I couldn’t tell you if my early memories of my mother are
actual memories or if they are the made-up kind of memories you get from
pictures and stories you have been told throughout your life. I’ve spent a few days trying to recall my
earliest memory of mom and I haven’t been able to pin-point the real, actual,
pulled from the compartments of my brain memory.
My mom told me the story of my birth, but not all of
it. She said that she had a doctor’s
appointment on September 26th so she took the bus into town. The doctor told her to go home and pack her
bags because she was having a baby that day, so she did. I don’t remember if she ever told me who took
her to the hospital because apparently my 17-year-old dad was in math class so
he didn’t take her. What were these
children doing having a baby? There must have been so much fear surrounding my
entry into this world. I was born at 3
minutes till midnight. My due date was
September 27th. My mother
always said that is why I am always early for everything. Of course, this isn’t the real memory I am
searching for.
The next memory I have is also a story. Mom told me that once, when I was an infant,
she fell asleep while I was laying on her stomach. She rolled over and I rolled off her, off the
bed, and onto the floor. I was unharmed
(children are so resilient) but I don’t think mom ever got over it. When I turned 1, mom couldn’t afford to buy
me a cake until 3 days after my birthday when she got paid. She also never got over that.
When I was a toddler, my mom was making pizza and put the
pizza sauce can in the garbage, with the can lid still attached like can lids
do when you use the can opener and don’t cut the lid completely off. I wanted to help, so I took the can out of
the trash and tried to open it using my pinky finger. I
screamed, my mom screamed and carried me to the next-door neighbor’s house in a
panic. I had to have the can removed at
the hospital, I almost lost the tip of my pinky finger. I still have the scar.
Did my mom ever tell me happy stories? Or is it that I only remember the scary and
sad ones? Still, no actual memories.
When I was two, we lived in Germany and I “remember” these
huge (huge to a 2-year-old) throw pillows on the floor in the living room. They were there for me to sit on and watch
cartoons, or eat my breakfast, and sometimes I would take naps on them. I’m not sure why I associate that memory with
my mother, she isn’t even a part of the memory, but I do, probably because it’s
not an actual memory but another one that she told me growing up.
I think my first actual memory of my mom was when I was
about 5 or 6 years old. That seems like
a long time to live before having memories.
I had pretty, long blonde hair as a child (I know, strange). She took me to the salon to get my hair cut
and the stylist told her that I had lice.
Mom was mortified. She took me home and washed my hair with lice shampoo
then she combed through all my long hair with that stupid lice comb and it hurt
so badly. A few weeks later, I fell
asleep with gum in my mouth and she had to cut all my hair off anyway. I remember thinking that was ironic and I
didn’t even know what that meant. She was devastated – my mother always loved
my hair, I think it was the thing she was most proud of as if it were an
accomplishment on her part.
My parents had a little collection of records. I was fascinated with them. My favorite 2 were Dire Straits and Air
Supply. I would make up little dances
and when my mom’s friends would come over, everyone had to sit down and watch
my “performance.” Once, I turned on “The walk of life” by Dire Straits and I
started walking across the living room with my hands out, fingers stretched,
shaking them like tamborines. THIS was my impression of “the walk of
life.” From that day on, this was mine
and my mother’s song. Whenever it came
on, we would shake our hands and mimic walking across the room. This has ALWAYS been one of my very favorite
memories.
A few weeks before she died, we were laying in her bed
talking. She made a comment about how
her 14-year-old cat had managed to stay alive for her and how the cat might
actually outlive her. I said, “Mommy, do
you think you will die soon?” “I don’t know,” she said. “Are you scared?” I managed to get out as my
throat swelled and I felt the sharp headache that you get when you fight back
tears with all of your might. “No, I’m not scared. Are you?”
I couldn’t hold the tears back any longer. I laid in her arms and cried, “Yes.”
She held me while she fumbled with her phone, I knew what
she was doing. Sure enough, her phone
started playing..
“Here comes
Johnny singing oldies, goldies
Bebop, a lua
baby, what I say…”
This song actually makes no sense. Kind of like the way I feel about life right
now. However, there is this nugget at
the end that makes the whole song worth it and I believe it is what my mother
was trying to tell me that day:
“And after
all the violence and the double talk
There’s just
a song in all the trouble and the strife
You do the
walk, yeah, you do the walk of life
You do the
walk of life.”
Life is
hard. Sometimes, unbearable. I spent the years I had with my mommy laughing
(and crying) and singing a song that was ultimately about how it would all
end. Through it all, you just keep doing
this walk called life. It’s beautiful,
and fun, and ridiculous, and ironic, and scary.
It also makes absolutely no sense, but you walk anyway. That’s what she
was trying to say.
She didn’t
know what she was doing on September 26, 1979 … and she probably didn’t feel
like she knew what she was doing on July 28, 2017 … but she walked, and that’s what
she wanted me to do.
