Word To My Mother

It was nineteen years ago today that I lost my mother. How can this be? It feels like it just happened some days and on others, like a dream from long ago that I keep trying to remember the details of. I don't cry as often as I use to unless it's Christmas time or Thanksgiving. Or Easter. Sometimes my birthday. Occasionally, Fourth of July. Grief is a funny thing. Just when you think you've driven the final stake through it's cold, black heart, it pounces on you from the grave, more alive than ever. Well, not today, heifer! 

Today, I am choosing to remember some of the really important words my mother spoke into my life throughout the years. Words like...

~ You really need a new bra.

~ Well, you picked him.

~ Why can't you just be normal?

These shouldn't come as a surprise to any of you that have read some of my recent posts. My mother was multilingual. She spoke, English, Spanish, Italian-Swiss, French, and Sarcasm. I believe Sarcasm might have been her first language. 

The truth is, my mother was not very good at showing affection when we were younger. She wasn't a hugger, kisser, cuddler with her girls. I don't remember her ever saying she loved me as a child. But, I knew she did because of the way she took care of us and spoiled us. She was so much fun and loved to laugh with us. The affection part just seemed to embarrass her. 

The first time I told my mother I loved her, I was in my twenties, married with a baby. I was so in love with my new baby that it spilled over to anyone that got too close to me. I remember very clearly, watching my parents with Matthew, holding him and kissing him. I was so overwhelmed in that moment with love for my parents that I blurted out, "I love you!" to my mother as I wrapped my arms around her and kissed her cheek. She looked shocked as she said, "Well, I should hope so." Not being one to let an awkward moment go, I insisted she tell me she love me to which she replied with the usual, "You're crazy." Not deterred by being told what I already knew, I hung onto her in my estrogen-driven new-mother death grip and demanded she say it.

"Come on! Say it! Say. It. You know you want to say it. Say it. I love you."

By this time we are both laughing but I still wouldn't let go. And then, she said it. It wasn't convincing to the untrained ear, I'm sure, but as she let the words, "I love you" quickly escape from her mouth, I knew she meant it. I also knew there was a part of her that was relieved to say it. From that day on, I never stopped telling her I loved her and my demands for a reply were needed less and less. The last years of my mother's life were filled with affection and words that needed to be spoken and heard. 

Now, don't be fooled. My mother never stopped showing her love to us through sarcasm. It was a big part of who she was and she was freaking hilarious. Sometimes, when I had a new friend and they would meet my mom for the first time, they would tell me later they thought she was kind of mean to me. This always made me laugh because I understood my mother's love language of sarcasm. I never saw it as mean. I saw it as love. I still do. 

The last week or so of my mothers life, she was in a semi-coma. I know she could hear us but she didn't respond verbally. One day during that last week, Kelly showed up early to find me standing over mom's bed crying. For reasons I am still unsure of, crying seems to be a sign of weakness in our family and was greatly discouraged by my sisters. The answer to a sobbing sibling has always been and remains to this day .... sarcasm. I admit, I am often the chiefest of sinners in the sarcasm department. That's correct. If you see your sister suffering, make fun of her. After all, it's for her own good.

So there I was, standing on the left side of the bed, crying over my comatose mother, when my sister, who was standing on the right side of the bed, starts harassing me about something or another in order to get my mind off the situation lying before me. When I started to argue with her, telling her she was wrong, Kel says, "You're a big, fat liar." I immediately countered with, "I am not a liar!"

What I am about to tell you is 100% the gospel truth. At the very moment the last word exited my mouth, my comatose mother opened her eyes, looked straight at me, and clear as a bell said these words. "Well, you are fat." She then closed her eyes and never uttered another word.

Now, I understand for normal people, these last words would be a devastating statement regarding a mother's disdain for their child. Not so, in my case. To be sarcastically targeted was to be loved in my house. We might not have had the kindness thing down but we could go up against Seinfeld any day of the week. My sister and I, upon hearing those last words of our mother's, looked at each other and burst out in hysterics. I still laugh about it today. 

I sure miss you, ya old bat. I love you and I hear you saying it all the time through your grandchildren and great-grandchildren. Thanks, Mom. 

1940's Bernice, with her fancy outfit and holding her purse because who goes to the snow to throw snowballs without wearing the right ensemble and accessories? Am I right?

1980's Bernice. Fancy hat? Check! Matching coat and boots? Check? Purse? Check! 

You still had the magic, Bernie. Throw those snowballs.