At my grandmother’s repast, someone with a camera snapped a picture of me that perfectly captured the face of grief. Over the years I have worn that visage many times.
Today is the one year anniversary of my mother’s death.
Today marks three months for my husband, too.
I miss them so very much!
My first encounter with men and grief was at my grandmother’s funeral. My uncle, an imposing figure sheathed in dark sunglasses sat solemnly. I could hardly contain myself and screamed like a banshee periodically throughout the service. That was until my uncle slowly turned to me and said No more outbursts in a slightly menancing tone. I knew he had had his own private spell the night before as I overhead his wife telling my mother and her sisters all about it. I cried silently for the remainder of the service.
Over the years I’ve observed the males in my family and the way they handle grief. Some avoid funerals. My cousin did not attend my mother’s and when I inquired why, he shrugged and said I can’t do it–too many in this family. Other cousins missed funerals I guess for the same reason.
At the hospital when I talked to my siblings about the severity of our mother’s illness, my brother (Jazmine’s father) immediatedly asked that someone take him to the store. By the time they returned to the hospital, my mother had died. His responded to the news by walking the halls taking long swigs from a fifth of gin.
The night my husband died three of his very closest childhood friends met me at the hospital. I knew there would be tears but I was surprised by the depth of emotions emanating from them. All I could hear were loud, heaving sobs coming from the trio. One of my coworkers who attended the funeral said that she was astounded at how many of my husband’s friends were openly crying. That’s what broke me down; seeing all those young guys crying like that she said to me days later. I’ve never seen anything like it.
So why is it uncomforatble for his friends and male family members to hear me grieve? They call and check on me and stop by on occassion. But I can tell they can’t handle the tears. They don’t know what to say to me. Last night his friend Corey called but I didn’t bother to answer the phone. I don’t want to pretend that I am okay to spare anybody’s feelings. Why they would even think I am okay puzzles me. I want to scream to them all–NO, I AM NOT OKAY–SO STOP ASKING! IF YOU CAN’T HANDLE ME NOT BEING OKAY, THEN DON”T CALL TO SEE IF I AM OKAY! But I know that they mean well and I appreciate that they are even checking on me at all…
My SIL texted me last night to see how we’ve been getting along. She said she was doing okay. I replied that I was glad she was because I wasn’t and I let her know how I was REALLY doing. She seemed relieved and responded that she wasn’t doing well either, but she didn’t want to upset me. I feel more comfortable sharing my true feelings with the women that I am close with because they can handle it.
I know males are reared in a society in which they are often told that men don’t cry. This has always been silly to me because most beings with tear ducts cry. Crying is cleansing. It is a way to purge the soul of toxins such as sadness.
While I try not to cry too much in front of my son, I do let him know that it is okay to cry and that some things are worth crying for.
Today I took my kids on a field trip to see Bodies…the Exhibition. They really enjoyed it and were quite intrigued by the wonderous complexity of the human body. My students (of course) were eager to see the sex organs!
I, on the otherhand, was very interested in viewing the heart gallery. But looking at the display of arteries strongly reminded me of my husband, so much in fact that I could not bear to look at the one aptly called the widow maker. I hate that terminology!
Today, it has been two months.
Rejoice with those who rejoice, and weep with those who weep..For none of us lives to himself…
Romans 12:15,14:7
As death is apart of the life cycle, it is bound to happen. This is the one fate we all have in common. I’m sure many of you have been in the seat of mourner. During my period of mourning I have had some great support. Death leaves a bitter taste in everyone’s mouth. Sometimes you don’t know what you can do to help the person through their period of sadness and loss. Here are a few things that I think are helpful to consider when helping those you are close to are grieving:
I don’t think most mental health professionals support compartmentalizing emotions. However, as a way to get through the day, I pull out my “griefcase.” I am constantly in and out of it to examine and understand the following contents:
Coach should add the “griefcase” to their line-up–they would sell well!
I feel like we have been abandoned, me, Nicholas, and Jazmine that is.
The very same day of my husband’s death from a heart attack, Eliza’s brother came knocking. I saw him approaching the walkway and became anxious. His arrival portended evil. He was his usual pompus, surly self. Luckily my aunt and cousin were home with us so I didn’t have to face him alone.
When my aunt answered the door he demanded to speak with me. She informed him that I was not feeling up to seeing any visitors so he asked to speak to my husband. She told him that my husband was not available. He then asked if he had passed–not your logical follow-up question. My aunt acknowledged that he did in which he replied, “When he die, a month ago? Did he committ suicide?”
I was stung by his indecency and began screaming and crying for him to leave. He yelled that Ethan was his blood and that he carried his last name (he doesn’t). My cousin ushered him away from the door. I grabbed the phone and called the police. I wanted him away from our house ASAP.
When the police arrived he stood outside attempting to manipulate them into believing that he was only there to console his nephew. He claimed he had no idea that my husband had died. Two big, burly guys joined his side. The police didn’t buy his story especially after eyeing his bouncers and wrote up a trespassing report. They also put extra patrol in our neighborhood. The rest of the night him and his sister called without ceasing. She left many ridiculous messages stating that she only wanted her nephew because I was not “family.” Wow and ouch was all I could think. Just a stepmom…
I also received calls from Eliza’s aunt and cousin, who both said that they felt the boys rightfully belonged with me as did the rest of their family. I asked why the aunt and uncle were behaving like vultures. Her cousin replied that they probably wanted the money that the boys would draw from his death. This thought never occurred to me. The aunt also felt that they were probably carrying out Eliza’s wishes–another troubling thought. How could Eliza not know how well I cared for the boys?
Monday morning I called the court and informed them of our situation. The clerk expressed her sympathy and told me that she would do all she could to help keep the kids with me. She felt that the judge would not want to move them anyhow. The clerk also told me to quickly file a document with my intentions. I had an appointment with the funeral home so I figured I had time to go on Tuesday. How wrong was I!
Later that evening I got a call from the residential facility saying that Evan’s aunt and uncle were on their way to discharge him from the hospital. According to the director, they had valid court papers. They had went to a probate court judge and was issued an emergency order. I was dumbfounded, especially considering that our particular case was only to be heard by one judge because he was so familiar with it. When I broke the news to Evan on Sunday, he was so broken that it was obvious that he was in no condition to leave at such a crucial time. Evan had asked me to take him home immediatedly, but I was able to convince him to wait until they adjusted his medicine. I promised that I would pick him up in two weeks.
I called their uncle and pleaded with him not to take him out because he was not at all stable. He finally relented. A few hours later he called so that Evan could speak to Ethan. He lied and had discharged him despite my pleadings! He then demanded that I hand over his other nephew at almost 12am. Again, I begged him to wait for a decent hour. He hung up on me. A few hours later I heard a lot of banging on the door and saw bright lights shining into the house. I became very afraid and called the police. The operator checked to see if it was the police and determined that it was.
When I opened the door I recognized one of the officers who had been to our house frequently for runs regarding Eliza. He greeted me and showed me the paperwork. He seemed bothered that he had to do this particular task. I had Ethan come out of his bedroom and he looked very scared. They walked him down to his new guardians.
I considered fighting them in court, but decided against it. The probate judge who issued the order died two days after signing the paperwork. I have been threatened so much that my family and I determined that for our safety I should not. Their uncle told my SIL that bad things would happen to me if I tried to fight for the kids. And I know that my husband would not want me living under such fear and pressure.
It was and still is a difficult decision that I have yet to come to terms with. I really wanted them here with us.
Two days after the funeral their uncle had the nerve to call and offer his condolences because he said he “liked me!” Once again I became undone as I heatedly inquired why the boys were not allowed to attend their father’s service. He offered a few lame excuses and I hung up midway through his glib speech.
I have not heard from the boys or Eliza. I suspect that they may be in another state with their aunt.
It’s been a long, hard, mournful month. Jazmine constantly asks about my husband. Nicholas has kept pretty quiet. I don’t think any of us understand, but I do know that we sorely and surely miss all three.
Since this blog is about being a stepparent, it is only fitting that I share my experience as a stepchild.
When my stepfather George was discharged from the hospital after spending many months convalescing from the effects of diabetes and Parkinson’s disease; I didn’t hesitate to bring him home with us. He informed me that he couldn’t bear to return to an empty house and that was all I needed to hear. He had not been home since my mother died. Even though we already have a full house it didn’t matter. He did not cease being my stepfather at the moment of my mother’s death.
I was 18 years old when my mother and George first began dating. I was not too impressed. Whereas my mother was quiet and intellectual, he was animated and overly opinionated. They were like night and day both literally and figuratively. He was a pair of oft worn acid washed jeans. She was an expensive ball gown made of the most exquisite fabric. In short his very being was offensive to me. I could not see for the life of me what she saw in him. I did not like how their opposites attracted.
George was so very different from any other person I had ever known. He was the black sheep in his family and it was obvious to me why. In fact, when it was time to write a paper in my Multicultural Education class about a person who was culturally different than ourselves, I chose George. I presented my mother and him with a copy of my A+ paper and he was near tears—simply honored at being the subject.
By the time I graduated from college they were planning to get married. I was horrified that she was making him a permanent fixture in my life. I didn’t talk to my mother for several months when I learned of their upcoming nuptials. I felt betrayed by her choice in a mate. She owed it to me to make me happy—not herself and definitely not him! Closer to the date I cried incessantly for days and had to force myself to attend the wedding. I was petulant during the ceremony. I praised God that at least I didn’t have to live under their roof. And it annoyed me that for the most part my siblings loved him. Even my extended family was fond of him. They seemed to admire his maverick attitude. I seriously wondered if George had worked some type of voodoo magic on my entire family and rendered them blind, for they did not see him as I did. Apparently I was the only one of sound mind left.
When I was eight months pregnant with Nicholas he and my mother stopped by our house for a visit. My husband was at work and I was pretty bored. George invited me to join them at the county fair. Initially I declined because I was pregnant. Truthfully I was afraid that he would embarass me. George quickly pointed out that I didn’t have to get on any rides. One by one he knocked down my excuses until I found myself walking around the fairgrounds having a wonderful time with the two of them. I began to see what she saw in him.
Slowly, very slowly over the years he began to grow on me. George was no doubt quirky and at times too boisterous for my liking, but he was simply being the best George he knew how to be. He is a true case of what you see is what you get. Soon I started to notice his finer qualities. He was very kind to all—whether it was family or perfect strangers. He was unabashedly generous and hospitable. He loved to see us and others happy. He was a hard worker and a good provider. He had many friends and was even on excellent terms with his ex-wife’s family.
I would have never believed there could be a day under the sun when I would actually like him. But the day did come quite some time ago when I made the decision to focus on his good qualities and ignore the bad ones. And I realized it spoke volumes that my mother thought so well of him.
Recently while going through my mother’s possessions, I came across a card I had written her long ago lamenting my dislike of George. I was instantly ashamed and appalled by my shallowness. My sweet mother had to endure my superior, snotty opinion. She allowed me to have my feelings about what I deemed to be a poor choice for her life. If I could tell her how I am sorry I am now for my condscending attitude, I would.
He has only been at our home for a couple of weeks now and will probably not stay longer than a few months. Nicholas was gracious enough to give his Grandpa his room while he is here. I watch him from time to time and I see traces of sadness that he valiantly tries to hide. At night I can’t sleep. I can’t help but to cry at the pain I know he is feeling. In a frenzy to keep his memories at bay I work hard to keep him entertained. I’ve even enlisted my husband to help. He takes George whereever he goes to get him out of the house. The rest of my family visits frequently to help cheer him up. On Saturday my aunt even hosted a bar-b-que for his birthday. This display of love has truly overwhelmed him.
I don’t have to imagine how much he misses her. It is a sorrow too dark and deep for speaking. It is like someone has taken a hammer to my ceramic heart and smashed it into a million little pieces. It feels unnatural to have my stepfather without my mother—it’s like swimming in an ocean without water.
But yesterday I understood that I couldn’t keep trying to hold his memories hostage. It is too exhausting. After dinner I stood at the sink washing dishes as he sat at the table looking drawn and pensive. Usually I would have talked a mile a minute to remove the sadness lining his face. Instead I took a break from the dishes and asked him if he would be interested in seeing the things I was collecting for my mother’s scrapbook. He was eager to see it and I left him alone with the box of memories. When I returned to the kitchen, he was not at the table. George was in the garage having a moment. I felt bad and regretted my suggestion. But when he returned to the table he commented on each artifact and said he couldn’t wait to see it arranged in scrapbook form.
Not wanting to end on sad note, I asked him if he felt like looking through the photo albums. It was my way reminding him of the good times that we shared with her. I wanted to balance her death with life. We laughed as we sat reminscing on days past. Through this I felt a bit of light penetrating the darkness of our days-the light of my mother’s smile.
Mother’s Day will be different for me this year. It will be my first Mother’s Day as a motherless daughter. As of February 8, 2008, I have no mother to acknowledge and celebrate. Hallmark will not let me forget this fact either. I automatically dodge the card aisle upon entering any store. A short while ago I remember seeing the displays much to my surprise. I had forgotten that May was the month reserved for mothers. And it’s not that I place much stock in this commercialized, contrived holiday, because for me, every day was mother’s day. I always looked at this day as a brilliant marketing strategy on behalf of greeting card companies and floral shops worldwide. But nevertheless, it was nice to actually have a mother on this day.
Losing a mother makes one introspective and sensitive. So much in fact that it has propelled me to examine this day from all angles—from Eliza’s to Ethan and Evan’s.
A simple expression of Happy Mother’s Day from Ethan and Evan has always sufficed for me because while I am not their mother, I a mother. I never expected anything more than this, not even a card. But this was even hard for them to do. Last year on our first Mother’s Day together, my husband inquired if they had told me, and they admitted that they had not. They “forgot.” My feelings were hurt slightly but I quickly recovered. As always, our son Nicholas was there to celebrate me with his beautifully handcrafted AND store bought cards, poems, and frequent reminders throughout the day of what a great mom I was. One day while at Wal-Greens’s he had even selected the aforementioned card without my assistance and casually asked me to pay for it!
But this year…I think I understand how they were feeling. It too was their first Mother’s Day without Eliza. They probably just wanted to spend this day in the company of their own mom expressing the sentiment to her; just as I would like to do with my own. No ommy, substitute mommy, guest mom, or second mom will do. I want my mommy. As children I can only imagine how they feel; and Eliza, too.
So this year on Mother’s Day, I will be working on a scrapbook in memory of my mother. We have already started making some things for Eliza. While Ethan, Evan, or I can’t be with our moms in the physical sense, we can at least be with them in spirit. Happy Mother’s Day to all!
Morocco's Bazaar 
