We knew it was coming, but, still, it felt like a punch to the gut…or rather, the uterus. I had a hard time concentrating after learning about SCOTUS’s official decision to strike down Roe vs. Wade when I glanced at the push-notification that popped up on my phone while I was working. Working from home meant that I could let the tears flow between answering calls. Some of the calls were for scheduling initial ultrasounds for newly pregnant women. It made me wonder if it they were happy or, now, terrified. When I wasn’t sobbing or choking back tears when a call came in, I seethed with rage. How can this small group of people…and I mean REALLY small…like five people out of millions of Americans…decide that women don’t have autonomy over their own body and lives? Only one of those five people even has a uterus. How did this happen? Did we have the worst head cold in the history of head colds over the past decade when we started to get the merest whiff of what ultra-conservatives were cooking up? Didn’t we smell the full bouquet of the nauseating stench when it finally reached a full boil in the past six years?

And what’s next? If Clarence Thomas gets his way, women won’t even be able to prevent pregnancy with birth control. I can’t get pregnant anymore, so you might say I don’t have any “skin in the reproductive game,” so to speak, but it’s so much more than having babies or not having babies. It’s about who has rights and who does not. SCOTUS has now established that women do not have the right to make decisions about their own body. We still have the right to vote though, right? Weeeeell, not so much for black and brown women. Okay, okay, okay. They can vote, but it’s not quite easy breezy for some of them or their male counterparts in some states. Who has the right to marry the person they love? Not everyone, according to Justice Thomas. Is deciding who you have sex with your decision? Maybe not. Maybe SCOTUS gets to hide in your bedroom closet and pop out when you violate their interpretation of what is right. Or maybe they just “like to watch.” Who knows?

The ripples of today’s decision will lap off into the distance where the water meets the sky. In some states, if you have a miscarriage, it might be investigated as a crime. Was it a miscarriage or a “miscarriage?” “Did you make yourself lose that baby, Becky? Tell us the truth!” I’ve never had a miscarriage, but I worked in an OB/Gyn office at one time. I remember the faces of some of the women who suffered that fate. It was the face of abject trauma. SCOTUS has left those women open to being retraumatized by law enforcement questioning them about whether they lost that pregnancy “on purpose” or not. What about if you want to have a baby but your body doesn’t want to cooperate? Yup. IVF is likely to be threatened by this ruling, as well.

See. It’s not about “saving babies.” If it was about “saving babies,” there would be free prenatal care, and giving birth wouldn’t cost a penny for any woman. If it was about “saving babies,” there would be funding to assure adequate nutrition and medical care for mother and babies. There would be universal childcare and pre-school. What it’s really about is power…and politics.

Chances are, you love someone whose rights SCOTUS wants to take away. I have daughters. One of them might want to marry someone SCOTUS thinks she shouldn’t. As much as I’d love to be a grandma, I don’t want either of my daughters to have a child if she doesn’t want to. As the mother of a child that was the product of an interracial marriage, I guess I should be grateful that Loving vs. Virginia – the law that allowed interracial marriage – is likely to stand…as long as Clarence Thomas’ tiny shriveled heart beats within his chest and keeps him alive (he’s black and his wife is white). He’s a hypocrite.

The 14th Amendment allowed Clarence Thomas to marry the person he loved, and, yet, he couldn’t find, within that very same statute, the provision to give women authority over their own body. It reads, “No state shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any state deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.”

Late Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg is someone I hold in absolute reverence. I know she’s looking down and imploring us to fight. I have a tiny “action figure” of her on the shelf above my desk. Through my tears today, I kept looking at the tiny figurine of my larger-than-life heroine. I felt her. She consoled me. But she reminded me, too. Fierce is a state of mind. In spite of her small stature, this woman was the definition of fierce. She struck fear into the heart of the likes of Mitch McConnell and Lindsay Graham and those of their ilk. It wasn’t until her passing that they could advance their agenda. So, friends, she speaks to us…from beyond. She speaks to us…along with the voices of all those that fought for the rights of the downtrodden – Susan B. Anthony, Carrie Stanton, Sandra Day O’Connor, MLK, Malcolm X, Frederick Douglass, John Lewis, Harvey Milk, Marsha Johnson. With one voice, they tell us. VOTE!!! Use your hard won right at every possible opportunity. VOTE!!! We can create the world they envisioned, if we wake up and vote. Drown those motherfuckers in the woke-est tidal wave they never saw coming!!!

The winery’s tasting room was almost empty. It was early, and we had time to kill before our dinner reservations. We decided to hit up a different spot before this one, so I was already one Pino in and happy as a clam. We sat across from a mother, daughter, and the daughter’s toddler-aged child. The little girl caught sight of us. She waved with what seemed like her entire body and shouted, “Hi!” We waved back. We heard the women call her Katherine. Katherine’s mom was enjoying a glass of wine. I will confess. Whenever I see adults at a winery with kids in tow, I feel a bit “Karenish” and judgmental. I never say anything…because I have manners, but I can’t help but have some thoughts. First, I feel sorry for the kids. Like, what a boring place for them. And then I can’t help but think about who’s gonna be driving the clan around in the Lexus LX after Mom pounds a couple of Chardies and Dad downs a pint or two of hard cider. I didn’t have those thoughts about Katherine’s mom and grandmother, though. Nana had her soda, and Katherine was having the time of her three-year-old life. All three were noshing on tapenade served in a bowl on a colorful platter with an array of crackers and flatbread fanned out around it. After observing Katherine for a while, I came to feel that perhaps Mom’s glass of wine might be pretty well-deserved. This child was spunky.

A tiny discarded pair of tan suede Ugg boots lay under the table. Katherine’s naked toes dangled above them. Mom persuaded her to try some of the tapenade on a torn-off corner of flatbread. Her expression was priceless. You could tell she thought it was tasty. She grabbed the serving spoon and, with great gusto, plunged it deeply into the bowl. Pulling out a heaping spoonful, she stuffed the whole thing into her mouth. My husband and I laughed out loud as we nibbled our warm pretzel bites and cheese sauce. Mom and Nana looked embarrassed. “Katherine!” mom exclaimed. “She’s adorable,” I reassuringly called out. She thanked me and explained she was heading to a night out. Her mother was taking Katherine from there. I was happy for her. Mom looked like she deserved a child-free night.

When Katherine had had her fill of tapenade, she hopped down from the table and began to bear crawl on all fours across the polished concrete floor. She would stand briefly, from time to time, to hoist the waistband of her striped leggings up over her adorably squishy-looking belly. I watched, mesmerized. Her unspoiled authenticity struck me. She was free and joyously unencumbered by others’ judgment. From her sweet little bare feet and saggy leggings to her tapenade smeared face and cockeyed ponytails, she was unapologetically herself. It made me wonder.

We finished our drinks and appetizer and left our new friends eating, drinking, laughing …and bear crawling. I found myself lost in thought as I gazed out of the passenger side window on our drive to the restaurant. Katherine reminded me of a version of myself I’ve long since lost. Events and circumstances caused it. I’ve written about it before. Abuse. Bullying. Physical and emotional abandonment. Death. I guess…life. All of these things were part-and-parcel to the beat-down of a Katherine-like version of me. I think many women…maybe most women…experience the same thing. From an early age, we’re made to feel like our authentic self is not the best version. We invest time, money, tears, and heartache into striving for a “better” one. We set unrealistic, unattainable goals. We starve ourselves. We neglect ourselves. We mistreat ourselves, and we let others mistreat us. We secretly…or sometimes not so secretly, hate ourselves. We stare into the mirror and look straight past our value. Some of us spend a lifetime pursuing the illusion of what we think we should be.

Watching Katherine made me wonder when exactly this perverse phenomenon might begin and how. Is it plucked from us by others, perhaps those closest to us and whom we most trust? Is it extracted from us by the pressures of life events? Does society somehow grind down our “sharp edges” to make us smooth and submissive and easier to deal with? Or do we relinquish it willingly, persuaded by the world that we must. As usual, song lyrics are clamoring inside my head.

"You're not the type to give yourself enough love. She lives her life hand in a tight glove. I wish that I could fix it, I could fix it for you..."

from Follow You by Imagine Dragons

I have to choke back tears every time I hear this song. It’s written from the perspective of someone who cares about a person that struggles with self-love and self-acceptance. Watching her struggle is painful and confusing to the storyteller. He wishes she could find the path to loving herself and vows to stand by her side on that journey.  “I will follow you way down, wherever you may go. I’ll follow you way down to your deepest low. I’ll always be around wherever life takes you.” Truth be told, that road leads within, and while those we love can “be there” for us, it’s a path we must walk alone. It’s the path that leads to our “Katherine” or, perhaps more accurately, back to her.

We drove toward town and along the bay. Our reservations were at a favorite restaurant that was once the haunt of another famously authentic individual – Ernest Hemingway. They only display a couple of pieces of Hemingway paraphernalia, and fittingly, there’s a drink on the menu that bears his name. It’s a tasteful and subtle nod. Once seated, I looked around the room and thought of him. I imagined him smoking and drinking while holding court amidst the dark wood and dim lighting. He was honest, raw, and unapologetic bordering on offensive, but like Katherine, he was entirely himself. Of course, he was a man, so that’s not saying a lot. I’m not sure many women of my generation, by and large, will ever get to feel the glory of that kind of self-empowerment. Some will. Some have. Still, we have daughters. We have sons who will grow up to be men that have women in their lives. God, grant us the will and the wisdom to raise daughters who are Hemingways. Let us bring up women that are Titans true to themselves and beholden to no one. Let us show them that they never have to twist and contort and conform to become what they are not. Let us help them set their feet on a path from the start to being Katherine.

Blazing sun baked the pavement. Sweat soaked Amy’s bra. It dripped down her back and into her underwear. She sat on the brick wall outside the mall’s north entrance, exactly where she told Mom she’d be. She waited and waited. The smell of asphalt from the parking lot paving job was beginning to give her a headache. Cordoned-off parking spots might come in handy for back-to-school shoppers, but the work crew wasn’t in a rush to finish. Amy was hot and wanted to go home.

Amy looked at her thighs. She hated the way they oozed from her shorts like bread dough. “Gross,” she said aloud. Sensing eyes upon her, Amy peered over her white Wayfarers and in the general direction of the looker. One of the workers smiled and called, “Mamacita! You waiting for your man? Want me to give you a ride?” He made a thrusting motion with his hips, grinned, and looked toward the others. They laughed. Redness crept up Amy’s face. She choked back tears. “Where the hell is Mom?” she screamed inside her head. Then she spotted the sky-blue VW Beetle.

Gil rode shotgun with Uncle Moby driving. He saw her and motioned for Moby to pull around in front of her. “Thank God! Can you give me a ride? My loser mom was supposed to be here an hour ago,” Amy pleaded. “Sure. We’re going to pick up papers for my route. Leslie left you hangin’ again?” Gil asked. Amy didn’t answer. She climbed into the back seat. The vinyl burnt her thighs. She considered it a fitting end to the disastrous shopping trip. 

Amy turned the key and flung open the door. Cold air greeted her. Leslie had remembered to turn on the air conditioning. Calls of “Mom? You home?” were met with silence. “Figures,” Amy thought. She flipped on the television. The universe seemed determined to pour salt into wounds. The first thing she saw was skinny Brooke Shields talking about how nothing comes between her and her Calvins. “Are you kidding?” Amy muttered and lunged toward the television to switch it off.

Still stinging from what happened at the mall, Amy flopped onto her bed. All she wanted was a pair of Calvins. She saved up her babysitting money for months. Leslie dropped her off, and Amy went straight to Marshall Fields. Those jeans were the first thing on her list. At the display of neatly folded denim, she gazed up at the placard of Brooke Shields. “May I help you?” the clerk inquired. “Uuuum. I’m looking for some jeans for school,” Amy replied. “We have some over there,” the clerk gestured toward the “Plus-Sizes.” “No, I mean these,” Amy pointed to the table. Her anxiety rose. “Hmmm. What size?” the clerk asked. She knew Amy couldn’t wear any of them. “Maybe the largest one,” Amy laughed. The clerk looked uncomfortable. She pulled a pair from the bottom of the pile, handed them to Amy, and said, “The fitting rooms are over there.” When all was said and done, Amy left the jeans in a pile on the fitting room floor. Tears streaming, she couldn’t get out of there fast enough. 

Amy surveyed the walls of her bedroom. Posters of bands and musicians covered every inch. Music was her salve. Opposite her bed hung a poster of The Beatles. Her dad loved them, especially John Lennon. She listened to their music with him when she was little. Revolver was his favorite album. After he left, she never saw him again. She blamed Leslie. Mom was a lot to deal with. Who could blame him for leaving? 

Amy’s maternal grandmother, Mamo Doyle, felt guilty about the mistakes she’d made as a parent. “You have to show your mum some grace, love,” she would say in her lilting Irish accent, “She’s had a rough go.” Amy loved Mamo but often wondered how “rough” Leslie had it compared to the rest of the world. Everyone has problems. Mamo always made excuses for Mom. Everyone suffered while Leslie looked for answers at the bottom of a bottle or in some guy’s bed. Amy’s eyes began to feel heavy. Sadness melted into sleep. Sleep gave way to dreams of music and happiness and fitting into those jeans.

Even in August, summertime sunsets come late in southern Ohio. Amy awoke disoriented from her nap. She rolled over and looked at the clock. Wandering from room to room, turning on lights, she checked to see if Mom was home yet. She wasn’t. “Whatever,” Amy muttered. She was starving. She opened the fridge and found a Tupperware container of fried chicken with a note from Mom, “Don’t eat it all in one sitting, darling. Boys don’t make passes at plain and plump lasses!” “God, I hate you, skinny bitch!” Amy thought. Then, out of spite, she ate it all.

Amy plopped onto the couch and thumbed through a People magazine. Lady Diana Spencer graced the cover. She admired the slim, pretty, ivory-complected young aristocrat. “I wish I looked like her. I bet she’s size 2,” Amy said aloud. She was deep in thought and mentally calculating how much weight she could lose before school began for her to fit into those Calvins when the doorbell rang. It was Gil. “You okay?” he asked, pushing past her and entering without asking. That’s the way it was with them. He knew she needed him and that she’d never admit it. 

Amy met Gilford Blunt back in grade school. They bonded over their shared experience with a bully named Danny Cotton. Danny had persuaded kids to call Amy “Amy Fat One” because she was chubby and her last name was Stratton. Gil was odd, skinny, gangly, and small. The Blunt family was even stranger. They were a large family and poor. Gil’s clothes were hand-me-downs from his older, much larger brothers. His clothes and stature were a favorite subject of Danny’s cruelty. 

Amy and Gil also shared a passion for music. They spent hours after school listening to records on Amy’s junky record player. In the beginning, most were 45’s from the collection Amy’s dad left. As they got older, each introduced the other to new music. They shared LPs received as gifts or bought with hard-earned cash from Amy’s babysitting or Gil’s paper route. Gil was partial to heavy rock like Motorhead, Black Sabbath, and Led Zeppelin. Amy liked all kinds, from pop and rock to disco and even country. The Beatles were her favorite, though. Their music reminded her of her father. 

Gil sat opposite Amy at the kitchen table. “What happened at the mall?” he asked. “It’s embarrassing,” she responded. “You didn’t have enough money for your school clothes? That’s happened to me,” he sympathized. “No, it wasn’t that. I can’t wear the clothes other girls do. I wanted some Calvin Klein jeans, but I’m too fat.” As much as he wanted to, Amy knew Gil didn’t understand. He didn’t see her the way kids at school did. He didn’t see her the way she saw herself. “Forget about it. I don’t want to think about it anymore,” she said. Looking down, he nodded, “Wanna ride bikes down to DQ and get ice cream?” Amy flashed a broad smile. “Hey, you’ve got chicken in your braces,” he said. Hearing this from anyone else would’ve mortified her. But this was Gil, and he “got” her. “Thanks!” she laughed. Nothing more needed to be said.

September’s start of school arrived. Sophomore year proved challenging for Amy and Gil. Amy’s mom got diagnosed with an aggressive form of breast cancer and had only weeks to live. Gil’s dad lost his job and the family’s house. His siblings were scattered across the country and sent to live with various relatives. Gil moved in with Uncle Moby. Both Amy and Gil sleepwalked through schooldays. The thoughts, opinions, and talk of other kids was white noise amidst a maelstrom. Not fitting into Calvin Klein jeans seemed silly compared to losing her only remaining parent, as shitty a parent as Leslie was. Gil and Amy found shelter from the storm within their friendship, like they always had. One day after school, Gil invited Amy to accompany him on his paper route. “I’ll drive the bike. You can sit on the handlebars and toss papers into yards. It’s fun. I pretend I’m pitching for The Reds when I ride with Moby,” he said. Amy wanted to go, but she wasn’t sure about the logistics. “You won’t be able to pedal with my fat ass on there,” she replied, “I’ll just ride my bike.” Gil’s route was long enough to allow them time to process the day’s events. Afterward, they went back to Amy’s to listen to records, like they always did. It became their daily ritual.

On a frigid day in early December, Amy’s Calculus class was interrupted by the school secretary’s voice over the intercom. Her grandmother was there to pick her up. Amy knew why. Approaching the office, she could see Mamo. She looked distressed and pale. Mamo greeted Amy with a kiss on the cheek. She whispered, “Come, child, we must go. Your mum’s passed.” Leslie’s cancer had been too advanced for treatment. Palliative care was the only option. Hospice was called. From the start, Amy knew it was a matter of time. Every day after school, she expected to come home to the news. Every day after school, when it didn’t happen, Amy called Gil to come over so they could deliver papers. She wondered if it felt weird for him to be hanging out in a house with someone on the verge of death. If it did, he never said anything. Then again, Amy knew he never would. When she didn’t call him that day after school, he knew…and he came anyway. 

Mamo knocked gently on Amy’s bedroom door. “Amy, love, Gil’s here,” she said quietly. Amy met him outside. “It’s okay,” Amy said, “There’s no dead body in there. They already took her away.” The rawness of Amy’s words stunned Gil, but, knowing her as he did, he understood and read her pain. “Wanna come on my route with me to get away from…all this,” he gestured toward the building. “Sure,” she replied. Her relief was palpable.

They rode in silence, punctuated by Gil’s occasional grunt with a long toss. “Have you watched any television or listened to the radio,” he asked. “Nope, we spent the day at the funeral home. Why?” she asked. “There’s something I need to tell you,” he replied, “I want you to hear it from me, not the tv or radio.” Amy stopped pedaling. Gil continued, “Uuuum. It’s John Lennon. Some guy shot him. Amy, he’s dead.” Amy felt like the ground beneath her gave way, and she was falling through a dark chasm. “What? Noooo! This can’t be happening!” she shouted. She stood, frozen astride her bike. “Are you alright?” a panicked Gil asked, “I know you love The Beatles…and him. I thought you should know.” Amy threw her bike down. “Let me up there,” she insisted, “let me onto the handlebars.” Gil sat back and steadied the bike. Amy lumbered onto the perch. “Peddle!” she demanded, “Peddle as fast as you can!” Gil obeyed. 

Soon they were flying down Driftwood Boulevard. Biting wind stung Amy’s face and flowed through her long red hair, whipping it into Gil’s eyes and almost eclipsing his vision. Her heart pounded. She was sure she would soon rise into the sky and clouds would envelop her. When the road came to an abrupt end, Amy jumped to the ground and collapsed into a sobbing heap. It was dark now. Poor asthmatic Gil gasped for air. He laid his bike down, knelt beside Amy, and placed his hand on her back. She convulsed in tears.

The next day was even colder. The sky was a mournful dove-gray and dotted with big lacey snowflakes. Mamo laid out a black wool skirt and some black tights along with a fuzzy black sweater. The sweater had a white lamb on the chest to her heart’s right. It reminded Amy of a sweater she once saw Lady Di wear. The whole day was a blur of hugs and tears from people Amy pretended to know. The whispers and pitying looks made her feel like her head might explode. When she glimpsed a familiar face, calmness settled over her. “Hey,” said Gil. “Hey,” she replied. “You okay?” he asked. “Yeah,” she said. “Cool,” he responded, nodding. “Call me if you want. I could use your help with the route. It’s been cold, so Moby’s been driving me. The Bug needs an alternator now. He’s gotta order one, so it’ll be a while before he can help again,” he continued. “Yeah.” Amy said, “I can help.” Gil nodded, turned, and disappeared into the crowd of mourners. Amy knew he wanted to say more. She figured he couldn’t find the right words, like everyone else. She longed for him to hug her and regretted not reaching out to hug him. 

Amy felt like she was watching some strange movie about someone else’s life. People bending over her, putting their faces in hers, touching her, hugging her, and crying. She stood like a zombie. She stood there watching the movie. Once everyone had gone, Mamo wrapped Amy’s coat around her shoulders and squeezed. “I know that was bloody hard for you. It was hard for me, too, but it’s over now. Thank God!” Mamo linked arms with Amy. The two made their way outside. Gil was waiting. “Go on, Mamo. I’ll see you at home,” Amy said. Mamo looked at Gil, then back at Amy, and nodded.

Astride his bike, Gil offered a tiny smile. He started singing. “You say you want a revolution. Weeell, ya know. We all wanna change the world.” Revolution was Gil’s favorite Beatle’s song. He said it had a hard rock edge he liked. Amy sang back, “You tell me that it’s evolution. Weeell, you know. We all want to change the world.” “Hop on,” he said. They headed down Canal Street. Gil peddled as fast as his skinny legs could. They sang Revolution at the top of their lungs. They rode and sang. They rode to the edge of town. They rode until they were out of breath from screaming the last “alriiight” of the chorus. 

Gil was spent and stopped to catch his breath. Amy hopped off and sat down on the curb. Gil tossed the bike to the ground and joined her. Still gasping for air, Gil said, “It’s true, ya know.” “What’s true?” she asked. “It’s gonna be alright. Everything’s gonna be alright.” Amy was taken aback by the words…by the thought. She stared at Gil with tear-filled eyes. Her lip quivered. She glanced at her feet, then back up at Gil. She nodded, and, in that moment, Amy felt like it just might be.

My mother spent most of her life taking care of people. She cooked and cleaned for them. She shopped for groceries and clothing for them. She made doctor and dentist appointments for them and even took them to those appointments. She took temperatures and gave medicine. She changed diapers and sheets. She put hair in ponytails…really, really tight ponytails.

Mom began her caretaker role at a tender age. She was just a teen when my grandparents split up. My grandmother had to go to work full time, so the care of her younger siblings fell to Mom until she married my father. Then she had to take care of him…and eventually three kids.

Mom once told me that she’d dreamt of being a secretary when she was in high school. Of course, being a secretary was one of the few jobs that were accessible and socially acceptable for women of her station back then. She’d taken all the secretarial classes her high school had to offer. I remember seeing steno pads of shorthand that she’d saved. But Mom’s secretarial career was not to be, and I remember thinking that those steno pads were mementos…keepsakes…symbols of unfulfilled dreams.

My mother spent most of my childhood as a homemaker, and she was pretty good at it. But as the world changed around her and it became more and more common for women to work outside the home, I knew there was a longing inside her – a yearning for what might’ve been. Don’t get me wrong. Mom was okay with being a wife and mother. But there was a small part of her…deep down inside…that secretly resented, just the teensiest teeny bit, automatically being expected to forego her own dreams and ambitions to become a caretaker.

Once all her kids were in school and the financial demands of a bigger house out in the burbs made getting a job a necessity, she finally got her chance. It wasn’t exactly what she’d dreamt of in high school and it certainly wasn’t a “career,” but it was her opportunity to have an identity other than being “just a housewife.” Mom went to work in the customer service department of a retail store. Unfortunately, because, like Mom, I was several years older than both my siblings, her joining the workforce meant I would have to pick up the slack and, like her, become a caretaker. It was understood. The first-born daughter to the first-born daughter, the mantel had been passed, and I took it up. It wasn’t like I had a choice.

Mom might not have been completely in touch with that tiny bit of herself that resented the role of caretaker that had been foisted upon her, but I was. And it made me a shitty, shitty caretaker to my siblings. It also made me wonder if I would ever be able to love children of my own or care for them well. Happily, I was able to do that, and the caretaker mantel I’d taken up as a teen served me well in many, many ways. It helped me serve developmentally disabled adults when I worked in mental health. It helped me in my career as a teacher of young children, and, yes, it helped me be a good mother. Mom had set a certain example of sacrifice. She wasn’t the most loving and nurturing of mothers. She wasn’t warm and fuzzy by any stretch of the imagination. Her mothering had sharp edges, and, as what we now call a “highly sensitive child,” I was often cut deeply by them. Looking back now though, as a fellow caretaker, I respect the sacrifices she made…for her siblings, for Dad, for my siblings, and for me.

When Mom got sick, I think my dad finally recognized the sacrifices she’d made over the course of her lifetime and how she’d lovingly taken care of him too, for more than half a century. He tried his best to return the favor, but he just couldn’t do it at home. Caretaking requires a level of selflessness he just never had, through no fault of his own. Instead, he made what one might consider a more meaningful sacrifice – that of time. Not a day went by when he didn’t visit her at the nursing home, spending entire afternoons and evenings just sitting with her. I tried to return the favor, too, in small ways and tiny instances. I remember taking Mom to a doctor appointment on a day when Dad couldn’t. Rheumatoid arthritis had ravaged Mom’s joints by that time and walking was difficult for her. She asked to hold my hand as we walked into the doctor’s office. It made me acutely aware of how our roles had changed. I had that same feeling, more intensely, most recently at the nursing home. Mom had been put on a full, thickened liquid diet. All her food had to be spoon-fed. I came in at meal time one day to find Mom’s meal set before her but without a CNA available to feed her at the moment. The caretaker in me, the one she’d help create, took over. I instantly began to feed her. I said, “I bet you remember when you use to do this for me, huh?” She just nodded, as if to acknowledge a debt absolved.

On Christmas Eve of this past year, my husband, my kids, and I were watching the Pope say Midnight Mass on TV. Yeah, I admit that I’ve devolved just that far as a Catholic – from devout to Christmas Catholic to the worst kind of Christmas Catholic – one that watches Midnight Mass on network television on Christmas Eve. My cell phone rang at five to midnight. The nursing home had had a history of calling for less than urgent matters, so I wasn’t overly concerned when I saw the number on the caller ID. Mom had looked particularly good and alert just a couple days before. We’d planned to see her Christmas Day and bring her Christmas presents. But this call was different. “Come,” the nurse said, “We think it’s time.” I felt confused for a moment until it registered. “Okay,” I said, “We’re on our way.”

Mom was still hanging on when we got there. I asked my husband and daughters to give me a moment alone with her. Her breathing was labored, and physically she looked clearly to be on the dark threshold. I said her name and for some strange reason, I had great difficulty modulating the volume of my voice. No matter how hard I tried, every time I said, “Mom,” my voice sounded like it did when, as a child, I would lose track of her in a store. It sounded loud and frightened. After a few moments, I was able to compose myself enough to tell her, through tears, that it was okay to let go. I told her that I knew she was tired. I told her that we would all be okay and that she could go be with Dad. It was then that she took one last gulp of air and did just that – let go.

I think she waited for me that night, but I don’t think she was waiting for me, her daughter. I think she was waiting for me, the fellow-caretaker. I think she was waiting to ask – one caretaker to another – for permission to lay the burden down. After she got sick and went to live in the nursing home, it might’ve appeared to most people that her caretaking days had ended. They hadn’t. She was a caretaker right up until the day my dad died. Visiting her gave Dad a purpose. God only knows how lost he would’ve been had she gone before him. Once he was gone, her earthly mission was complete and, on the night she died, I think she looked to me for confirmation of that fact.

Today is Mom’s birthday, and I am missing her. I am missing her more than I ever thought I would. As complicated my relationship with my father was, the one I had with my mother was even more so. All my early memories revolve around her, and most of my memories begin and end with her. As I mentioned, Mom was not a particularly affectionate woman, and looking back on that fact now makes my heart ache a little. I would like to have had her hugs and kisses and cuddles when I was a child. I would like to have given them to her, too.

Home is the epicenter of my memories of Mom. The first home I shared with my parents was a tiny second-floor apartment in the building my grandparents owned. Of course, as a child’s experiences will, those memories mostly feature me, with my mother’s presence in the background. Still, it’s Mom that is in most of the memories…not my dad…not my siblings…Mom.

Though Mom stayed at home until I was a teenager, I honestly have no memory of what she actually did. I remember dinner being on the table shortly after my father got home from work every day. I remember having clean clothes. I remember living in a relatively clean house. I just don’t remember my mother actually making those things happen.

What I do have is snippets of memories – short mental “video clips” of Mom. I remember her washing my hair in the kitchen sink as I stood on a chair in that little apartment. I remember talking to her on the telephone when she was in the hospital when my sister was born. I remember turning back to look at her when she dropped me off at kindergarten…only to find her gone. I remember how beautiful and slim I thought she was compared to me. I remember her irritation at having to deal with me getting my first period on Thanksgiving Day when she was trying to prepare the holiday meal. I remember her sending me into the bathroom of the store she worked at to try on the dress for my first wedding. We had ordered it there because she got a discount. She sent me in and told me to let her know if it fit because she “didn’t need to see it.” I remember how much that hurt.

I remember hugging my mother tightly when my 16-year-old daughter died. “They killed my baby, Mom. They killed her,” I sobbed. In a rare moment of nurturing, she patted my back and whispered, “I know. I know,” as she returned my embrace. I felt her sorrow for me.

I remember the blank expression on Mom’s face when I had to tell her Dad died. I couldn’t tell if she understood or not. I remember the time tears suddenly began rolling down her cheeks one day after Dad died, when she, my husband, and I heard a loud altercation break out in the hallway outside her room at the nursing home. It seemed that, in a rare moment of clarity, she finally realized exactly where she was and that she was without him. My final memory of Mom is the empty look of her sky blue eyes as she took one final labored breath on the night she passed. It was like she was someplace else…already.

For some people, their relationship with their mother is simple – pure and loving. Mine was not. For most of my life, it was strained…and strange. I use to feel jealous of women that were “best friends” with their mom once they reached adulthood. I don’t feel that way anymore. I know my mother loved me, but I accept the fact that part of her secretly resented me and my siblings for robbing her of her dreams and for me then going on to pursue some of mine. She was human and humans are complex beings.

A song has been going through my head as I’ve been writing this. It’s Prince’s song Strange Relationship. The refrain goes like this, “Baby I just can’t stand to see you happy, but, more than that, I hate to see you sad. Honey, if you let me, I just might do something rash. What’s this strange relationship we have?” To be clear, this song is about a dysfunctional romantic relationship, but, in many ways, it’s applicable to my relationship with my mother.

Love is a strange thing. Its expression takes many forms. It can be expressed in words. It can be shown through deeds. It can look like affectionate gestures such as a touch or a kiss. But it can be expressed subtly, too – through the giving of time or resources or a sacrifice of self-interest. The words “I love you,” were not often spoken in the household I grew up in, and that once made me question the sentiment’s presence there. Time, age, and wisdom have shown me otherwise. I hope, wherever she is, Mom now knows the gratitude I feel but never expressed to her. I’ve come to understand that her love took the form of hard work, sacrifice, and all those little ordinary deeds of care. The expression says that deeds speak louder than words, but our hearts must be open to understanding them. My mother was a caretaker for almost all her life. I like to think of caretaking as a whispered language of love articulated through deed. And in the words of a song by my mother’s favorite band, The Beatles, “All you need is love….