220 Days

Today is November 3rd. It’s a big day for America, for lots of reasons. Most of the country is focused on the results coming tonight that will determine who will run things for the next four years, but not me. November 3rd happens to be my mom’s birthday and that is the only thing I can think of as the sun rises on the 220st time I’ve woken up without a mother.

220 days. That number boggles me, truly. It seems like just a few minutes ago that I was spending my days in the rinky-dink hospital of this town, fighting with doctors who refused to believe how sick my mom knew she was. Just a few seconds ago that we had our final conversation. Just a blink since I held her hand and sang as she took her final breath. I wanted nothing more than to climb into that bed with her and beg her to either stay or take me with her. I couldn’t envision a world without her. I have lived in a motherless world for 220 days and such a world still doesn’t feel possible.

My mom loves presents. They don’t have to be anything big or shiny – she’s equally delighted by anything you bring her – because the gesture is about the fact you thought of her, not the money you spent. (My dad might debate this, because the year he forgot to get her a gift for Mother’s Day she bought herself a dining room set in retribution, but still.) Finding the perfect present for Mom has always been something of a personal challenge for me. I buy special wrapping paper just for her and her gift is always the first one I plan. Her birthday is even better than Christmas because I don’t have to worry about her present outshining anyone else’s. When I was 20, I snuck into her house early in the morning and cooked a surprise breakfast for Mom and her best friend Colleen. Her gift was a CD I’d made of special songs complete with liner notes I’d created myself with lyrics and why I’d chosen each song. Colleen looked at me and said in her dry way, “Geez. How are you gonna top this next year?” And Mom smiled and replied, “She always does.” That was the reaction I always wanted. It’s what I usually got, too. Present people are the most fun to give to, in my opinion.

Mom’s absence has blown my life up in a way I couldn’t possibly have imagined. We live in another state, my immediate family is largely estranged, my relationship with dad is completely transformed and I am left to navigate this bizarre, unfamiliar landscape without any of my lifelong touchstones. I don’t know how to do Christmas without Mom’s present or her presence. I don’t know how to do November 3rd without planning her celebration. I have woken up 219 times without my best friend, but this is the first time I’ve lived through Mom’s birthday without her.

Happy birthday, mama. Your day is gonna be much better than mine, which is probably how it should be since it’s your day, after all. Gram is cooking you a giant pot of goulash and Papa’s making a ham. Aunt Margie is baking you her red cake held together with toothpicks and that hideously lumpy, incredibly delicious frosting. I have no special paper to wrap it, but my present to you is forgiveness for the people who aren’t grieving you the way I am. I’m gonna stop being angry that I’m still stuck in the swamp while other people are moving forward. I’m choosing to look at the depth of my pain as a tribute to the profundity of my love and I will never regret loving you as much as I do. I know that’s what you want most and it’s certainly the most difficult to give. You always love the big gestures, no matter how much you protest.