With the new blog I want to share some essays I have written over the years to mark different family events. This essay was from the remarks I gave at the memorial service we held for my mother after she died three years ago.

September 2016:

I miss my mother every day. And while many of you think that this is understandable, after all she died just six weeks ago, to me it is a bit of a surprise. First I am bewildered, because I thought I was prepared. My mother had Alzheimer’s and her death was not unexpected, even so, her passing leaves a great big gaping hole in my heart. While the reality was that we were losing bits and pieces of her for the last three to four years, there was still parts of her that I connected to when we spoke or saw each other; these are the parts I find myself missing. 

Her death feels like a cold shower: jarring and shocking to my nervous system. And with her now gone, I find myself trying to figure out how to be my mother’s daughter without her. I didn’t realize the depth of my sadness, now that she is no longer on the planet. You see, my experience of our relationship, especially these last several years, is that even as her memories were fading, she was still a very big presence in my life. I miss her laughter and the twinkle in her eye, even as she navigated the world through the Alzheimer’s prism of distorted thoughts and memories. As her daughter, she was my first and primary love in the world. I claim her. Full stop. Period.

The second reason I am surprised at the depth of my missing her – and make no mistake I miss my mother every day — is a bit more complicated. And it involves a confession. I have to admit that while I have always loved my mother, our relationship was challenging. It isn’t easy to admit this, especially at the memorial celebration of her life. Many people knew her as the smart, funny, engaging, extroverted, curious, pioneering woman that she was. She was an original, ahead of her time in so many ways. But she was also a woman of the 40s and 50s raising a daughter in the 60s and 70s. She had strong thoughts and feelings about me as I was growing up. At times I felt I overwhelmed by her opinions and buried by the weight of her expectations. It isn’t easy being the daughter of a strong woman. And now I know it from both sides of the equation because of my strong and lovely daughter. I finally understand that it isn’t easy to be the mother of a strong, opinionated daughter.

Our expectations, of and for each other, meant that we clashed. Sometimes like oil and water. And because of this, we missed out on connecting with each other for a long time; we both miss-heard and miss-understood each other in our attempts to bridge the gulf that always seemed to separate us.

Now don’t get me wrong, we were incredibly intimate. We shared all sorts of personal information with each other, no matter how we were getting along. But even though we were intimate, we both yearned for an emotional closeness with and from each other. This longing burned bright in both of us. It was a magnetic force that kept compelling us to connect, even when it was frustrating for one or both of us. 

So, while it might not be surprising to all of you that I miss my mother, it is a bit of shock to me, that I find myself fiercely and profoundly missing her, all of the time. 

Many say that it is a relief when someone afflicted with Alzheimer’s dies. After all she, and her loved ones, no longer suffer from the ravages of this memory and personality robbing disease. And I get it. I watched her husband, Jeff, take such excellent care of her these past 3 ½ years that I am at a loss for how to even begin to express my love and gratitude for all that he did, caring and comforting my mother as she slipped away from us.

But as Alzheimer’s was robbing her in many ways, it also added something to our relationship that was extremely healing and this has allowed me to reframe my perspective. I have come to understand that even though our relationship was antagonistic at times, it was still and will always be to me, primary. Bottom line is that I treasure my relationship with my mother, not in spite of our rubbing each other the wrong way, but now also because of it.

You see I finally figured out that from such friction come beautiful pearls of wisdom.

As you may know, the creation of a pearl happens when a grain of sand gets in an oyster. In order to protect itself from this irritant, the oyster covers it with layers and layers of nacre. These layers coat the grain of sand until a precious gem is finally formed. Once I realized that from such friction, pearls are formed, I now see and appreciate the pearls of wisdom that I reaped from our complicated and intimate relationship. And I want to share a few of these precious gems with you.

The first pearl I call Redemption. I learned, towards the end of her life, but thankfully not too late for both of us to experience it, that it is never too late to forgive and be forgiven. And forgiveness is what our relationship was all about these past 3 ½ years. We finally achieved, or perhaps created, the loving and close relationship that we had both yearned for. As she was slipping away, we held onto forgiveness and in the process we recovered love. And I came to realize that so much of the clashing was over unimportant things. The redemption we found in the company of each other, since her diagnosis, meant that we could finally forgive each other for our long laundry list of grievances and just accept and connect, warts and all.

My next pearl I call Grace. I learned from this pearl that no matter what, it is never too late to say I love you to someone. I was not always the daughter I wanted to be and I think my mother was sorry that she not always the mother she wanted to be. We are not perfect, we are human. And we both made mistakes. I think that many conflicts in relationships are about missed opportunities to love and be loved. That certainly was the case in our relationship before her diagnosis. But now I feel lucky, full of grace, that these past 3 ½ years we were able to say I love you to each, other early and often.

The third pearl I call Fulfillment.  I owe a debt of gratitude to my mother and her diagnosis for it set me on a path to find professional fulfillment at my age and stage, much to my surprise. You see I have been a bit of a dilettante career wise. I have dabbled in a variety of fields professionally, never quite finding something that sparked my inner passion. But because of my mother’s diagnosis I finally found a profession that makes my heart sing.

Now I don’t know if this is true for you, but for me, I always had a list of things that I had always planned to do “someday.” As in “someday” I will go to Italy or “someday” I will get back on the yoga mat. I stopped living like that the day my mother told me of her diagnosis. I stopped putting off my list of “somedays” and got back on my yoga mat to begin what now feels like is the rest of my life. Her Alzheimer’s diagnosis reminded me how short life is and how much we miss out on if we postpone our lives for “someday.” My mother was only 22 years older than me. And while I certainly hope that Alzheimer’s is not in my future, I know that if it is, I will have spent my final decades doing what I love: finding fulfillment as I explore life as a Yoga Teacher.

The last pearl I want to share with you, I call Attitude. There are many platitudes written on the importance of having a positive attitude. And while it is easy to say, having and maintaining a positive mindset is hard, really hard. How we handle ourselves when we are tested, with something as big and scary as Alzheimer’s, shows our true spirit. My mother had a positive attitude. She laughed out loud and took big, juicy bites out of life—even in the face of her diagnosis. Of course there were moments of sorrow and fear and mourning since her diagnosis. But these negative emotions did not ever define my mother’s life. 

I had had many misconceptions about Alzheimer’s disease. I feared that my mother would become angry, depressed, withdrawn, belligerent and argumentative. But let me tell you, her last years were marked with laughter and love. Her heart was full and open. I saw a remarkable positive attitude that revealed who she was deep in her core. When she forgot what happened yesterday or last year or even just the moment before, she was still able to access that part of herself, within her foundation, that was positive, even in the face of this terrible disease. Beyond being Gloria Ann Lerner Korman Tener, my mother had joy and laughter in her heart. While she was surrendering control over all aspects of her external life, she never surrendered her positive and enthusiastic attitude. What a beautiful pearl to behold.

Now some of you may know that she never liked being called Grandma. Her grandchildren called her Gogo, a nickname from decades ago when a young relative came up with a version of trying to say Aunt Gloria. And given my mother’s drive and energy, it was more than fitting. So I say to her four grandchildren: Dakin, Milo, Kamala and Sylvie, I hope that you recognize the pearls in you that come from your Gogo. I have gifts of pearl necklaces and shirt studs for each of you to remind you of your legacy: you descend from a strong, pioneering and positive woman.

As we faced my mother’s death for the last several years, we all knew this outcome was coming. The surprise to me was how it unfolded with reconciliation, redemption, grace, forgiveness and lots and lots of love.

Bottom line is that the mother daughter relationship is complicated, and my relationship with my mother was no exception.  We were always connected by an undercurrent of intimacy and love, even though we both covered it up with many layers of muck over the years. But by the end of her life, those layers finally became beautiful pearls.

I want to give a special acknowledgement of thanks and love to both Jeff, her husband, and Tracy, her son and my brother, for taking excellent care of my mother. You both were here, day in and day out, for all the heavy lifting in both sorrow and in joy. You each brought her comfort and peace and happiness. 

Tracy, you were the apple of her eye, she loved and adored you, just hearing your name would make her light up. And Jeff, your relationship with my mother was a true love story, being with you made her happy and filled her heart to overflowing. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for loving my mother and most importantly, allowing her to love you. And thank you to my beloved husband, David, for comforting me as I mourn the loss of my mother and finally learn how to celebrate being her ‘pearl’.

I recently heard a poem at another memorial celebration that began and ended with the line: “Birth is a beginning, and death a destination; but life is a journey.” My mother’s life was quite an amazing journey.

Thank you for indulging me by listening to my story of my relationship with my mother.