My mom and I were always close, from beginning to end. Mom attributed this to the fact that she had had practice raising a child before I arrived – practice coming in the form of living with my dad. I don’t think she needed any rehearsing, as she was a natural, offering delightful, stimulating, attentive company for her son as a child, boy, and man. Her demands of me were straightforward ones involving character, behavior and curiosity – measured kindly but clearly. I honestly cannot think of anything she ever did or said to me, or others, of which I disapproved. Except perhaps a mid-summer trip when she took me from Corpus to Six Flags in Dallas with multiple cousins in a unairconditioned station wagon, an episode that let me permanently fearful of long stretches without refrigerated air and family gatherings of more than four.
I believe the warmth and respect I felt toward my mother is the main reason I like women so much, and why I feel that they are, in general, the superior gender. All the women in my life picked up on this connection, and why, if/when they became exes, their main regret in becoming so was the loss of easy access to my mom and her master classes on mothering and living.
I want to disabuse anyone from the notion that my mom’s sunny orientation to the world was because she traveled a sheltered or unexamined path. She did not. She lost her father in his early fifties, and lost her second son at the age of six. Richard’s death was a stunning, brutal event for her, one from which she never really recovered. And yet, she never inflicted her suffering on others, in fact just the opposite, choosing instead to ratchet up the love and kindness, perhaps in tribute to my brother.
The final blow came from the loss of her husband of almost 50 years in 2004. I asked her once why she married dad. She said, “He was exciting to be around.” Good answer. But with the exciting companionship gone, and despite the efforts of friends and family to rally her, a prolonged decline commenced. And yet, again, she refused to let her grief and illness change her essential kind and nurturing approach to people. The best evidence of this was the various caregivers from over the years who showed up at her deathbed to say goodbye. A remarkable gathering I was told.
I don’t know how people like my mother come to be. Perhaps they come out of the chute this way, or are molded by some fortuitous set of circumstances during youth. But one way or another, she did happen, and it should encourage us all as we navigate our own particular struggles. She would want that – for us to be encouraged. Hopefully, we can oblige her.