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| Has anyone out there had the occasion or need to read MOTHERLESS DAUGHTERS, The Legacy of Loss by Hope Edelman?
It is not a "feel good" work of fiction, but a compilation of letters sent to her from women whose mothers have gone.
As an only child, I lost my own mother when she was 42 and I was 21.
It brings up questions now which I grieve over:
It is a necessary read for any woman who has lost her mother either through death, desertion, divorce or addiction. |
Follow-Up Postings:
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| I want to edit that phrase....." my life for the next 40 years" !! ( not 20) I'm no spring chicken ... but I'm not a tough bird either. ;0) |
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- Posted by carolyn_ky (My Page) on Sat, Mar 6, 10 at 20:23
| Yvonne, my mother was 93 and I was 64 when she died. I treasure her wisdom, the example she set, and the many years I was able to spend with her; but, no, you are never ready to lose your mother. This fall will be ten years, and I still miss her daily. One of my nieces was scolded by a sitter when she was quite small and glared at her and said, "I want my mama!" It has become a family saying for us when things go wrong. Over the years I have heard many women talk about the problems they had or have with their mothers, and I am still amazed. It's one of those things that those of us who were blessed with a good mother just took for granted--that everyone else was similarly blessed. Thanks for sharing the title. I will look for the book. |
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| Having read parts of this book, off and on, I discovered that grief is never over...especially for one's mother. I realize how it crippled me in ways that I would have never suspected. Coincidentally, through a complicated estragement, I have also lost my only daughter ( mother died at 42, daughter left the family at 42) and my three grandchildren. " The loss of the daughter to the mother, the mother to the daughter, is the essential female tragedy." Standing back from this, as an observer to my life, I find this a bitter irony. |
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| Thank you for bringing this book to our attention, Yvonne. I will seek it out. I lost my mother a year and a half ago, and I am still feeling the sting. She was just 76 and I was 57 at the time. As Carolyn understands, regardless of how old you are, the loss of your mother is a blow that stings for a very long time. I can't imagine what it must be like to lose your mother at the young age you did, Yvonne. A friend of mine who lost her mother while in her 20's told me a big part of her loss was that she had not been old enough to truly appreciate and befriend her mother yet. I found her observation very poignant. Another book that I found both comforting and helpful was The Orphaned Adult by Alexander Levy. It was kindly "pushed on me" by a co-worker and I was so grateful that she sensed my need to read it. Among other things, it discusses the fact that our society (American) expects an adult to "get over" the death of a parent and return to normalcy in a very short time - a few weeks, when the reality is that it takes most people a very long time to find a new normalcy. -- Kathy |
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| Rouan and I also lost our mother a year and a half ago. I'm sure it is a more damaging blow at a younger age, but even as fully mature, independent adults it is a lasting sorrow. I think of her nearly every day, and often wish I could call her up and exchange thoughts with her. I valued her presence in my life more with each year of my adult life, something which still goes on now that she is gone. I'm so grateful that I told her so many times while she was still here to hear it. I will say that the urgency of the sorrow has finally passed. Late last summer I created a printed album of pictures of her life, along with a narrative, at one of those photo hosting sites. I had copies made for each of my own children, one for me, and one for my father. I also left the pictures up and invited my brother and sisters to do the same if they liked. I figured that their choice of pictures might be different from mine, and that they would include more photos of themselves than I did. It was a difficult and painful process, but I felt immensely better once I did it. However, I could not even look at those pictures until many months after her death. I highly recommend this exercise as a healing project. In the end, you have a wonderful memory book instead of a box full of unidentified photos. I love the idea that someday someone may come upon the album, read it, and think "I wish I could have known her". Rosefolly |
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| I would like to read this to help understand what my nieces have dealt with. Their mother (my older sister) died at age 53 when they were 25, 23, and 19. In some ways, the oldest has taken on the role of mother to the youngest. She was a wonderful resource for the youngest when she had her children. I'm afraid the oldest had to muddle through on her own. I did what I could but they do not live nearby. I love all their children very much and get a lot of pleasure out of visits with them. My own mother is 92 and I am 62. I love her with all my heart and dread the day when she is gone. I do have two sons, but younger familoy members provide a different sort of comfort than older family members. |
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- Posted by carolyn_ky (My Page) on Sun, Mar 7, 10 at 20:58
| Rosefolly, we didn't have many photos of my mother when she was young, but I took one of her as a maybe year-old baby sitting on her mother's lap, one about six, one a young teen, one 45-ish, one 60-ish, and one 90-ish to Wal-Mart and made cropped 3x5" sepia tone copies of them. Then I took the copies to a frame shop and had them inserted in order into a cream matting and framed as one picture about 2-1/2 feet long by a foot high. It looks quite nice, and I just love it. For those of you who still have your mothers, here is something you might like to do to preserve memories. Someone gave my mother one of those "Grandmother Remembers" books for Christmas once. She didn't get around to filling it out, but later when she wasn't able to get around well by herself, my sister sat down and asked her the questions and got her to elaborate on the answers. She wrote it all down, and I typed it up. One of my brothers took a picture of the house where we grew up (and where she still lived) and one of the house where she grew up (which my grandfather had built himself), and together we made a nice booklet for each of us, which we all treasure. |
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| I've been thinking a lot about the questions in the original post by yoyobon. I am reminded of a conversation between two of my friends years ago. One was expecting, one was already a mother. The pregnant one was agonizing over being a good mother, about her ability to take on this task, whether she would love her child - because she was frank enough to admit she felt little connection with the baby in her womb. The mother said, "Don't worry, babies bring the mommyjones with them." The point being, trust your instincts. One doesn't necessarily need an example to be a good mother or grandmother (or sister or brother or friend). The desire to connect is hardwired into our genes. I think is it also normal to want to be able to get advice and seek role models. There are plenty of grandmothers and mothers out there - not your own, but mothers nonetheless who would be happy to help out. So I hope I'm not being offensive. My own mother, thank the heavens, is alive and well at 75. I work in a hospital with critically ill people and know all too well how quickly things can change, so I try very hard to enjoy the moments I have with my loved ones, and not leave things unsaid or undone. One thing that pains me terribly is that my mother will not allow herself to be photographed and has not for many years. We have some photos of her as a young women but that is all. We have tried everything, pleading, blackmail, pleading and blackmail by the most adorable grandchildren, all to no avail. We have asked her many questions, and one of my nephews interviewed her at length for a class project, getting so much valuable information. But no photos. Alas, I have to take my own advice and not upset her by insisting on bringing out the dreaded camera. I just look at her and try to commit everything to memory! |
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| When my own beloved father died, after four stroked years living in my home and being cared for, he left a daughter(me), two grandchildren and two great-grandchildren who all adored him. He was not the usual, pipe-smoking slippers at the chair grandfather. Being widowed at a young 48, he went on for the rest of his life living a different sort of dream. He lived the life of a single man....as he should have. He drove his corvette, with a lovely lady at his side and a diamond stud in one ear! A true bon vivant. What a character....and what a treasure to have in all our lives. He adored each of us and it was never a doubt to any. When he died, I put together a book with photos of him starting when he was an infant all the way through his last year of life. I chose photos which showed his talents, his personality, and somehow told a little story that we wanted to remember. For each page and photo I retold his story for them....as he would have loved to have it told. I gave it to his great-grandchildren so that they will always know what a great guy he was and how he was not always just the old Grampy in his wheelchair. |
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- Posted by woodnymph2 (My Page) on Mon, Mar 8, 10 at 11:11
| Going back to the original post, there are other means of loss, not mentioned: through long, serious illness. My mother became ill with Multiple Sclerosis before I was even in High School. This gradually worsened, as she remained at home, eventually ending up in a wheelchair, and almost bedridden. So, in a sense, my mother could not "be there" for me, while I was growing up. It was difficult, too, because I was an "only child." When my mother finally died, I felt in a sense that she had already died years ago, because illness can so change one's personality. By the time I was 33, I had lost both parents, so have been on my own' longer than many, I think. Fortunately, both my parents were "savers", so I have many beautiful black and white photos chronicling their youth and their life together. |
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| Back to Siobhan's post: " There are plenty of grandmothers and mothers out there - not your own, but mothers nonetheless who would be happy to help out." The loss of mother , in any of it's forms, is much more complex than just finding someone out there to be happy to help out. That is a given. Of course there are any number of adult women who might be willing to be there for you. But it is not the same. It is not the crux of the complex issue. The mother-daughter bond is sometimes the longest human bond some of us will ever have in our lives. THAT is the person I wish I could look up at and share with equal love and pride how beautiful my children were. THAT is the person I wish I could sit down next to , put my head on her shoulder and cry for my losses and failures. THAT is the person I wish I could smile with and share our joy in my beautiful, amazing grandchildren. She and I would marvel at the fact that this has blessed us! She would laugh at my actions as a grandmother....imagine that! THAT is the person I wish my own estranged daughter and I could sit down with and have her help us iron out our problems, because she loves us both beyond measure. THAT is the loss...the profound, almost undefinable loss...that cannot be solved so easily. And it doesn't go away with years. This book is helping me to sort out these things.....to embrace them, many for the first time....and hopefully to put them to some kind of rest. Thank you all for being out there, willing to share, listen and discuss. |
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| Siobhan, my own mother was reluctant to have her picture taken, though perhaps not as much so as your mother. She hated seeing what the passage of time had done to her appearance. Let's face it, candid photos are often not very flattering. I had two ideas that might help her accept a picture. One is that you use a digital camera, and promise to show her every picture you take, and delete every picture she doesn't like. And then do it, even if it is ALL the pictures. Eventually -- and it may take a number of sessions -- there will be a picture that she doesn't dislike too much, so she will say, well, okay, you can keep that one. You'll have to be very scrupulous about this or she won't trust you. The other idea is to ask her to get a formal portrait done by a professional photographer, ideally one known in the area for doing becoming pictures. I know of a couple in this area that use soft lighting that is very flattering to those of us. Then take her out to get her hair done, and maybe even professional makeup. She might be so delighted at her appearance that she will consent. Rosefolly |
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| Thank you for that, Rosefolly, she might go for the portrait. She does have a hairstylist that she is very friendly with, having gone to her for years. I might be able to set something up with her, to actually have the portrait taken at the stylist's home salon. That would be wonderful! I will discuss it with my sisters. |
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| My mother died last April, almost a month to the day before my daughter's wedding. (She was 79, I was 55.) She had been to the dressmaker the day before to have her wedding outfit tailored. I was planting flowers and covered with mud when the ER nurse called, asking me to come. I live 1.5 hours away. I had to be the one to say to the doctors "just stop. don't revive her again. let her go." Then I had to call my sister, who was at her son's college graduation, and tell her. My brother was across the country on business. A very bad day all around. That month was so crazy-planning a funeral, finishing up the wedding arrangements, finding sympathy cards and wedding RSVPs in the mailbox together, attending DD's graduation, helping my completely bereft and early-stage demetia father, refereeing between my siblings (briefly-I knew very quickly that 'this way be madness' and that it was not my job.) and finishing up a school year. I did not grieve because I didn't have time. My co-workers respected my plea, made through one of them, to "not say anything sympathetic to me" and I was able to hold things together. Even on the day of the wedding. There were moments, but I focused on the good things. Then the deluge. It was a bad summer. Dad got real bad real quick, and so changes in level of care and living arrangements had to be made. Lots of lawyer stuff. As many of you know, DD and new S-i-L were riding a tandem bicycle across the country-a worrisome 61 days for the parents left behind. I told my 20 year old son at one point "Please, just make good choices this summer about drinking, girlfriends, driving, etc. My head and heart can't deal with one more thing." I still think "I should call mom and tell her that." I was a puddle when Joannie Rochette skated, skated again, and won bronze. My mother-in-law was diagnosed with MS when my sisters-in-law were 15 and 10. She died when my daughter, the first grandchild, was less than 3. She would have been the kind of grandmother who knitted, cuddled, baked and spoiled. We all wish our children had known her. |
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| I empathize with every story I'm reading here. I noticed that some of you, just like me, have a desire to call your deceased mother. After my mother's death, I felt angry that there were no communication options. I decided that when I get to heaven (?) I will apply for the job of Director of Communications. And when I get that job, I will make sure everyone in heaven is able to make at least one phone call a month. So when your mom finally calls, you'll know I've passed on and have gotten that place organized! -- Kathy |
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| About three weeks after my mom died, my father asked me if I had noticed that she had been awfully quiet, not talking to him anymore. (He was hallucinating due to the depression and the dementia). I can't imagine what a phone call would have done to him! |
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- Posted by sarah_canary (My Page) on Tue, Mar 9, 10 at 2:39
| kathy t - I think that's a fabulous idea. My mother died nine years ago -- one week after 9/11. And just yesterday, as I was walking up the stairs to my bedroom, I thought "I should call Mom." If only I could. We held a memorial service for her in my brother's backyard a month or so after she died. My niece worked with a friend to put together a wonderful video of my Mom's life with pictures of her and my dad, all six of her kids, her 13 grandkids, and two great-grandkids. She also included some music that meant something to all of us. It was truly amazing, and I've watched it many times. This is a quote from C.S. Lewis, that I may have gotten from RP, that really sums up how I feel about the loss of my mother: "With my mother’s death, all settled happiness, all that was tranquil and reliable, disappeared from my life. There was to be much fun, many pleasures, many stabs of Joy; but no more of the old security. It was sea and islands now; the great continent had sunk like Atlantis…" C.S. Lewis And as Edna St. Vincent Millay put it: "The presence of that absence is everywhere." |
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| "Your absence goes through me like thread through a needle. - Source Unknown |
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- Posted by sarah_canary (My Page) on Tue, Mar 9, 10 at 11:48
| cc -- Do you think the phone call would have been a good thing for your dad or would it have confused him? I'm not sure how you got through last summer...so many major stresses at one time. I hope you're doing okay now. |
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- Posted by carolyn_ky (My Page) on Tue, Mar 9, 10 at 20:08
| Kathy, I love it! Are you by any chance a secretary, as I was? I've organized some strange scenarios in my life. |
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| Carolyn, I'm not a secretary, but you're on the right track. I'm a technical writer, which I think requires pretty similar organization skills as a secretary - sifting through other people's work and ideas and organizing them into logical stream of words that make sense to the rest of the world. I sometimes have to hold myself back and just write, when really, I'd like to organize my source person's desk and files also! Haha - Kathy |
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| Sarah, Right after her death, it would have probably made the dementia worse. He was all ready hallucinating. Now that his depression is lifting, his dementia has also returned to where it was-early stages. I'm not sure how a phone call would affect him now. Probably add to the growing confusion. It was a long, hard summer. And I am a stress eater, which is why I am now striving to become a gym rat. I'd rather just do the eating part. ;-) But it ended on a beach in Oregon, watching DD and DS-i-L put the front tire of the bike in the Pacific at sunset, which was an overwhelmingly joyous thing. It was clear how the challenges they had faced together had given them such a head start in their marriage. On the very long plane ride home to PA, I had a little talk with self and counted blessings. |
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| It's all perspective, isn't it. A friend who is in her late 50's, is child-less,suffered the loss of her husband 10 years ago, lost her mother and father within 3 mos. of each other and is now what she refers to jovially as "the widow-orphan". One day when she was moping about and taking stock of all she had lost or never had, she began thinking of her life as a glass always half empty. |
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- Posted by sarah_canary (My Page) on Wed, Mar 10, 10 at 19:07
| yoyobon -- I love that image. I'm gonna remember that. cc - I like the idea of the wheel into the ocean at sunset ... a visual that I will remember. I'm glad your year had some joy in your year, too. |
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| Sarah-they started by putting the rear wheel into the Atlantic at dawn. yoyobon-how true that perspective is all. My dad called tonight to tell me that the wife of a couple that my parents had socialized with since we all moved into the same neighborhood in the 1960s(!!!) had passed away after many many years of great pain. His last comment before we said goodbye was "It may be selfish, but I think it was better with your mother. She would have hated to lived like Mary had to for such a long time." Would I want my mother to be alive again if she had to live like Mary-painfully crippled with arthritis, confined to a wheelchair, completely dependant and with memory issues because of all the medications? I don't know that I could wish that. |
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