"Aujourd'hui Maman Est Morte"

I remember reading that first line of Albert Camus's The Stranger in French class years ago in high school.  Tasked with translating a section of the book, I immediately got to work: I went to the library and took out the English version. While this was obviously cheating, I don't regret it because, instead of seeing a small piece of the book through the dirty lens of my poor French reading ability, I was able to consume the entire book in a couple hours.  A difficult, challenging work, it opened my mind to a school of thought well outside my small town experience. The protagonist Meursault, a true anti-hero, is in many aspects a deplorable character, and not someone to emulate. However, Camus used his experiences and actions to explore the role of man in the universe. I was enthralled.

I'm not a scholar of French literature, and this is not going to be a treatise on the philosophy of Camus.  But on this inauspicious day when my own mother has died, I recall one detail of the book: Meursault's eventual downfall was partially caused by his inability to "properly" mourn his mother.

But what is the right way to react to such an immense loss?  Tears and outward emotion are a typical response, but, much like my mother, I take no comfort in tears.  (Stoic always, I don't recall having ever seen her cry.) Instead, because I'm a writer, I will put down in words what an amazing woman she was, and how difficult were her struggles.

Some of the earliest memories of my mother were of her hugging me while wearing her blue bathrobe, enveloping me in warmth.  What I felt in those moments has echoed in my memories over the years, leaving an ache of nostalgia.  Ma always made me feel loved and supported, something that never changed throughout my life. However, the manner of that love and support would evolve with the coming of darker times.

My father was an alcoholic (something I wrote about several years ago).  I won't go into details about that here, but I will say that when my mother no longer felt that I was safe in our home, she sent me to live with my grandmother, Nan.  This was a blessing and relief for me.  I spent my high school years living with Nan in a happy home, loved and supported by yet another amazing woman. I could go on with wonderful stories about her, but here are just a few: because I hated breakfast food, she would cook me a hamburger before school; because she was concerned about the rareness of the deli beef she used to make my lunches, she would fry it in a pan before deeming it fit to be in a sandwich; and when I needed reprimanding, she wouldn't hesitate to twist my ear, pulling me down to her height to read me the riot act.

As good as this change was for me, I learned over time how difficult it was for my mother.  She sent me away to give me a better life, but always felt that she let me down because of it.  Back at home, with my father not working but still drinking away our savings, Ma started to work at a laundromat for minimum wage.  Always petite, she lifted bags of hotel laundry half her weight all day long.  I still remember when she visited us at Nan's farm how red and cracked her fingers were from constant exposure to bleach. Through all this hard work, and despite my father, my mother managed to keep the house.  This lessen in the value of hard work would always stay with me.

Because of financial struggles, my mother was unable to contribute any money for my college education, once again feeling that she let me down.  I managed to get a scholarship to go to school in Boston, and did my best to convey to her that, despite her inability to assist me financially, her love and support had allowed me to focus and work hard enough to earn the scholarship.  She would continue to insist that my successes were due to my hard work alone, but she deserves much of the credit.

Far more valuable than money was the role my mother would fill as I attended college and then went into the work force and adult life.  Wise and patient, she would give me constant advice and voice her confidence in my abilities.  There was no challenge or struggle that a quick call to my mother wouldn't improve.  I'm sure one of the most difficult things I'll go through in the coming days and weeks is wanting Ma's advice and realizing that it's lost forever.

I wish I could focus on all the wonderful things about my mother, but I would be remiss if I failed to mention the hardships she endured.  Life with my father was thankless and difficult, and those years took a toll on her.  But she held onto her home and endured until my father's death during my freshman year in college.

However, even after his passing, my mother struggled with anxiety that made her hesitant to leave home.  I don't know if this was because of my father, or an innate condition, but it kept her from getting out into the world. There were many things that she wanted to see, and many people she wanted to visit, but she couldn't bring herself to travel.  Someone from a younger generation would seek medical help for this, but my mother was from a different time, and did what she always did instead: struggled on using only her strength.

I know this anxiety created a distance between her and others that assumed disinterest or selfishness prevented visits or attendance at functions. Despite her great unease, she called on her strength to make it to my wedding, her first stay in a hotel.  I could see how anxious she was, but I will always remember the comfort I felt having her sleep in the bed next to mine the night before the wedding.  And the next day, we danced to this song, and while I never saw her cry, her eyes did well up.  One of my favorite memories.

I'm not a person to have regrets, but I have always regretted not being able to help Ma with her anxiety.  She missed out on so many things she wanted to do, and  often felt lonely while stuck in the mental prison that kept her in her home.  I wish I could have helped others understand her struggle better, and I'll have to live with my failure to do more.

The beginning of the end was a lung cancer diagnosis, leading to long months of decline and pain.  I won't talk much of this, as I'd rather expunge it from my mind as much as I can. But I will say that I was able to share my heart with her and left nothing unsaid at the time of her passing.  My mom, stoic to the end, proclaimed, "Let's not get sentimental" as I told her of how much she had done for me and how much I loved her.

I refuse to let the last thing I write about be hardship and struggle.  I know Ma found happiness in her children and their children, something she had difficulty conveying but could be heard with the right kind of ears.  She also brought a little bit of the world she wanted to see into her home, starting a menagerie of tropical fish that came from all the oceans she would never visit.  She enjoyed expanding her collection and would watch the fish for hours on end.  Ma would excitedly talk about them during every visit, especially when she was able to breed the fish and raise babies.  That's how I choose to remember her: happy and excited, with a smile and a twinkle in her eye.

With the right kind of eyes, my love for my mother can be read in the words I wrote.  But I will eschew subtlety to proudly proclaim that I love my mother dearly, to the utmost capacity of my heart.  She was a remarkable woman, and despite her struggles, was always there for me when I needed her. She loved me completely and unconditionally.  I couldn't have asked for a better mother, and I hope that Camus is wrong and that I will see her again one day.