Paying Tribute To The Original Gutsy Broad

There's someone I can't stop thinking about.

I met M at the annual block party this week. She’s been in the neighborhood for as long as it’s been a neighborhood. Lively, quick-witted and living fully independently, she captivated me, and I shamelessly monopolized her time. At one point, I asked if she knew my parents, thinking they were contemporaries. “How old do you think I am?” she asked, squinting. “I don’t know — 80? 85?” I replied. Nope, this woman is just a few years shy of 100. And I love her.

M told me all about her husband, her kids, her history in the area. Our conversation was fast-paced and stimulating, but as we talked, a sadness settled over me like a weighted blanket. Because she reminded me of my mom from before.

We nearly lost Mom in the 1980s. She had a bleeding aneurysm, and after her surgeon clamped it, she had a stroke that left her aphasic and paralyzed on one side. But she was alive, and she had an unstoppable will to recover. Within no time, she was not only walking and talking again, but also driving and doing all the things smart, busy women do. When asked how she’d come so far, so quickly, she stated simply: “I intended to.” 

I often refer to my mom as the original gutsy broad. Standing just 5 feet tall, this tiny spark plug did so much in her life. She finished college at a time few women even tried, got a masters degree in speech pathology while tending to an infant as her husband served in Vietnam, and afterward helped children overcome their language difficulties. She co-wrote a scientific paper with my dad. She launched her own business. She quietly gave back to her community. And she raised four kids, each of us challenging in our own way. 

My brother once noted that Mom was the only person on Earth who could also frown from ear to ear. She was radiant, managing to fill the room with whatever emotion she was experiencing at the time. Her rage could rock a full-grown man back on his heels. Her glare could practically fell a tree. But her smile was a warm hug, a light you couldn’t look away from. Making my mother laugh was the best feeling in the world.

Shortly after my mother died last year, my nerves as raw as my grief, I snapped at my brother for something trivial. Immediately I apologized. “Mom was so sweet,” I said. “I’m nothing like her.” His reply will stick with me forever: “Don’t apologize. Mom didn’t raise you to be sweet. She raised you to be effective.”  

I have a long history of pre-mourning those I love. I started having dreams about bad stuff happening to my parents when I was only 5. Mom’s stroke and other family members’ health problems deepened my sense that our time together was short, precious. My boy Simon lived to be nearly 21 years old and was sick for more than half of those years. Long before he left us, I spent many hours crying about the fact that one day he would die. I guess that’s one way, unhealthy as it may be, that my love manifests itself.

I had several years to pre-mourn my mother, too. I soaked up every smile I could wrest from her, then went home to cry myself to sleep. But the shitty thing is, all of that pre-mourning doesn’t lessen the grieving now that she’s gone.

A family friend from Oklahoma once told me, “No matter how old you are, you’ll always miss your mama.” So fucking true. This summer I entered a new season of anxiety and tough lessons learned, and this week was particularly challenging. Today, as I lay in bed worrying about everything and everyone, all I could think was: “I wish Mom were here to hug me.” And I wept like a child. When the chips are down, I guess we all want our mommies.

Still, in this time of stress, I am going to draw inspiration from the gutsiest broad I’ve ever known. I will be effective, just like she raised me. I will get through it, because I intend to.