s face made me feel more loved than I had ever felt when she was alive. But that was months after she died of a massive stroke about a week after we had celebrated her 79th birthday. I had to sign the “pull the plug” order and i was there as she took her last breaths. She didn’t have a peaceful morpine-fed fade from life to no-life. It was just past midnight and the person with the key to the narcotics cabinet was gone for the night and wouldn’t come back, no matter the circumstances.
Do you know the feeling of being in a small boat that has slipped it’s moorings? That rocking that is both comforting and a bit angst-charged because you don’t know where you might end up? I had that physical feeling for several weeks after being orphaned.
@Juel, thank you for sharing such a delicate memory. Even with difficult relationships there’s a thing inside of us that feels the loss. For some reason it brings to mind that children’s book by PD Eastman, Are you My Mother?. We all come out of the womb searching for that lifegiving source that sustained us for the previous 9 months. That’s a connection that doesn’t sever easily
my mother died 8 years back when i was 13 years old and have practically lived a lonely life , but i don’t love or miss her now .
@with_a_purpose, I’m really sorry for your loss. I can’t imagine what it’s like to lose your mom at such a young age. I wish you the best.
This is exactly how i felt after losing both parents.No matter how old you are when both parents pass,you feel like an orphan.I wrote about this in my journal.You truly don’t feel like an adult until you know that you are completely on your own.It makes you stronger ,But it takes alot of time until you actually feel stronger & know that you can live your life without their backup.In fact,if you look back on it,you might realize that you’ve been living your own life all along..So,get on with it.Thats life.“Denise Kocarnik
Jodi,i left areply but it seems to have disappeared.It’s getting late & I don’t have the energy to type it all over again.However, I do have a question for you.Are you a published writer ? Please don’t take this as an insult.I just haven’t the time or patience lately.My bro-in-law took his own life 2 weeks ago.I have fibromyalgia,which slows me down alot.I need to write but haven’t the energy.I’m sure you understand.Please let me know.I’m very interested in your work.Thanks.~~Denise Miller Kocarnik
Denise – Sorry it’s taken me so long to reply, but yes, I’m a published writer. I’ve had pieces in a half dozen anthologies, magazines and online. I’m working on my MFA in Creative Writing at the moment. Words cannot express how sorry I am about your brother in law, you’ve had a lot of loss and for that my heart goes out to you. I don’t know much about fibromyalgia but there are speech to text software programs you might think about looking into. One of my editors uses it. Wishing you the best….
Is this by chance the Denise Miller I used to work with at Union Transport a million years ago? I have been searching a ton of different websites as I lost my mom on April 19. When I saw your name, I rememberd your married name to be Kocarnik…!!
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