A couple of months ago, at my dad's suggestion, I submitted an essay on when I first understood what love was to a popular magazine. Seeing as I haven't heard anything from them, I think it's safe to say that I didn't win anything and they won't be publishing my essay. However, on the ninth anniversary of my mom's death, I keep thinking about it and about how awesomely my mom loved. I've decided to share it with you, my dear readers (all 6 of you), in an effort to celebrate my amazing mom....
I have been lucky. Love has been a constant in my life since birth. I always knew that I was loved. I always knew that my parent’s loved each other. I understood that love was a powerful force. I was taught about God’s amazing love. The problem was that I just took it for granted.
My parents had the kind of romantic love only seen in old black and white movies. They were truly each other’s best friend and loved nothing more than the others company. Most couples I know relish weekends without their spouse, my parents hated them. They would do anything they could together: walks in the evening, cooking dinner, weekend retreats and grocery shopping. To this day I thank them for showing me what true love really is and encouraging me to settle for nothing less. At the time, I figured this was how everyone’s parents were.
During my freshman year of high school, my mom was diagnosed with a rapidly growing form of breast cancer. She was 38. Within a week she had found the lump, seen the doctor, had a mastectomy and begun chemotherapy. With no family history and her young age we were all pretty scared, yet, call us naïve, we just figured she’d beat it.
Within a year she had gone into remission. This joy was short lived, however. Within another year, the doctor’s found that her cancer was back. It had multiplied and traveled to several parts of her body. We weren’t so naïve this time.
Throughout this difficult season of our lives I was able to see love in action. Love was my mom sitting in bed all day drawing personalized cards for her family and friends. Love was the families of my mom’s students who made us dinner and shared their housekeepers with us. Love was my Grandma, Aunt and family friends taking shifts sitting with my mom while she was home alone during the day. Love was my dad’s boss telling him to stay at home for as long as he needed to be with my mom as her condition declined. Love was my mom being more concerned with her kids being kids than the unfairness of what life had dealt her. Love was my dad carrying my mom to the bathroom when she was in too much pain to make it there on her own. Love was the school my mom worked at closing the day of her funeral so everyone could attend. Love was everywhere, but I was in too much pain to really see it.
When my mom passed away during my senior year of high school I was smacked in the face with just what love meant in my life. My mom was everywhere, and then all of a sudden, she wasn’t. My mom was love and now she was gone. She wasn’t in the stands at my sporting events, she wasn’t at home after a long day to talk to, she wasn’t in the kitchen making dinner, she wasn’t tucking my little brother in at night, or supporting my older brother’s music dreams. She wasn’t teaching her students, listening to her siblings, or being my dad’s confidant anymore. She was just gone and the space her love filled (and it was a large space) was empty. Don’t get me wrong, I was still loved by so many wonderful people…but it wasn’t my mother’s love.
I have since learned to live without this love so present in my life. Some of that void has been filled by carrying her memories instead. Some of that void has been filled through my attempts at loving others.
I am now a mom myself. When I first held my son I was overcome by a powerful force… “Now I get it”, I thought. Now I understand the love my mom had for her children. I understand why she sacrificed for us, why she attended EVERY event we participated it, why she always encouraged us, why she expected so much from us, why she prayed for us, laughed with us, cried with us, and eventually wanted us to be normal kids even though she was so sick. I am often sad that my son will never know the love of his Grandma, but then I am reminded that I will share a similar love with him…my own kind of motherly love.
I now understand that love is a powerful, wonderful, ridiculous thing, capable of moving mountains. None of us deserves love, but we cannot live without it. Love gives us hope, allows us to forgive, and gives us the strength we need to accomplish our goals. My mom loved me. She loved me unconditionally and from her I learned a lot about love, even how to love those who hurt you the most. I know that I am loved. I don’t know why I deserve such love, but it’s there. In spite of my faults, my flaws and blemishes, my mistakes and missteps, I am loved.
I have a tattoo on my foot. It simply says “love.” But what makes this tattoo so special is that it is in my mom’s handwriting, copied straight from a letter she wrote to me. When I think of love and what it means, I think of my mom. Love is her legacy.
I hope my children will be able to say the same thing about me one day, too.
