Tag Archives: reflecting

One Hell of a Woman

3 Aug

Today marks the ninth year of my mother’s passing. In the past, August 3rd tends to be a day where I take to the blogs to express my everlasting dismay of losing my mother at such a young age. This act instantly earns me loads of sympathetic responses, and I suppose that’s what this entry is in turn, a plea for sympathy, though I’m gonna try to hold off on the moping and the whining, as per usual.

I’m a little in shock that we’re already at year nine. One more year and my mom will have been dead a decade. Four more years and it’ll be half my life. That’s insane.

I don’t have much to write about. I mean, of course there’s always the fact that I miss her, but that goes without saying. However, there have been two occurrences in my life lately that apply to her, and I thought I would share both of them.

Recently I watched the film A Summer in Genoa, a movie that has been sitting in my Netflix Instant Watch queue for probably going on a year now. It was one of those indie films that Netflix suggested for me, and, well, I’m not going to say no to a movie starring Colin Firth, am I? So I turned the movie on sometime last week, not bothering to look at the plot synopsis. In the first fifteen minutes of the film: two young girls lose their mother, it is revealed the mother’s name was Mary Ann, one daughter throws up at the funeral, and the remaining family (the dad and his kids) go off to Italy for an extended period of time. I almost turned the movie off. All of this, meshed with the fact that I think that Colin Firth looks like a much younger (and much more attractive) version of my own dad, made me sick to my stomach. Why was this movie doing this to me? What had I ever done to deserve it? I did almost turn it off, but I stuck with it, believing I would be rewarded for my efforts. It ended up being an all right movie, not really as good as I had been hoping (thus no reward for me), but it’s still fascinating how, after all this time, something so simple as a movie can hurt me so much.

Secondly, I’m almost done reading Stephen King’s book On Writing, and I’m currently at the section where he keeps talking about how every writer needs to have an Ideal Reader in mind. The Ideal Reader is the person a writer writes for, whom they hope to please. I sat for a long time trying to distinguish who my ideal writer would be. My dad? My brother? My godfather? Nick? Brynne? Aileen? But, when it comes down to it, it’s my mom. Even when I get married someday I doubt it will change. I will always be writing to please a ghost.

When going through some of my drafts of unfinished entries on my WordPress today, I came across something I had written about my mother. I’m not sure where it was headed or what purpose it serves, but it was a nice quip so I might as well share it now:

I wish I could talk to you about To Kill A Mockingbird, The Things They Carried, Pride and Prejudice, The Lovely Bones, and all the other wonderful books I read in high school, college, and now. I wish you had been on the phone with me when I found out I had appendicitis. I wish you had been there for me when I spent two and a half years confused about my sexuality. I wish I knew what you were doing when you found out JFK had been shot. I wish you were here to tell me that every boy who’s turned me down is a jerk and I don’t need them. I wish we could’ve shared a drink or two together. And I wish – I wish with all my heart – you had been alive for the growth of my Muppet adoration. You not only would have been understanding of my Muppet love, you would have gotten on the band wagon right alongside of me. You would’ve watched The Muppet Show with me and told me stories about how you caught episodes when you were a kid. We would’ve argued about our favorite characters. We would’ve cried watching clips of Jim’s memorial together. I have no doubt of any of this in my mind.

I’m not quite sure when I initially started writing this. Probably a couple months back.

The loss of a loved one is a curious thing. As time goes on, years pass, seasons change colors, and you begin to only feel the effects of their death in short, random spurts of emotion. You have no control of when these spurts will take place. One day you may be walking down the aisle of a grocery store or doodling in class or watching a movie with friends, and suddenly a song starts playing over the intercom or the teacher begins talking about Italian families or some (asshole) actor makes a joke about aneurysms. Suddenly you can’t control your emotions. And yet, some days, like the loved one’s birthday or the anniversary of their passing, when you feel it is very necessary for you to be sad, the emotions don’t come. And that’s today for me.

It’s not that I don’t feel any emotion and I haven’t spent almost every waking hour thinking on her, because I have, I’m just not flooded with the amount of emotion I have been in the past. Perhaps this is a good thing. Hell, I know this is a good thing. I know that some things will always spark more emotion than others, like the book A Prayer for Owen Meaney or the episode ‘The Body’ of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

I guess when it comes down to it what I’m trying to say is that I miss her and still wish she were here. I wish she never left. My dad has a saying, which I always roll my eyes at upon every utterance, but I can’t deny that it doesn’t bear a heavy dosage of truth with it. “Worry about the things you can control.” I can’t go back in time and fix this, no more than I can go back in time and stop myself from eating that meat that gave me food poisoning in Mexico or stop myself from getting involved with that dude last spring. I just can’t, and it sucks, but we’re human so there’s really not much we can do about it. At least, not until someone builds me a TARDIS and gives me the power of time travel.

And when my TARDIS day comes I can guarantee you that my mom and I will be riding dinosaurs with Gilda Radner and Frank Sinatra across the outer rims of space, and no one’s gonna stop us. No one.