Mother's Day - Year Two

I don't have anything eloquent planned to say. I was reading old posts I wrote last year, and came across my first Mother's Day post. I wrote (among other things), "I keep telling myself it’s just a day.  But it’s the first.  And maybe next year, it’ll feel more like a day, but this year, it just feels like a huge hole in my chest."

Well, I can say that was naively optimistic of me because year two still feels like a hole in my chest. I always thought I would spend these "holidays" crying, the entire day (dramatic, I know). What I've learned is that it's not necessarily the day that hits you hard; it's the moments leading up to where you don't expect it that do. And, in year two, there's still nothing to say that makes it go away or hurt less. (Will there ever be? Spoiler alert: No). But there are moments when people say things that just ever so slightly soften the pain, albeit temporarily. This past week, my dear friend wrote me a beautiful card and said, "I'm not your Mom, but I am a Mom and I pray my girls grow up to be like you". My other friend, who also lost her Mom, said, "I love the Cait that I know — strong, smart, outspoken. We get that from someone, and that's our Mom, and she sounds like she was an amazing person"— moments like that. —

Jealousy is such a weird thing. Weird — I used that word a lot last year, too. It's year two, and I can tell you I'm still jealous of people who get to have their moms. I'm still jealous when I see the name "Mom" pop up on someone's phone, whether it's a text or a call. I'm still jealous when I see mothers and daughters out together, having a day to themselves like my mom and I did before she got sick. I don't want to be jealous, and maybe jealous isn't the right word because while I'm filled with sadness, missing my own Mom, I smile watching these moments happen, knowing what they felt like when it was me and my Mom, and how special they were.

This morning, on my run (shh, we're not talking about THAT yet), I was asking for a sign. Like, literally, I said out loud, "Please send me anything so I know you’re here with me. I miss you so much". But nothing happened. What the f&ck, Mom? Susie & Martin's Dad sends them signs all the time, and I promise this isn’t me being jealous of that, but I wouldn’t put it past my Mom not wanting to cooperate in the spiritual ghost side of things. Anyway, I’m running — I’m looking for anything from her. A dragonfly. (Is it too early for them?) Fine, I’ll take one on a garden sign, a flag hanging by a mailbox, something. No dragonflies, but as I'm searching, “I Am Easy to Find” by the National comes on and brings me to tears, specifically the line "You'll see me standing in the sunlight/ In the middle of the street, “ which then made me remember my dream last night. In my dream, she wasn't sick anymore, and we brought her home from the hospital. (She never went to the hospital in real life.) We were in the car together, my dad driving, and heading to the beach. We crossed a bridge, and my dad took out his phone to snap a picture of her, smiling as the sun hit her face. We arrived at the beach, and all of our family was there. She got to meet one of my dogs, Blossom. I woke up instantly, unsure how to feel. A mix of emotions because I don't dream about her a lot, so this felt like some sign. Sad, of course, but also happy. The sun shining on her face, tilting her head back, eyes closed, smiling with crinkles in her eyes. I probably have a picture of this somewhere, but it doesn’t matter because I can remember all the times I experienced her like this. At the beach. At my sister's pool. Outside my childhood home.

I then realized this visit, in my dream, with the warm sunshine on my face during my run, was a sign from her in itself and was the perfect way for her to spend her Mother’s Day in Heaven.

Happy Heavenly Mother's Day, Mom. On earth, I got our favorite appetizer, lots of sushi, and raised a glass of white wine in your honor (remember, it tastes better with you). I miss you, I love you.