Mother's Day without Mom

My mother passed quietly on July 3 last year. I sat beside her, wiping her brow and checking her pulse, while she drew her last breath. She was 93, blind, and, due to a badly broken arm that could not be immobilized, in severe pain any time she moved. Given that, it was not difficult to let her go.

That hasn't kept me from missing her. Something awful. And as we approach Mother's Day, that missing starts to feel like a large hole in my life, one with very raw edges.

Moms and daughters often have complicated relationships, so it isn't surprising that ours was ... well, complicated. As the eldest child, I was supposed to be perfect. She intended me to be not only the perfect daughter, but also the fulfillment of whatever she had hoped for her own childhood, youth, and young adulthood that had not materialized in her life.

I was willing to cooperate and be all that ... to a point. But let's face it: Moms do not bear daughters with cloned personalities, desires, dreams, talents, or pretty much anything. Mom and I were different people. What worked for her was not necessarily what I wanted in my own life, and what I wanted for myself often made little sense to her.

I've tried to remember those lessons as I've raised a daughter of my own. Although we're close, our relationship is ... well, complicated.

One thing that went cosmically, wonderfully right was the last meeting between my daughter and her Grammie. From the time Rebecca was a little girl, she had wanted a sister. I didn't explain all the medical reasons that wasn't going to happen. I simply told her someone had to be youngest and she was it. Once she began to believe me, she longed for a daughter of her own. At the same time, she began planning for the four-generation pictures we would take when that little girl was born.

She had boys first, but then her daughter came to us a year ago. She telephoned her Grammie and reminded her of the plans she had for a portrait, but because they lived hundreds of miles apart, it didn't seem likely that portrait would happen soon. Then Mom's injury, and her decision to go on hospice, forced everyone's hand.

Circumstances cooperated and Rebecca arrived at Mom's little senior apartment on Sunday, July 1, with her sons and baby girl in tow. I stayed in the exercise space next door while the boys went in individually to visit with, and say goodbye to, their great-grandmother. Then my mother, daughter, and I sat down together with Macy, my baby girl's baby girl.

"Life isn't fair, Macy," my mom began. "If it were fair, I could see you." Not being able to see didn't keep Mom from holding the baby, touching her arms and legs, letting Macy clutch her finger, running her own fingers over Macy's face. She loved "seeing" our little one through her sense of touch and Macy patiently cooed through it all.

And we got the pictures Becca had longed for over decades. They aren't perfect. My mother is in a hospital gown and a sling--what she wore for the last two weeks of her life. None of us had the time to primp and I know I could have looked better, but it didn't matter. We have the pictures to remind us always of that four-generation meeting and the continuity it signals. That is especially meaningful since Mom passed two days later.

Then too, I have the pictures and a host of positive memories to remind me on this Mother's Day that, no matter how much differences sometimes come between us, we are family and we love each other.

Susan Aylworth is the author of 17 novels, all available as e-books. Her 18th is due in May. She loves her northern California home which she shares with her husband of 49 years and the spoiled cat they serve. When she can't be with her seven children, seven great kids-in-law, and 25 grandbabies, she loves hanging with her fictional offspring, the children of her mind. She also loves hearing from readers. Visit her website at www.susanaylworth.com or find her @SusanAylworth, at .facebook.com/Susan.Aylworth.Author, or on Pinterest.