To my knowledge, my mother dreamed of being three things in her life: a ballerina, a mother, & a writer. She came to terms with not being a ballerina (we all do), she became a mother, but she struggled as writer.
My mother had a tough life, as many of our parents did. Her family wasn’t well off & she quit school at a young age to help out at home. Throughout the last half of her life, she was very sick. Her cancer consumed her energy, but she always did her best to deal with it.
My mother wrote poetry & as the deeply reflective person she was, it was a major outlet for her.
But, when I read her poems, I get the sense she was trying to get something out that she couldn’t put into words.
One of Mom’s hand written poems circa 2009, within 6 months before she died. I’ve tried to correct some misuse of words: “Time what is time. We count it everday. But really, it is nothing. We are conditioned, to eat, sleep, work, play by counting time. When you are facing your death time becomes as precious and as priceless as your children. It cannot be replaced. So use the time you’ve got, wisely.”
She had a few of her pieces printed in the local paper. She would also write letters to famous people like the Pope, the Oak Ridge Boys, & Oprah. One day, a segment producer from Oprah’s staff called our house to inquire about one of the pieces she had submitted. I was home alone & took the call, at the time I was on the other line with a friend.
One of Mom’s interviews with our local newspaper, The Record. Circa 1995, Breast Cancer was still not widely spoken about.
I lost my mind, I was so excited! After speaking with the producer, I went back to my call & screamed, “OPRAH!”
I called my mom at work & told her the news. Looking back, I can only imagine how excited she would’ve been to know that Oprah's show had called her. Nothing ever came from it, but she did have a chance to chat with the producer. Making it through the screening phase is quite the feat, at least when it comes to Oprah. I hope she realized that.
Over the years, Mom took whatever extra money she saved & had small books & greeting cards printed of her poetry. She would sell them in small gift shops & give them out to friends and family.
One morning while I was at work…
I got a call from my mother’s home care nurse. She told me that mom was "having an episode" & needed me to come home. When I got there, I walked into the room & without a hello she told me, “my cancer is in my bones.”
She had been diagnosed with terminal cancer, it came somewhat unexpectedly. She didn’t tell anyone, including my father & I. She was scared and kept it in for two weeks. I can’t for the life of me imagine keeping something like that in, I don’t know how she did it.
We cried, we talked, we held each other. I was braver than I thought I could ever be that day. It was a very tender moment, I remember feeling like I had become the mother, it was my turn to be strong.
Below the tenderness of that moment, there is one thing that haunts me to this day. I had given her a red file box to organize her poems & writing. It was in the room with us that day. After her nurse had left & we were alone together, she looked over at it & said, “I don’t believe in anything anymore. I look at my writing & I want to burn it.”
I didn’t know what to say.
Looking back, I can see that the person saying those things was not my mother.
To not believe in something is not who she was, anyone who knew her would testify to that. She fought harder than anyone I knew so I allowed her that moment of complete & utter despair. I knew I couldn’t rescue her from it.
After she died in 2010, my father & I found more poems, more stories, more letters. For well over a year we would find envelopes with poems written on the back of them, wedged into a book. Quotes written in the margins of phone books & old newspapers. Typed or hand written, sometimes drawings, paintings & journals - they were everywhere. It was comforting & painful. Like she was still there, telling us things, but we couldn’t see or touch her.
This year (2021) marks 11 years since she’s been gone & that same red box still haunts me. All her words, all her dreams. On the floor, sitting next to me.
So many times, I’ve said to myself, “You’re doing this. You’re making this into something for her. She deserves it.”
Then, overcome with the same fear & self-doubt that she was undoubtedly faced with enters my line of focus and thinking. I tell myself, “you can’t, it won’t make sense”, “it’s too painful, don’t do it”, “you don’t want to be seen, vulnerability is too hard”, “you don’t have the money, how can you justify this”, “you don’t know how.”
You get my drift?
For years, I’ve struggled with my mothers sacrifices & that moment of despair. I hate that she was never able to see her writing reach the level of fruition she dreamed of. I hate that I sit next to this box every day. As much as I encourage others to follow their dreams, I hate that I can’t push myself far enough to grasp my own.
I hate it.
But now, here we are. In the middle of a global pandemic & the world as we know it will never be the same. I’ve had a lot of time to think while being at home. A lot of time to reflect & a lot of time to sit next to the red box.
Ask yourself, do you have a plan B?
Now that this pandemic has happened, will you approach life the same way you did before? Will you be as quick to discount your dreams as impossible? Knowing that you may be faced with things like unemployment, quarantine, self-isolation, etc.
Is it possible that the thing you dream of doing is the answer to financial security, sustainable mental health & wellbeing should a global crisis like this ever hit us again?
If the answer is yes, is there anything that would stop you from doing it?
My answer is a definite, no.
The beautiful part of this story is that my mother’s despair is a very profound lesson. It is one of the thousands upon thousands of gifts she gave me in life & one I wanted to share with anyone who reads this.
We do not have to wait for despair.
Going after our dreams is complicated, but necessary. And if this story hasn’t convinced you, think of it like this: the world is changing whether we like it or not. We can choose to fight it or adapt to it. For those of us who chose to adapt, what better or more beautiful way to do so than believing that our dreams are our solutions. And that by believing in ourselves, it will be that which will carry us through our struggles.
Mom & I in New York City, 2009.
