grief

Definition of a Mom

For the past 21 years when someone asks about me the first thing I tell them is that I am a mom. I’ve started to wonder lately if perhaps I need to come up with a different answer.

I always prided myself on being one of those moms who didn’t talk of their children constantly. I had other activities, I had both mom and non-mom friends, my husband and I spent time with our children and also out together or with friends. The kids were my life, but also not.

And when my husband became the typical Silicon Valley start-up guy, I spent more and more time with my kids. He would be traveling or in VC meetings on a pretty regular basis. And he would remind me often that start-up hours were not 9 to 5. When he was home, he would share in many of the every day activities of parenting. The thing was, he just wasn’t around much.

So I was the one who made their breakfasts, lunches, dinners — sure, most of it was peanut butter & jelly and mac & cheese, but that was all I could get them to eat. Two of my kids were what they called back then “spirited children,” and these days are given more specific diagnoses. I was one to pick my battles, and so I fed them what they would eat and let their rooms become disasters that I would do my best to stay out of.

I was also the room mom for three different classrooms, was on the PTA and school site committees, I made cupcakes for entire classrooms on birthdays and put together holiday and end-of-year holiday gifts for teachers. I did all the laundry and kept the house as neat as one can expect to do with 3 kids and two dogs.  I was the go-to person for everyone. Even my husband would default to me in matters of the kids, the house and where to find (fill in the blank).

I’m reasonably intelligent and I knew that I wouldn’t be needed by everyone forever. And, full disclosure, I didn’t always enjoy being nearly so *needed* every minute of the day. But I saw the progression of my kids becoming gradually more independent as an opportunity for my husband and me to be able to spend more time together. We would be able to travel, we could head up to Tahoe at a moment’s notice and stay for as long as we liked. We could go out to dinner, have dinner parties, finally move out of the suburb that we chose because of its schools. I saw all of that as the finishers’ medal you get at the end of a marathon.

But what happens when the marathon gets cancelled, due to unforeseen circumstances, just as you are about to cross the finish line? Did all those miles count for anything? If there’s no medal, what do I get to show that I did, in fact, run all those miles?

Two of my kids are home from college for the holidays and the other is out of school and finished with school and marching band obligations for the time being. I should be thrilled to have all my kids home. But instead, I’m learning that the “radical acceptance” my therapist and I have been working on, is a much more elusive goal than I initially thought. When they’re home, but all staying with their dad, or  doing things as a family — minus me, of course — it hurts. We throw around the word literally way too much, but it *literally* causes physical pain when all my children are together and having fun without me, while I sit at home alone. This was not what was supposed to happen.

My youngest is here with me today because I insisted on picking him up last night and bringing him over. This morning I asked him if he needed any laundry done. He told me he would do it himself. Those were words I longed to hear from my kids when they were young. But this time all they did were remind that I’m not needed anymore. My kids are doing just fine without me. They all work and have money in their accounts to go out to eat whenever they want. If they need something they buy it, instead of asking me to get it for them. All good things, certainly. Great things, in fact. And things that I hoped for back when things were different. But it’s different. This was not how things were supposed to be.

It’s like the old saying of the tree in the forest…..am I still a mom if nobody needs me to do mom things anymore?

When depression takes a seat at the holiday table

I’ll take a break from recounting my tales of the psychiatric hospital to talk about a time that has always been tricky for me and is now even more so: the holidays.

My parents divorced when I was very young, so feeling emotionally torn during the holiday season is an experience I’m pretty used to by now. During most of my childhood I lived with my father and stepmother. In the beginning, we lived a two-hour drive from my mother, then later we moved 2 hours, and a very treacherous drive, further away. If I was with one parent for a holiday I was missing the other, because there was no going back and forth between the two homes. So, unfortunately, no matter how much fun I was having during a holiday celebration, that joy was always tinged with a little bit of sadness and longing.

I ended up marrying a man whose parents were also divorced — though, for what it’s worth, he was an adult when they split. After we married, holiday planning was akin to a chess match when it came time to coordinate where we would spend the holidays. We had to decide between the homes of my mother (my farther had dropped out of my life by this time and that’s a story for another day), my  mother-in-law and my father-in-law and his wife. Throw in my sister and my husband’s two sisters, and figuring out where to go was a herculean feat, to say the least. Once again, the fun of the holiday was tempered with that ever present sadness and longing for the family members not there with us.

I hoped my children would never have to feel this way when the holidays rolled around. But these days I live with constant guilt and shame that this is exactly what has become their reality.

This year was my first Thanksgiving without my children and the sadness was unimaginable. This was despite the fact that I was fortunate enough to have received numerous invitations and was able to be part of two wonderful celebrations — one with dear friends and one with my aunt, uncle and cousins. And although I had a fantastic time, I couldn’t shake the feeling of loss from not being able to share the holiday with my children as I had every year since my daughter was born 21 years ago.

But beyond missing them, picturing the entire day my kids would be experiencing was excruciating. I could imagine the day in vivid detail because it followed the same script as all the others before it. And for 25 years I had been an integral part of that day and very much part of the family and the traditions we created together.

I knew that up in Tahoe the night before Thanksgiving my husband would be making the same 3 delicious pies he makes every year – probably listening to The Big Night soundtrack. In the morning he would start preparing the turkey. My father-in-law would arrive in the afternoon to watch football — I can see him there on the couch with his glass of wine. Later on, my sisters-in-law would arrive with their in-laws and appetizers, side dishes and wine in hand. They would likely have a banner that my niece made and a table would be moved into the living room to accommodate the large group. With a fire in the large fireplace, there would be lots of lively conversation, lots of laughing and lots of drinking late into the night. All of it nearly identical to the years before it.  The difference is this year I’ve been erased from the day, erased from the family and, if I’m honest, it feels like I’ve even been erased from the minds of everyone at the two tables.

It hurts like a sucker punch to the gut.

We hear from friends, co-workers and on social media how much there is to be grateful for at this time of year and how wonderful it is to be together with loved ones. This is true of course — maybe even more so this year with the terrible fires ravaging our state and the many who have lost their homes, their belongings and their lives. Which makes it that much harder to feel terrible. I DO have much to be grateful for, there is no doubt about that — it’s just so hard to muster up that gratitude on a day when all I can feel is loss. Loss of a family and all the traditions that go along with being part of that family. And knowing that it all continues on without me makes me feel like I never mattered to begin with.

I made it through round 1 of the holiday season. I’ve got a few more rounds to go. I know I’ll make it through — not unscathed, though, and not without experiencing a deep sense of grief and loss. For so many the holidays are truly the greatest time of the year and I’m happy for those who can experience the magic of the season. But it’s worth pointing out that there are so many of us who are doing our best to just survive these last two months on the calendar. If you are one of the lucky ones who enjoy this time of year — I don’t want to take away one bit of that joy. I just want to put out the idea that no matter what we do or how hard we try not to, some see this time though a different lens.

We are here. We long to be seen and heard and, most of all, understood.

If you know someone who is suffering right now, reach out. Say hello, let them know you’re shining of them. Offer up an invitation to coffee or lunch or dinner. Or just let them know they are seen and they are heard, and that you understand.