I knew it when I saw my dad come into the room. He was holding my mom’s bag –and my stomach sank before I heard the words: “your mom is no longer here”.
It was the summer of my college entrance exams and I was sixteen. Earlier in the day dad asked me if I wanted to go with him to visit mom in the hospital. The exam was in 2 days and I said I needed to study, she was in the hospital for only 3 days and that I will go tomorrow. That tomorrow was never to be.
For many years to come I would wake up with a nightmare. It had many variations, but it was all the same theme: “It’s all a mistake. It’s just a nightmare. When I wake up she would be here”. In these dreams I always came to the point where I was about to find out the truth – I would wake up screaming.
I never got to know my mom as a woman would know another woman. I am not sure what she liked, and did not like. I don’t know her opinions about most things in life. I was a child and very full of myself. I never thought about my mom’s life then. I knew she was there to make my life good.
My grandma raised my mom as a single woman, working in a pharmacy washing bottles. My mom had a special stool to stand on when she was four years old, so she can help wash the bottles. It was a hard life. When she graduated high school, she enrolled in the Military Academy, as a way for a better life.
The military academy was preparing military attaches for work in various embassies around the world. Instead of the glamor of diplomatic career my mom went to teach little boys in a military boarding school. She taught French and I remember listening to her talk – it sounded like music. To this day when I hear French I am transported back to those moments when the lilt of my mom's talking felt smooth like silk to my ears .
Language was not her only talent. She was gifted musically and could play any song on the piano without ever taking one piano lesson.
She did things for me that no other parent did. She wanted me to wear braces. There was no kid in Russia with braces at that time and probably not many now. She wanted me to have physical therapy because of my posture. No one did physical therapy. At the time I thought it was torture.
She believed it was every child’s birthright to be “made healthy” (that’s a poor translation from Russian) during the summer. She borrowed money every year to take us to the Black Sea, or rent a summer hut by the river.
She allowed me to skip school, if I did not feel well, or just asked not to go. I was a straight A student, so I guess she took calculated risks. I would meet her then after work and we will come home together.
She made me dresses for school parties from the fabric my father would buy for her as gifts. I did not want her to do it, but she did. When I opened her armour, after she died, there were only 3 suits there and a coat, which I wore for years after, though it was too big on me.
She did not trouble my father with all the financial struggles, she kept it all to herself. I remember, when I was very young, going with her to the pawnshop to put up her only ring, because she wanted me to have piano lessons. She asked me not to say anything to my father.
I was born on the same date as my mom. I always felt that it represented a special connection between us. I was convinced that all my kids would be born on this date as well. I was the only one not surprised when I went into premature labor on my birthday with my first son.
These are the few things I remember, but the pain of the loss I was never able to forget. The pain of living my life without my mom is like a wound that heels, but opens every time I touch it. It is not something I would ever have words to describe.
When I hear my girlfriends talk about not speaking or not having a relationship with their mothers by choice, I feel like screaming. Don’t lose you mothers by choice – this is a cry from my heart. Call your mom's today. Tell them you love them. There is no way to turn the time clock back.
This is my first attempt in life to write about my mom. It’s not easy to do and my tears are all over the keyboard. I don’t know why I am doing it now. I feel my mom’s gentle presence and with years she has transformed into an angel, since I was not old enough or smart enough to know her as a person.
I did not have enough years to learn from her but her legacy is very clear: she gave all she had to those she loved. I wish I could be just a little bit like her.
In my every day life people know me as a successful mature woman, mother and wife. What is not there to see, deep underneath these roles, hidden from all, is a little girl, who still wants to hold her mommy's hand.
The last thing I see when I fall asleep is her smile from the picture next to my bed. I know my angel is watching.
My angel..... is watching.....I know....
This is the last thing I know.
My angel......
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Faina,
This is a great tribute to your mom's memory. I'm sure she's watching over you today and smiling.