How many people love you unconditionally? It’s a tough question. It sure ain’t something I like to think about. If you’re like the average person - or at least the average St. Olaf student - then you’ve probably got at least two people to count: your parents. If not… well, I’m with you. I grew up without a mother. It’s hard to understand how that’s affected me and how it continues to affect me. What would be different if things were different, you know? I think I’m writing this to process my thoughts a little more. Feel free to join me.
Almost all that I know about my mom comes from her obituary and court records. She was born in 1960, and she died from cancer in 2002. She married my dad in 1994, and I think she was married once before that? She had two kids with my dad and another at some point earlier. Apparently she liked gardening and reading poetry. She had brown hair, or maybe red - I can’t tell from the couple of pictures I’ve seen. I remember hearing that she had a rough childhood (I guess that’s hereditary). That’s it. That’s all I know about someone who ought to be one of the most important parts of my life.
Now, if the rest of my family were good people, then things might be different. There would probably still be challenges, but things might be different. But they’re not. So for years, I’ve been left to wonder, “What could have been?” Could I have had a loving parent to support me as I went through my childhood? Could I have had different experiences and have broader interests? I know nothing about gardening and don’t really enjoy poetry. Would either of those things be different? How about my personality? Would my friends recognize me? Would I recognize myself?
I’ve found that a big challenge is being unable to share this weight with people. It shouldn’t have to be a secret that I’ve “lost” a parent (or, more accurately, never had her), but how do you tell that to someone? I’ve found that when the topic comes up, there are two options. Option one: be subtle. If someone asks what my parents do, I just say, “It’s just my dad, and he’s a truck driver.” There’s no indication of why it’s just my dad; I just give the bare minimum of detail. Option two, on the other hand: own up to it. Answering the same question, I could say, “My dad’s a truck driver, and my mom’s not alive anymore.” I never take this option. That’s because I know the exact two words that are gonna come out of that person’s mouth: “I’m sorry.” I’m all about courtesy, but sometimes, there aren’t any two words that can frustrate me more. What are you sorry about? Are you the reason she’s dead? Also, it happened almost 20 years ago, and I don’t even remember anything about it. Am I really in a place to be pitied?
So, if I’m asked about my parents, I say as little as possible. Otherwise, I say nothing about them. I can’t remember the last time I brought up my mom without being prompted. That’s because, the way I see it, no one wants to talk about sad things like that. What benefit do I get from telling people that my mom’s dead? I’d like for people to know that about me, especially if I’m close with them, but there’s not a single organic way for them to find out. And if I do bring it up, I know I’m apt to hear that dreaded two-word phrase.
Beyond the big problems, there are also just the smallest things that you might not consider. What the hell do I call her? It feels wrong to say “mom” about someone I don’t remember even meeting, but anything else feels too wooden. And how much do I want to remember her? I have, in my possession, one (1) photograph that includes her. Do I want to put that up? Or should I just leave it in the folder that it’s sitting in, and forget about the void in my life until the next time it sneaks up and hits me? I really don’t know the answer.
If you made it all the way here, thanks. I appreciate you! Let me know that you got here: just tell me how you’re doing. Have you lost a parent? Let’s talk about it. Thanks for watching me process things.