Category Archives: holidays

A Year of Revelation

My mother’s mother, my Bubbie Fran, watched me frequently when I was a child. Once, while eating scrambled eggs, I reached for the salt shaker on her kitchen table. My grandmother swatted my hand. I looked up at her furrowed face, and my own face contorted in confusion.

“Why did you do that?” I asked.

“Salt is poison,” she told me, while stirring two fizzy saccharine pills into her otherwise black Folgers.

There were other poisons in her apartment, too. Sugar. Fat. Cholesterol. From my grandmother, and ultimately my mother, I learned that food could be dangerous and even deadly. My mother reinforced a contradictory food message each time she had an insulin reaction, when only sugary foods could save her. In ordinary time, these foods were forbidden: cookies, candy, sodas. But they held the power of God each time her blood sugar dropped.

We both internalized the belief that the worst thing a woman could be was fat. Our bodies were our currency, and thin bodies made us visible, gave us back the sense of control we lacked in our lives. For years, I was thin, and I took my thinness for granted. I believed being thin made me better, made me good, made me worthy. I think differently now. After years of food restrictions, I refuse to deny myself pleasure. I refuse to limit what brings me joy. I’m at the top end of my weight range right now because I take pleasure in eating. I cannot control whether I get sick, even while eating foods I used to fear. That has been the hardest and most poignant lesson of 2017. I am not at fault for my illnesses. Neither are you.

________

Here’s a list of all the foods I’ve eliminated over the years:

  • Sugar
  • Salt
  • Dairy
  • Soy
  • Alcohol
  • Caffeine
  • Grains
  • Raw cruciferous vegetables
  • Fruit

________

Restricting my diet escalated my anxiety. I could rarely eat with other people. I missed family holiday dinners because I feared not having control over the menu. Once, on a meditation retreat, I awakened in the middle of the night in a sweaty panic about quinoa. By restricting my diet, I thought I could cure myself from an autoimmune disease and other mysterious medical symptoms. This line of thinking, while quite common in our culture, is also a form of victim blaming. I believed what I ate made me sick, and I believed what I didn’t eat could make me well. I believed I had power, and I believed I didn’t have power. If I ate the wrong foods, I deserved whatever ills befell me. Food could be a miracle cure, and food could be poison.

I am not alone in my beliefs. Morality and magical thinking have long been associated with eating ––  take it all the way back to Genesis ––  and many women are taught to reduce food intake, to deny ourselves the pleasure of eating in a culture that denies or seeks to limit our power. Also, our oldest stories, our fairytales, imbue food with danger and magic. We are taught to feel shame when we indulge in the pleasure of eating. And when we do not feel worthy of food, we do not feel worthy of pleasure or joy.

________

Earlier this month, a new female physician listened to my mysterious symptoms, viewed another rash spreading across my neck, and said, “I think you have Lyme Disease.”

I laughed. But it turns out she was right.

The last time I pulled a tick off my body was in 2011. I’ve had a handful of bizarre rashes, but never a bull’s eye. And my former GP tested me for Lyme in 2015. Although my labs showed some abnormalities consistent with Lyme, he dismissed my symptoms and the results. In retrospect, he should have ordered repeat tests, as my abnormalities and symptoms were consistent with an early infection.

My new labs showed no autoimmunity, and no abnormalities associated with an autoimmune disease. Despite the fact that I’ve been eating all the foods on my forbidden list for months, my thyroid health is improving.

2017 has been a year of revelation.

Food did not make me sick.

Food could not make me well.

________

The other day, I saw a meme circulating Facebook. The meme pleaded with women not to make New Year’s resolutions to lose weight, and especially not to talk about weight loss goals in front of their daughters. The meme asked women to consider eating as a means to a nutritional end, a practice in body love.

If only our lives were so simple. I know many women who want to follow this logic, who’d love to follow this logic, and yet food and our bodies are so fraught with anxiety and contradictory messages, that we don’t know how to start to free ourselves. We have been given few tools for fighting back against a culture that frequently diminishes our bodies, our habits of eating.

I am by no means cured from my food obsessions, and I still fight against the desire to restrict food. I fear that my diet will be restricted once I begin long term treatment for Lyme Disease, but I hope I will advocate for myself in new ways in 2018. I will not follow a doctor’s advice without doing my own research or seeking a second opinion.

I want less resolutions, less restrictions.

I want more revelation.

We cannot control what happens to us. We can only surrender.

How to Survive the Holidays as a Grieving Person


1. Our dead are gone, and they are everywhere. They are absent, ever-present, the way some people talk about God.

2. Our dead come back. Again and again. When we least expect them, they shout, “Surprise!” For example, I lost all my mother’s recipes after she died. Barely 21, I couldn’t imagine living without her, much less becoming a person with her own kitchen and recipes one day. And yet, this year, I found a Taste of Home recipe that replicates a chocolate pizza my mother served at our Hanukkah Party each year. Melted down chocolate chips form the pizza’s crust. Cheese comes from dried flaked coconut. Melted maraschino cherries serve as pepperoni. I’ve decided to serve this dessert during my family’s Hanukkah celebration this year. When I place my own chocolate pizza on the dining room table, I suspect I’ll feel like my mother has returned to me once more, a most welcome and unexpected guest.

3. Headphones. I don’t know what I would have done without them the summer after my mother died, when I moved abroad to work at a newspaper in a country I barely knew. Each day, I’d walk from the flat where I stayed in Dennistoun, to the newspaper in the Glasgow City Centre, where I worked. The Cure sang me forward. I believed every song on one particularly tortured album was written just for me. With headphones on, I tuned into myself and a pain that might instruct me, if I learned how to listen.

4. Now I use headphones to tune out the nonstop Christmas anthems that play everywhere this time of year. I cannot bear the public performance of joy. There is no right way to be happy, just as there is no right way to be sad. Our memories bring comfort, and they bring knee-deep sorrow. Headphones help me tune out the less helpful noises of this season, help me quiet the expectation that happiness comes easily to us all, that happiness isn’t the battlefield of my life.

5. A path lit by joy and sorrow runs down the center of my heart. How bright, how beautiful. How lucky I have been.

6. When I am feeling at my worst, I remember I dared to love after I lost the person I loved most in the world. I do not believe in god or heaven or clear categories of afterlife. But I believe in salvation. I believe love saved me, just as love will save you.

7. Get out of town, if you can. Take a road trip, a flight, a ride on a boat. Make new memories, memories that are yours alone to cherish. After my mother died, a friend told me, “Life goes on.” She wasn’t trying to silence my grief. And she meant what she said. My life would continue beyond the point where my mother’s life stopped. I had to stand up and walk toward her death, walk past my grief, and understand there would never be a point where I surpassed my grief. But I could walk along side this unbearable loss, make grief my companion on a journey I barely understood, a journey that is mine alone to understand.

8. I chose to travel because I was young and could sleep in a closet and live on potato chips and candy bars. So I left my mother’s house. I left my country. I met my life for the first time. I cried every day, and I ate a lot of potato chips and candy bars. I gained ten pounds. I fell in love. I grew big with wonder and joy. I started to live the life my mother wanted for herself, which became the life I chose, and the life she wanted for me.

9. I am not religious anymore. But my favorite prayer is the V’ahavta. It literally means, “and you shall love.” When I was a little girl, I used to wait for this prayer during the Shabbat service. We sang those words over and over again, “and you shall love.” They are the only commandment I’ve kept from Judaism, the only prayer I remember and return to. These ancient words remind me that loss hurts in direct proportion to how greatly we have loved.

10. Even after I gave away all her clothes and scattered her ashes in the Chesapeake Bay, my mother’s love refused to leave me. The longer I live without her, the more powerfully I feel her love. It’s there when I wake up each morning and kiss my husband. It’s there when I write, when I listen to a friend in the midst of a struggle. It’s there when I refuse to lose my shit at my horribly behaved dog or a student who needs a second chance. And you shall love. My mother’s voice rises up in my memory, as fervent as the prayer I once chanted. Dead, she is everywhere, an ineffable god.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bette Ellen’s Christmas Fudge

Ingredients:

  • 2 cups semi-sweet chocolate chips
  • 14 oz. Eagle brand sweetened condensed milk
  • 1 cup walnut halves
  • 1 tsp. vanilla extract

Directions:

  • Line an 8 or 9-inch pan with foil or waxed paper.
  • Combine chocolate chips with sweetened condensed milk in a medium, heavy duty sauce pan.
  • Warm over lowest possible heat, stirring constantly until smooth.
  • Remove from heat.
  • Stir in nuts and vanilla extract.
  • Spread evenly into prepared baking pan.
  • Refrigerate for two hours or until firm. (Overnight works best).
  • Lift from pan.
  • Remove foil/wax paper.
  • Cut into perfect squares.

Some notes: 

I cut each chocolate square precisely — no errant rectangles! — and think of how I want to find you on the front porch of your girlhood home on South Sanborn in Mitchell, or in the sepia eyes of your grandfather, who built that house and carved its staircase by hand. But I haven’t made it out to South Dakota yet. It seems so far to go, and I am afraid of what I might find, and what it means to accept you as part of me. Instead, I look for you in Nestle chocolate chips melding with Eagle brand condensed milk on my stove, as if I’m working a conjuring spell. If only I could get the recipe right, I might resurrect you. If only I could find the metaphor in the melting.

But what I’m trying to say is less about food as a window to memory, and more about the irony of what I’m doing before I fold in walnuts and a dash of vanilla. We didn’t really know each other, you and I. I can never say my grandmother stood with me beside a stove and said, “Here’s how you make fudge.” Not that this labor should have been your job. And yet I want so badly for an alternate narrative of our family to exist. I can’t stop my heart from wanting what it wants, my embarrassing hunger for clichés

So forgive me if I don’t yet have the perfect word for what I’m doing in my kitchen this morning, not so much cooking as stirring the pot.

IMG_5384
The kitchen counter where my grandmother Bette (pictured on this mug) would have made her beloved fudge. Grateful to her daughter Monica for allowing me to take this photo and sharing stories of her mother, so I might know her now.

Mother’s Day 2017

Every English doctoral program I applied to rejected me. This is not because I’m incapable of succeeding in a PhD program. I had the necessary GPA, GRE scores, writing samples, and recommendations. I had multiple publications in my discipline, well beyond what most M.A. student achieve. I did not have the right connections. I did not have the right pedigree, and these barriers were reinforced to me throughout my program discernment process.

I remember visiting Fordham University in August 2009.  That summer, my husband spent two weeks driving across the country with me, so that I could meet with faculty and students at PhD programs that caught my interest. Carl has more class privilege than I do. He knew exactly how the system worked, and he did for me what many parents do for their children. He became the champion of my college visits.

Fordham University was our last stop. There, I met a female graduate whose first question was, “Where did you go to school?”

This might seem like an innocent question, but in academia few questions of this nature are truly innocent. Unlike her, I had no Ivy League schools on my CV. I suspected her question had more to do with scoping out my pedigree than genuine interest. I’ve had so many experiences like this one in academia that I’ve stopped being generous in how I read another person’s interest in my “background.” In my head, I say the metta prayer before I respond. (May you be happy. May you be well.)

Another professor at Fordham refused to meet with me altogether. Actually, no faculty at the institution agreed to meet with me. I’m not sure why I persisted on visiting this university when it was so obviously a poor fit.

My mother was the first person who taught me I deserved to pursue my ambitions, no matter how far out they seemed. Perhaps I went to satisfy her. Perhaps I went because I have never been one to give up on myself.

The Ivy League grad student eventually determined she liked me enough to invite me to lunch at McDonalds, but I declined. The highlight of my visit was my husband showing up with donuts, then driving us out of the Bronx.

The following winter I began receiving rejection letters. The trail followed me into spring. I cried each morning when I woke up and before I went to sleep. I cried in the shower. I cried in the back room of the Writing Center where I worked. I cried on the phone to my friend Caleb, as I burned my dinner.

By May, I was so disillusioned by academia that I didn’t attend my M.A. graduation. I never received my hood. A few months later, Carl and I moved to Maryland and I found an adjunct job at a community college.

This job restored my faith in higher education. This job reconnected me to myself and to my mother. This job saved me.

***

I don’t like to think about who I would be now if I’d been accepted by even one of those PhD programs. I don’t want to think of myself as a person who actually cares about where another person has gone to school. I don’t want to be a person who confuses so-called pedigree with talent. I don’t want to be a person who confuses class privilege with ability.

I know I would not have an exceptionally rewarding teaching career in higher education had I pursued a PhD. This is because the PhD would have prepared me for a career at institutions that do not operate out of the same foundational mission of community colleges.

Community colleges offer open access to higher education for everyone. They educate people like me, people like my mother, people who have disabilities, chronic illnesses, and real financial struggles. Community colleges eliminate barriers, whereas my experience with four-year institutions has been the opposite.

A former English professor I once knew liked to talk about gatekeeping in academia. In other words, he pressured faculty to weed out students they perceived as not belonging in college.

My mother would have been one of those students who was weeded out. Her juvenile diabetes impacted her cognitive development. She was hospitalized during formative times in her secondary education. She never attended a four-year institution, and she was conditioned to believe that she was not smart enough for one.

Let me be the first person to tell you that my mother was the smartest person I have ever known. She’s been dead for 15 years, and I am still living off her wisdom. Through me, my students are still living off her wisdom too. But I’ll get to that later.

My mother attended community college after separating from my father. She failed multiple courses. She was leaving a bad marriage. She had a chronic illness and two babies at home. She had zero support. Failure, unfortunately, was the inevitable conclusion of her semester.

I am afraid she equated her failure to a lack of intelligence, not a lack of resources. I am afraid she believed she deserved to fail.

It took her ten years to go back. At this point, she was disabled from juvenile diabetes and awaiting an organ transplant. But she completed her degree. At this point, my sister and I were watching. She knew she couldn’t fail.

We didn’t attend her graduation. I don’t know if it was because she was too sick or ashamed. She certainly did not brag about attending community college, even though this decision radically transformed her life and mine.

Hers is the only degree I will ever hang in my office.

***

My teaching semester ended on Thursday. I hate goodbyes. I cried every day last week. A few times, I caught myself tearing up on the way into class and I’d have to take a sip of water to keep from losing it altogether. These were happy tears. These were exhausted tears, sad tears.

This week is always the hardest one in my professional life. It’s the week where my mother’s birthday and Mother’s Day collide. It’s the week when I have zero energy left and am running on pure adrenaline. It’s the week when an academic year reaches its natural conclusion, and goodbyes cannot be avoided.

In my creative writing class, we had readings this week. I listened to each of my students read from short stories, poems or essays they’d spent an entire semester crafting. At the end of each class, I read from my work.

I always worry about sharing my writing with students. My work is deeply vulnerable. My work reveals me as flawed, imperfect. The woman I am on the page is the woman I am in life –– and she is different.

The woman I am on the page dreams about eating her mother’s ashes. She ignores the pleas of a hungry animal because she cannot bear to be needed by anyone. She runs away from her family, her mother’s home. She runs toward her own life.

By revealing my own imperfection or vulnerability, I hope I give others permission to do the same. When I read about my mother, I bring her into my classroom in a way that’s visible. Her presence, while profound in my teaching, is often invisible to my students, the people who benefit most from the way she mothered me. In my classrooms, there are no weeds. Only flowers. My mother taught me how to see them.

***

This morning, my sixteenth Mother’s Day without my mother, I’ve awakened to streams of social media posts that I initially feared.

There are lists that begin with questions like, “How long has it been since you last called your mother?” (More than 15 years … can’t remember the sound of her voice.)

There are the mother-daughter pics. There are the mother-baby pics. There are young mother pics. There are old mother pics. I’ve yet to see a dying mother pic.

The dying mother, the dead mother, the absent mother are not celebrated on this day. Nor are the childless women, the motherless women.

Yesterday, a fellow motherless daughter announced that she’d take a break from social media today. I wish I could, but I am by nature an observer. Even as I am in pain, I am also curious about the source of that pain. I am curious about who I am as a result of this pain.

Just as I know I’d be a different person if I’d gotten into one of those doctoral programs, I know I’d be a different person if my mother hadn’t been sick, hadn’t died. I suspect I’d be a shallow person, the kind of person who might care about pedigree. I think I’d be a person the woman I am now would not like. I might be a person who is afraid of vulnerability, who sees it as a weakness.

I am glad I am a different person. I will never be glad my mother died.

This blog, which today is exactly one-year-old (happy birthday!) began on Mother’s Day 2016. It began as a place for me to document pain, to document what it means for a young woman to live without a mother, what it meant to live with a sick and disabled mother, and the thousand ways in which my dead mother has never truly left my life.

The thing about grief is that our dead stick around. They are with us even when we cannot see them, even when we wish them away. My mother is not an angel or a ghost. But she inhabits me like breath, like blood. This blog began as a way to free her and keep her close.

Thank you for reading.

Mom & Me

Sixteen Mother’s Days Without You

I don’t remember my first Mother’s Day without you. You died a month before, when cherry trees opened the season’s first blossoms. I remember unrepentant forsythia, dogwoods, and azaleas blooming along the street where you once lived. I remember standing in your living room and drawing the curtains closed. I remember I could not bear the sight of flowers or blue skies.

Surely the mundane and the beautiful could not exist in a world without you. Surely they would not go on. But they refused to disappear. I refused to stop wishing they would.

On my second Mother’s Day without you, I was 22. On this day, I graduated college.

I wore a dress I bought the day before, without you there to tell me whether the hot pink floral print was too much. I wore a matching pink lipstick. No one who looked at me that day would have thought mourner. I was good at hiding, good at pretending everything was normal. As if normalcy could exist on this day, as if normalcy could have been my aspiration.

After the ceremony, I shook Bill Clinton’s hand. (I remember nothing of his speech). Then there was a lunch with a few relatives. But I excused myself from dinner that evening. I cloistered myself in my apartment, ordered takeout. You certainly would not have approved of this behavior. The thing about grief is that it erases social graces, changes all our rules. People pleasing was the first rule I let go.

Still, I did everything I could to avoid thinking about you, which meant I thought about you constantly.

On my third Mother’s Day without you, I slept on the sofa of a woman I barely knew. I had nowhere to live & was starting a new job the next day, which that year was also your birthday. You would have been 51, but I didn’t buy a cake. No one celebrates a dead woman’s birthday. Not even me.

Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten Mother’s Days without you. I don’t remember what I did on any single one of them. Eleven, twelve, and thirteen are foggy too, like the edges of a dream.

On my fourteenth Mother’s Day without you, my husband drove me to a house that was the same shade of storm-blue paint as our first house, the one where he and I lived after we married. This house we went to see had the same street number as our first house too. Weird, I thought.

What magic were you working from beyond the grave? I had this question even though I do not believe in magic or clear categories of afterlife. I know dead means gone. I know dead means never coming back.

Our realtor met us on the porch. Five minutes in, I knew this house was our house, the one where he and I could live, the place where I hoped your grandchild would soon live with us. We already had the nursery picked out. (Top of the stairs. Looks out over the backyard.)

We moved in the same weekend as yours and my father’s wedding anniversary, which also happens to be the same weekend as my in-laws’ wedding anniversary. But I have never known my father-in-law. Like you, he died too young. Still, I am searching for a photo of him, so that I might know him better.

The week we moved in, I placed a framed photo of you on the fireplace mantel. It’s your senior yearbook photo, the one where you are smiling through open lips and your hair is ironed straight.

But I could not bring your clothes –– the ones I saved –– into the room where your grandchild (I hoped) would one day sleep. After 14 years without you, they smelled of mold and rot.

So I did what I did with all your other clothes. I stuffed them in black trash bags bound for Goodwill. Then I went into the backyard and cried. I felt scared and certain at the same time, the way I always feel when I make a hard but necessary decision.

As much as I wanted you to exist in your shoes and sweaters and skirts, I knew you lived beyond them. You lived in me, the same way I once lived in you.

On my fifteenth Mother’s Day without you, I started this blog. You don’t know what that is, and I don’t know how to explain, other than to say these words are my heart living outside my body. These words are you living beyond me.

Writing has been the closest I have come to procreating. This is not because I do not want a child, but because my body has been hostile. You know something about that. And I wish we could talk about it, but dead means silent too.

Neither mother nor daughter, I’m feeling a little uncertain as I face my sixteenth Mother’s Day without you. What stake can I claim in this day? What bouquet or card or brunch date could possibly compare with the brilliance of your life? I am a woman who has no biological or adoptive claim to a child. Do I even matter on this day?

I suspect you’d answer “yes” to that last question. Just as I suspect my sixteenth Mother’s Day without you will be like every strange and ordinary day I’ve lived since you died. Exactly 5,513 days without you now. That’s 132,312 hours, or 7,938,720 minutes, or 476,323,200 seconds without you.

I have counted them all, which is how I also know we had exactly 7,720 days together. That’s 185,280 hours, or 11,116,800 minutes, or 667,009,000 seconds of existing in this world at the exact same time.

Seems like plenty. Seems like not enough.

My sixteenth Mother’s Day without you will be my 5,517th day without you. I have chosen to mark that day not on a calendar, but here, right now, on my heart blog, which belongs to you as much as all the construction paper cards I once made, all the burnt breakfast-in-bed toasts, all the poems with simplistic A-B-C-B rhyme schemes once belonged to you.

Today, by the way, is also your birthday. I know: I get the double whammy of your birthday and Mother’s Day in the same week (sometimes the same day!) every single year.

This morning, when you would have turned 64, I have no gift. But I will say what I said on every Mother’s Day of your life as a mother, what I wish I’d said in every moment we shared, all 667,009,00 of them. I will repeat the only words we ever needed, the best ones we could say.

Thank you. I love you. Thank you. I love you.

I will say these words as if you can hear them, as if you can whisper them right back to me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not Everyone Will Like You

First grade was hard for me. We moved to a new neighborhood, and I started first grade at a new school.

I’d finished Kindergarten at a Jewish nursery school in Baltimore, and I read way above grade level. I also read on the bus, at the bus stop, and under my desk in class. When other kids played outside, I stayed inside to read.

Another girl started teasing me. She called me a bookworm and told other kids to do it too. Bookworm! Bookworm! They yelled. I cried about the whole thing to my mother.

Here’s what she told me:

“Not everyone will like you. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

She said these words simply, with no explanation. She did not tell me that these children were wrong not to like me. She did not tell me I was wrong for wanting to be liked. She simply spoke the truth as she understood it.

Not everyone will like you.

Of all the things my mother ever told me, these words are among the most important. She freed me to be myself. She freed me to not waste time winning over people who were never going to like me. She freed me from good girl conditioning that leads to the toxic trifecta of people pleasing, repression, and resentment.

Still, I didn’t learn the lesson immediately at 6. That day, I sat on her lap, while she ran her fingers through my hair. I breathed her Youth Dew. I sobbed into her dress with the floral collar.

I said, “Mommy, why won’t they like me?”

“They just won’t,” she replied.

I wanted everyone to like me. Sometimes I still do. But I also know that likeability is a trap for women. And I am coming to believe that my health depends on risking not being liked.

________

This has been a hard week for me. I had lab done work last Friday. My endocrinologist’s office left a vague voicemail message on Tuesday, asking if I could come in as soon as possible. (Don’t you love those messages?)

Short story: my TSH is increasing, even though my endo upped my dose of Levoxyl in December. My TSH has been increasing since I started Levoxyl in September. After six months, my TSH is still too high for me to safely sustain a pregnancy. My body is not responding to one of two medications I can take to treat this condition. My choices are limited because the widely prescribed meds contain ingredients like gluten and sugar that are not safe for me.

I turned 36 on February 16. My window of fertility is closing.

I received this news at work because that’s where I spend most of my time. I closed my office door. I texted some relatives and friends. A few wrote back. A few haven’t. It’s hard to hold other people’s bad news. It’s hard to face the truth that not everything works out in the end. Not every illness can be remedied.

Before class, a colleague asked me how I was doing. We were casually chatting in the bathroom. I told her the truth about the news I’d received. I said, “I know a lot of people say ‘fine’ when asked that question, but I’m not feeling ‘fine’ right now. I’m sad.”

I risked not being liked for being an oversharer. I risked her potentially saying, TMI and dismissing me. I risked her potential silence.

She said: “That’s what I love about you. You say what’s actually on your mind.”

I am so grateful to work with women who have the emotional capacity to be present to one another in times of distress. I am so grateful to work with women who do not hide who they are.

________

Last week I also spoke up about an ongoing issue at my gym.

Short story: I’ve fallen in love with Spin. (Spin is the best thing ever!), and I love my spin instructors. I am steadily increasing muscle mass while decreasing fat because they push me.

But something is happening to make me feel irritated, annoyed, and bitter in Spin. This something is this:

Class members are engaging in behaviors that gym policy doesn’t allow. They’re getting to class 15 to 20 minutes early, saving bikes with towels or other personal items, then leaving the room, sometimes entering late to mount a “claimed” bike. These behaviors appear entitled, even if that’s not their intention. These behaviors might not bother most people, but they bother me. I perceive them as unfair. I perceive them as degrading shared community space.

I needed to speak up about my feelings because repressing emotion negatively affects me. I’m also afraid it is affecting my thyroid health. This is not magical thinking. Countless studies support that stress adversely affects autoimmune conditions. My thyroid is located in my throat, the seat of my voice. I believe self-silencing damages me.

This morning, a person with the power to enforce gym policy told me that people would complain once the policy was enforced. They wouldn’t be happy. They might not like me. (Because I publically removed gym towels from a bike this morning, I will likely be known as the instigator of the policy’s enforcement.)

I said, I understand. I don’t care if people like me.          

 And I really meant it. I truly did not care. This doesn’t mean I’m not a compassionate or empathetic person. I care deeply about other people’s thoughts and feelings. But I can hold my own truths alongside those of others, even when our truths contradict. I know disagreement does not necessarily equate with delegitimization.

My mother’s words, spoken so long ago I barely remember them, came back to me this morning, as I left Spin. I thought of how her voice, which I can no longer remember, still instructs me, still shapes and forms me.

Not everyone will like you. There’s nothing you can do about it, I thought, as I walked to my car, buoyed by relief, feeling pressure in my chest dissolve. Feeling free.

January 2017

My mother got sick in January. A week after New Year’s Eve, she laid down on our living room floor and couldn’t move. She thought she had the flu. In truth, her transplanted kidney was rejecting, seven years after her experimental transplant.

That New Year’s Eve, I’d gone to a club in Baltimore with friends. I wore a silk top and sparkly earrings. When I went downstairs to kiss my mother goodbye, she said, You are so beautiful.

 Since she died, no one has ever said those exact words to me.

Her last January wasn’t cold. My mother bought me a black pea coat at an Annie Sez on Reisterstown Road. I wore it all winter, through April, when she died. I wore it to her funeral, to the pool the first time I left the house after the funeral, to the grief counselor I saw in those early weeks when I thought grief was something I could work through, then overcome with enough effort. Like turning a C- in Algebra into an A. I wanted an A+ in grief management.

I still have the pea coat. I can’t remember the last time I wore it.

______ 

Twelve years after my mother died, I posted her photo on Facebook.

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It’s a photo that startles some people. We look so much alike.

I wrote, “My beautiful mother died twelve years ago today. She left me her courage, her hope, and her heart.”

A woman I don’t know well wrote that I’d made my mother proud. Then she wrote that I needed to move on.

“There is no moving on,” I wrote back. “There is memory. There is grief. There is love.” But she didn’t respond.

A woman I worked with at the time told me she thought I’d handled the comment well. I agreed.

I didn’t tell her how sad I’d felt when I’d read the woman’s words. How they hit me like icy rain. How I felt like I was getting an F in grief.

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This week, I was walking the windy alley between my garage and house, and I had this thought: In April, my mother will have been dead 15 years. Then I had this thought: By the time I have a baby, she could be dead for 16 years. Or 17.

I have these thoughts even though I meditate, practice Yoga, have a job I love, a house in a great neighborhood, a husband who is devoted to me. I am not ashamed of these thoughts. My mother has been dead for nearly 15 years, and I think of her each day.

She has never seen my college diploma. She has never met my husband. She has never held her grandchildren or known me as professional woman.

I have held all of her grandchildren within hours of their births.

My mother has been dead for nearly 15 years, and I have not moved on.

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I had a cold this week. On New Year’s Eve, I crammed onto our couch with Carl, our two rescue dogs, and my mother-in-law. One dog rested on my lap, the other nuzzled my shoulder. My mother-in-law cross-stitched, while Carl and I watched “Bunheads.” I texted with my friend Anne, then went to bed a little after 9 p.m. I am still not feeling well.

Each morning, Carl asks if I’m feeling better. I have felt pressured to feel better, even when I’m feeling pretty awful. So I say, “Yes,” because I don’t like disappointing people. Also, I want to be optimistic.

I say, “Yes” even though I spent all of Thursday in bed and keep waking at 4 a.m. because my throat hurts and I can’t lay still any longer.

Still, I rallied on Friday. I washed my hands for two minutes. Then I made carrot-ginger soup, and latkes from scratch. I made crab cakes for my mother-in-law. We had a beautiful dinner. So far, no one else has gotten sick.

My mother taught me how to get out of bed, no matter what. She taught me how to get dressed, put on makeup, and go out, even if I felt unwell.

She wore mascara each day of her life. Even on her last day. She never left the house without blush or lipstick.

I wore mascara when I made latkes on Friday. No lipstick.

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I will spend part of January in Arizona. I will visit the Sonoran Desert, one of my favorite places on earth. I will visit my grandmother’s grave. I will wear a red dress I bought in New Orleans and dance at a wedding.

I first visited the Sonoran Desert in 2006. I stayed at a monastery. It was the first time I’d ever seen saguaros, and I photographed them obsessively.

I only stayed a few days. I was not a good monastic. I broke rules. I snuck Carl into my room, then junk food and fashion magazines. I wanted to be outside, in the desert, not silenced by prayer.

In my room, staring out at saguaros, I wrote in a journal I’d given my mother. She’d never written a single word.

I minored in creative writing in college, and used to write short stories. I wrote one short story the year after my mother died, then stopped. I’d begin another short story, but could never finish. It was as if all the words that lived inside of me died with her.

Yet, in the desert, the words came back. And I kept writing after I came home. I filled composition journals, spiral notebooks, and steno pads. I wrote on napkins and index cards. Only this time, I wasn’t writing fiction. I was writing about her and me. I couldn’t stop. Why would I? When I wrote about my mother, I brought her back to life.

My New Year’s resolution in 2016 was to write every day, and I did. I published more essays about my mother, and I started this blog on Mother’s Day.

I plan to keep writing every day in 2017. It’s the only way I can fully honor my mother’s legacy and all she gave me. Thank you for reading.