Why Mother’s Day doesn’t have to Suck anymore!
It’s been a long time coming, but even before my mom died in 2019, I was starting to hate Mother’s Day. This year, on my second as a motherless daughter, I was hoping to turn that around.
Four years ago, on the week leading up to Mother’s Day, my father, then 88, broke his femur, leading to a long and painful recovery, which he got through with my rock-solid mom as his primary caregiver. The next year, our family celebrated the holiday together when my dad, a sometimes prickly guy, had some weird kind of meltdown, which sent my mom, and all of us, into a tailspin. Two years ago on on Mother’s Day, I landed in the ER with a perforated colon, and spent a month in the hospital. But last year, this silly Hallmark holiday won the prize for sucking the most, as the first one without my mama, who was also my BFF. I call bullshit on anyone who’s ever said a mother’s loss gets easier with time.
I’m still super grateful for the wisdom, the legacy and the loving spirit my mom, Grandy, left behind. But if she wasn’t already dead, I might have to kill her, for everything else she bailed on. Like being so f*cking good at her job of making sure everyone in our family had it so together, we could just cruise in her tailwinds and know everything was gonna be OK.
My sister Jodi and I have done the best we could to hold down the fort without her. Not as easy as she made it look. So when COVID hit, I moved to South Florida and became my 92 year old dad’s roommate.
Just before I left him in April, to go start my life anew in Philadelphia, dad started to show signs of slowing down. Not surprising. He’s freaking 92.
He was seven years older than my mom and (in my world) the parent who, in my mind, was absolutely supposed to go first. Over the last few weeks, he was diagnosed with Congestive Heart Failure. Last Tuesday, his kidneys were shutting down and he was, in the words of his Doctor, “going over the cliff”. I really thought we were going to lose him, too. On Mother’s Day weekend. So much for turning the sacred holiday around.
My dad has always been a strong and driven man, and a (sometimes loving) and generous father but not one with whom, for most of my adult life, I was able to see eye to eye. His Accountant’s left brain never quite understood my creative right side. To my dad, the artist’s way was no way to live. He was a Depression baby who spent his life making sure things were safe and secure, whose first born (me) embodied a gypsy kinda energy that made zero sense to him. My pops wasn’t exactly cheering for me when, as a divorced mom, I walked away from a successful TV Producing career, to go create some crazy dream that became Campowerment. One that, if you ask him, tore my mom away, as he crept his way towards 90, content to sit in his recliner all day and into the evening, watching the news, puffing on his pipe. A simple guy who thought my mother belonged right there next to him, keeping the family together. And him on his throne.
But when she, his College Professor/loving wife of more than 50 years hit her mid-70’s, she ran away to build Campowerment with me, from the ground up. On this transformational playground where women come to learn, connect and grow, Grandy stepped into the inimitable and dearly beloved role as our sage Village Elder and Journaling “Counselor”. She was such an enlightened and fabulous human, my dad just didn’t feel like sharing her with anyone, especially a group of strangers who came to love and adore and respect her for her kindness and her love and her wisdom. She and my daughter Chelsea, now Campowerment’s CEO, ran our family business with me, building a movement of 5000 plus newly-empowered people who came to us to #reignitetheirlife. Grandy played a huge part in that.
At a time when most octogenarians were relegated to the back of the card room, Grandy had into her light, comfortably owning a room (any room) of people willing to learn from her. And she was
so-o-o-o happy to be at the center of this family triumvirate as our company’s “Goodwill Ambassador”, a title she gave herself and wore proudly.
Everybody wanted a piece of my mother. When you were standing in front of her, Grandy made you feel like you were the only person in the room, engaging you in conversation that immediately ran deep. Campers often volunteered to be the “Grandler”, escorting her by the arm, from one activity to another, just for some alone time with her.
But in my dad’s humble opinion, this Campowerment thing messed with his life, and inflated her ego. He joked that he was going to have to replace their front door with a wider one, so her head could fit through it. Even when she was home by his side, my mom spent a crazy amount of hours on the phone, checking in and keeping in touch with dozens of our camper/clients, through loving notes and emails. “Judy Friendly”, my dad called her, because she loved people. Recently, he admitted to me that he was jealous, and quite annoyed by all the attention thrown her way. Especially when people called him “Mr. Grandy”.
One can only imagine how much he resented me for creating Campowerment. Over the past seven years, my mom put a lot of energy trying to bring my dad and me to a harmonious place, but we never quite got there. After my mom died, my father was really mad at me. And he made sure I knew it.
But still, not wanting to leave him alone or take him away from his home base, when COVID landed on all our doorteps, I moved my ass in with the angry man who is still in shock that he outlasted my mom, who then left him with ME, of all people. Just Daddy and me, in the same house. All day, every day. And at night too, when he roams around aimlessly, unable to sleep. For almost a whole year.
SHE was always my person, the one I pushed past him to get to. And then I got him. To deal with, by myself for awhile. My sister Jojo lives around the corner and she’s been a saint, but when I was there, I was on duty.
And as those weeks turned to months turned to almost a year, my dad and I actually found ways to respect, and bring out the best in each other. Not just peacefully coexisting under the same roof, but actually loving (almost) every minute of it.
I took over my mama’s kitchen, and created major feasts every night, for dad and me, Jodi and my nephew, Spencer. Then we’d all hit the patio, to sing along with Sinatra or Andy Williams. Same songs, same jokes, night after late night. And somewhere in there, I discovered a wonderful, loving man who’d been hiding from me for most of my life. Because we were all so desperate for some legit human connection, we hugged a lot, and laughed even more. And no matter how tired he felt at the end of his long, boring day, once the music started, he’d wake right up and start bopping to the beat, never ceasing to be amazed by the quality of the sound blaring from that little red Bose speaker. He told us the same stories night after night, the same ones we’ve heard for years, including the one about how he just knew, 8 days after meeting my mom, that she was the one. My sister and I would dance together as he snapped his fingers and sang almost every word to every song, even “The Girl from Ipanema” when he would close his eyes and belt out his own version of Portuguese. Even on days when he would ask 5 times (in five minutes) if his accountant has filed his tax return yet. Oh, the power of the human mind…
And though I was missing my mother ferociously, there was something bizarrely, comfortably uncomfortable to be living in her house, without her. With him. Cruel joke? I was beginning to think so.
We spent a lot of time just hanging, healing old wounds, talking about mom, and enjoying the hell out of each other. We’ve laughed (a lot) at his obnoxious jokes but mostly, sharing this slow-paced time together has given me so much joy. And peace. To be able to give back some of the love that my parents spent more than half a century pouring into me and my sisters and our kids, has been a privilege. My dad is now finally, truly grateful for the family he and my mom built, which he recently admitted he never fully appreciated until she was gone. For an entire year, he told me numerous times a day how safe and protected he felt from “all this COVID crap”, and how happy he was that I became the one in charge of him for a long while. This could never have unfolded like this if my mom were still here.
And so, this week, as my dad’s heart began to fail, I debated postponing my long-awaited, very belated 60th bday/let’s rewrite Mother’s Day weekend with my kids, in our family’s happy place. But when I went to bed last Sunday night, I wasn’t sure if I was leaving the next day for Colorado or home to be with my dad, who was now struggling to breathe. As I began to mentally prepare myself to become a full fledged orphan, Jodi got to work with dad’s doctors, and miraculously got them to agree to move up this procedure they hoped might be able to give him a little more time. He told the docs he was not ready to die, and to do whatever was necessary to keep him alive. At 92. And because this hospital won’t allow any visitors (none), we worried sick that if this didn’t work, my dad would die alone in there. Though he’s only 132 pounds and weaker than we’d ever seen him, last week, the fight that was still left in Jerry Leader made Rocky Balboa look like a woos.
I was worried sick, but found some comfort in feeling my mom’s presence in the middle of the night. Call me crazy, but I feel Grandy’s spirit a lot, and it wakes me up with some kind of knowing I am reckoning with. Last weekend, here’s what I got: “I’m not ready for him here yet. He’s gonna be ok.”
And so, at Jodi’s urging (what a blessing to have a sister like her, who selflessly holds it all down), I went west instead of south. Daddy and I stayed connected via FaceTime, as his kidneys were beginning to shut down, but that f*cker stayed so positive, he just wanted to get this done already, so he could come home and “keep living”. If only my mom had found that fighting spirit at the end of her life…
And wouldn’t you know it, that dude went into the Cardiac Cath Lab on Thursday at 2PM and sailed right through this procedure. The doc was pretty surprised to see that when he inserted this device to help his heart pump blood more efficiently, it responded immediately. Now we just had to wait and hope his kidneys could recover.
The next morning, I dialed my dad, never expecting him to answer. But he picked right up and begged to have a bagel and nova delivered to his room, because, as he told me emphatically, “they tried to give me some shit for breakfast that I wouldn’t give to the Nazis.”
And 24 hours later, Papa Jooky was back home. In his chair, breathing easier, like we all are today, on this Mother’s Day that’s starting to remind me that maybe this isn’t such a bad holiday after all…
I’m waking up in Avon, Colorado this morning, the place that holds such beautiful memories of the 17 summers we spent together here, as a family. Today, I am surrounded by my own immediate family, ready to go sit under a tree and write thank you notes to Grandy for all she has given us, to get us right here. Tonight I will send my kids home, to NY and California respectively, and will head to South Florida once again, to be my dad’s “nurse” for a few weeks, though I suspect this time, he’s gonna be taking care of me. Call me greedy, but even at almost 62, I’m still not ready to be parent-less. And today, I don’t have to be.
Oh Grandy, wherever you are, you’re getting all the credit for this indescribable family connection you’ve created. With each snuggle Daddy and I will now share, numerous times a day, I will be reminded, over and over again, that it’s you mom, behind all the magic that’s crept into all of our lives, since you left us. On this Mother’s Day week, once again, I half expected to be buried under the covers, enveloped deep in sorrow, mourning life without you. Instead, I feel your presence guiding me, and all of us, on this unforeseen journey, at a moment in time when life has stood still and forced us to reexamine everything.
And though I can’t see you Grandy, or hug you or have you by my side ever again, I feel you with me, every day. You told me you’d come back and guide me, disguised as a flamingo, and I see them everywhere. I mean everywhere. I hear your my voice mom, calmly telling me the time has come for me to help others learn to rewrite their stories and make shift happen. Like I’m doing with dad.
We can’t hide, stay small or be selfless anymore. The world that lies ahead of us needs the best of us. “Step up or step out the way”, I hear you telling me in the wee morning hours when I can’t sleep. “Tata: the world needs you, NOW.” You’re constantly in my ear, on my early morning walks, where I’m noticing the flowers blooming bigger and brighter. Yes, it’s spring, which is always a time for new beginnings, but this year, we’re getting slapped in the face, reminded (by you?) that there is no better time than this moment, to start anew. With ourselves and each other and the whole big, bold, beautiful new world that is finally teaching us, as a species, so many lessons we didn’t even realize we needed to learn.
For the second Mother’s Day in a row, and in my life, on this holiday you cherished, I am still a Motherless Daughter. And as much as that sucks a big one, I am looking forward to a better tomorrow, to giving back and enjoying each day as a blessed mom of two brilliant, delicious, incredible humans of my own. And an awesome soon to be son in law, who will join our family this summer. The only thing missing is you mom, but I feel you here with me…the enlightened
Angel who led me back to my Dad…the little old man whose love has reignited a part of my soul I thought had died with you, my forever mother.
And though you, my North Star, has gone dark, as I take inventory on my life, I am finally ready to change my story, and seize the opportunity to reprogram the way I live. Like all of us can (and probably should) be doing right now.
Finally: we can finally get the chance to re-create things, for ourselves, and for each other. To rewrite our tomorrows…to look nothing like anything did when the world went fuzzy in March of 2020.
And so, on this Mother’s Day, my wish for the people I love, is peace. The kind of peace I didn’t even know I was feeling til I woke up this morning, excited to go home and reunite with my dad, who is now slowly, getting back on the road to whatever healthy is gonna look like at 92. I woke up and meditated and am about to wake up my kids and drag them outside, to write a thank you letter to Grandy. For allowing us to feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for this moment, in all its unpredictability and silver linings. That’s been my greatest gift today. The streak has been officially broken. Happy Mama’s day to ME!
