It's Your Birthday Today
Special treats, Forget-Me-Nots and a whole lotta love
Dear Mom,
Today’s your birthday. You would be 73.
I set the alarm for 5:30am to get up and meditate and connect with you and write. That’s the time you woke up when you worked. From my basement bedroom as a teenager, I would hear your little footsteps above my head in the mornings. That sound of your make up chair scooting out, you telling Dad the plans in your sweet voice, and the AM radio weather and traffic report as you got ready for the day - all before you drove your little stick shift car over the hills to the high school where you made everything better for everyone.
But this morning, we all slept in until 7:45am. No one heard the alarm. The girls slept next to me. One of my favorite things. I felt you saying that we need our rest. May is hard.
I heard an Isabel Allende interview on The Daily that you would have heard if you were here. You loved your podcasts. And we would have talked about how she and her mother were closest over their letters, but together in person, they felt less comfortable. You would have said it’s a good sign, that I should keep doing Unsent Shows. That letters are an endangered art form. And I would agree. Thank you mama.
Allende and her mother were closest from afar. That’s how we were until that last year, until the end, when there was never enough time. And even then, sometimes the news from the latest scan or blood work was just so bad or confusing that texts were easier. Do you remember, you would use proper grammar and punctuation, even semicolons, in your texts!? Hilarious.
You loved to text. You were a writer too. I worried about you being on your phone so much, in your chair in front of the TV, but that’s how you dealt with it all, and no one can judge you for that.
If I could stop judging myself, that would be a real letting go. I’m working on it - so is my therapist. You’d love her. She’s making me write down everything I do that’s “good” on paper and put it in a glass vase and I have to read the strips of good paper to her. It’s hard for me to count the goodness. I’m really good at focusing on what’s not done, what’s wrong with me, and what’s not right with other people. Good times.
I wanted to apologize. No, I want to say I am sorry, for spending so much time during your last 11 months focused on keeping you alive, and not enough time just holding your hand and letting you be sad, mad, and scared that you were dying. You didn’t want to die. I didn’t want you to die. We were on a mission. But now I wonder if I could have just sat next to you more, doing nothing together. Doing nothing is so fucking hard to do.
One lazy Sunday, I told the girls about the Italian phrase, “far niente,” the art of doing nothing. We laid out on the grass and watched people flying kites up high in the bright, windy sky. Seylah said, “Whoa, Mommy, you’re terrible at far niente.” Ahh, my Seylah. I’m working on it.
On the day you died, I didn’t want them to take your body so soon. It was hot, July 13th, and it was not an emergency. I covered you in flowers and tears and talked to you to fill the silence the oxygen machine filled until that morning. Everyone said it was best to get your body out soon, to avoid decay. But it’s not an emergency! Ok. I guess I don’t know…so go ahead. The man who came to take the hospital bed away was 7 feet tall, his name was Igor and he was dressed in all black. You would have made fun of him. We would have laughed.
There was a dark funny moment you also would have appreciated, when Dad mildly suggested that we should get your body out in case the dog got any ideas. Gracie would not eat you! She was dog-crying in her dreams the night you died. She missed you so much. God I miss laughing with you.
I’m glad you weren’t here for Gracie’s death. I’m glad you’re not here for the end of democracy, although it would be so fun to watch PBS news hour and complain with you. We’re either moving to Southeast Asia or preparing for the apocalypse here in this bunker home, with our bees and veggies and bottled water and canned goods.
Maybe you’d want to move with us? We’d have a lot of time with you. Time is so hard. The longer you’re not here, the more true it is. The more you miss of our lives, of the girls growing up, the more I feel like I have to remember. And I’m starting to forget.
One of your friends gave me “Forget Me Not” flower seeds at your Celebration of Life. I don’t remember her, but I know she will never forget you. None of us will. I couldn’t bring myself to plant these seeds last May, but this May, I did. I was watering them last night and found them sprouting! An earthly miracle. It was you. And I was making rainbows with the mist and the bright, setting sun. Next to our red poppies.
Did you ever see those? They bloom for just about a week every year. My favorites. I must have texted you a picture of them, with the girls posing, being silly in front of them? Your grand babies you loved so much. Love so much.
I always tell the girls, if you see a rainbow, it’s Grammy. If you see a butterfly, it’s Grammy. If you see a ladybug, it’s Grammy. And we found one of those too, on the trampoline last week. It was you, playing with us! The girls took you to safety in the tall grass so we could keep jumping higher and higher. Thank you for showing up.
It was so much better when we would do the girls’ birthdays and holidays together. You helped me with their presents, sending cards, gifts, being Santa and the Easter Bunny, making plans, traveling. It’s one of the most lonely things in the world to do these milestones now without you. I have to make up for so much you gave. Your friends JC and Irene never forget their birthdays or Christmas. It melts me. I am still working on my thank you notes. Thank you for having such incredible friends.
Your family has been so good about staying in touch and remembering, too. It’s not easy. People are doing their best. I know they are. I know I forget so many hard days for my people. There are more and more each year. Hard to keep track! We are all holding so much.
So much of what I’m holding is invisible. Except when I’m bloated. God I wish I could ask you about perimenopause. How do we not know more about puberty in reverse? Talk about wildness.
You always knew what I was holding, even if you couldn’t help me. At least I could call you. I’m not ready to remove you from my iPhone’s Favorites. I’m not ready to read all our texts. I’m not ready to listen to your voicemails. I can’t bear to hear your voice yet. I don’t want to forget any detail, but I am. I still haven’t written your obituary. I’m not ready. I don’t know how to summarize you. And I don’t want to. I’d rather keep loving you, dreaming about you, writing about you, noticing you show up in my girls, and letting myself miss you out loud when it overflows.
I do see you everyday, though. The girls use your iPad to play this Goat Simulator video game thing, and the screensaver is a picture of you walking and smiling with baby Seylah on your back.
The fear that I’m too sad still, after this long, is creeping in. Fear of fear? Gosh. More therapy, please! But the way you went to the other side was just brutal. And - you got home. We got you home. You died at home. I’m allowing myself to let that be a good thing I did for you (put it in the glass vase!), even though I’ll never get over how I could have done more.
But please know, Mom, that I’m so joyous too. It’s just all deeper now, deeper down into the pain, and deeper down into the pleasures. I guess I’m having a human experience. You gave birth to me and I’m really living, so this is the gift. It’s nothing like I thought it would be, but I’m not waiting for my life to start anymore. This is it. I’m grateful to your mom and dad, and all the ancestors, for this wildness.
You’d be proud of me, mama. We saved up and used our credit card points so we can go to Cancun in June, where we went with you and Dad. We had some times there, didn’t we? We’re going to celebrate your birthday there too! Everyday is your birthday, basically.
And I’m finally finishing that project, the one you read a long time ago, and I think it’s a movie, not a TV show. I’m finding my creative voice again, my playfulness in creating again. I’m remembering my love of music, movies, singing, painting and dancing. We will swim again soon too, in your honor. Oh, and I think you’d like the colors in this painting-
I screened my short film WOLF at Lighthouse last weekend and people loved it. It made me realize I want to make movies again. A director even asked me to star in her short film! Can you imagine? I’m not too old to start or stop anything. Old is the goal, baby! I’m only too old to spend time with people who aren’t my people.
There are a lot of energy drainers around lately. Geez! I need to get some more protection oil from Tibetan Imports. Burn some more sage. And all of these school issues are treacherous without your advice, your texts, your listening. You would know all the answers. You would say, listen to the children, and do what’s best for your family. I know. You’re right. I am listening.
Also. How did you stay in relationship with people who voted against your family? I wish I could ask you how you did it. I’m struggling so hard with it. It breaks my heart. And terrifies me.
I cry a lot, especially alone in my car. I know people think I should let you go. I have! I knew it wasn’t you in the New Orleans airport, walking your cute, fast walk with your little size 6 tennis shoes and pink US Open hat and little hands behind your back, rushing to find baggage claim.
Instead of you with Dad in New Orleans, it was his girlfriend. It made me miss you so much to be with her, and so very grateful and happy Dad has her. Both can be true at once. You were just so funny, you asked so many questions, you were just so spirited and thoughtful about other people’s feelings. And you had a sweet-tooth that you passed on to my girls.
Speaking of which, Seylah has pre-diabetes. I blame myself: my love language is killing her. But we love our after school special treats, and weekend treats, and well, it’s hot so let’s have a popsicle! So ok, we are shifting.
To talk with her about body, puberty, weight, sugar, fat and health - it all brings you up, and brings my past up in a deep way. It’s an opportunity for healing. Not easy. She’ll have to love me without sugar bribes. Ha! She had a dream last night, a nightmare, that she was eating an ice cream cone and I took it away from her before she could finish it. Poor baby. I wish I could talk to you about it.
In your honor this morning, Saxon wrote me a card that declared May 20th, your birthday, as Mother’s Day in our house, because Mother’s Day is always the day after Nya’s birthday and it’s just too much for all of us to try and celebrate it all in one weekend. I agree! Next up is how to do Christmas in a way that doesn’t break my heart open without you here. Maybe we’ll already be abroad by then…
Nya had a huge 7th birthday party this year. You would have loved it. Remember the last time you came to Denver was for her 5th birthday party at CSU Spur? You had your wig and you were frail and you fucking flew here and showed up even though you felt so so bad and tired. You weren’t here in person this year, but Saxon was Pikachu, and our pinata was too small for how many kids showed up. I would say that’s a good problem. :)
We danced, we ate donuts from strings, my new friends helped me keep it all together, and I tried to keep it all together. The balloons flew away at the end, towards you...
Today I guided a 3rd Act Life Review Interview for one of my friend’s mothers, who is very much alive, turning 74 next week. It was beautiful to be with her. I recorded her story in her voice so she and her family have it forever. I love this work, it’s so deep, not wide. It’s peaceful presence. It’s how I’m showing up. It’s listening. What a gift to be able to listen.
I could not have done these interviews last year, when I still hated everyone who had an alive mom. And the year before, I was terrified I was also dying, always at the doctor worried. Sometimes I think worrying is a way to stay connected to you…it feels like yours, not mine. So I’m going to let that one go.
I stopped being afraid of flying, too. I guess I’m ready to figure out what’s yours and what’s mine? It feels like little deaths to let go of some of the things I inherited from you, but I’m strong. I’m glad you’re not here for the airplane situation though. Planes be crashing for real now! Whoa. Same for AI becoming everyone’s best friend. I would love your take on that one…
I asked the interviewee today everything I wished I had asked you. I learned so much from her. She has so much she still wants to do, so much she’s not finished with, so many dreams and things she’s looking forward to!
You did too. Maybe I’ll finally call that medium lady to see if I can connect with you in a new way. I have so many questions. Maybe the mushroom journey we were going to do together, to face the fear of death, is something I still need to do, just on my own. Maybe that’s where I can find you while I’m still alive? Gosh. Grief is love and loving is hard.
This weekend, the girls re-arranged your altar while I was re-writing a re-write for my writing workshop, and it made me happy. They are attuned to the spiritual world, the place where you are.
Last night, long after Nya was supposed to be asleep, I was good-crying on the toilet, peeing for the thousandth time, and Nya asked if it was about Grammy, and I said yes. I said I really miss her. And Nya said, I really miss her too. Then she made artwork for you. Because how beautiful is this life!
So, here you are Mama - you are here - right here - in our hearts, our bones, our dreams. We have Beekeeping 101 on zoom tonight as a family. Maybe after, we’ll get Fro Yo at the mall in your honor. Because sometimes special treats are mandatory. I mean, look at your grand babies! Such sweetness.
There’s so much more I want to tell you, but you already know it all. You told me to keep writing, so I’m here. I hope you’re somewhere happy, made of bright light, frolicking, learning, growing, somersault flying, swimming, eating sugar, being free. Being free.
Your loving daughter,
B’s
(PS - Thank you all out there for continuing to show up here with me, especially those of you who’ve been generous enough to financially support my work here. I know it’s been a long time since I’ve shared here, and I know it’s exhilarating to unsubscribe, AND I know you know more will flow over and out to you soon! I promise. Thank you for believing in me and supporting art when arts funding is so challenging. It truly means the world to me and my family. Love and boom, Britt)
So Beautiful.