March 18th Comes Every Year

Last Saturday on March 18th, 19 years ago to date, it had been a Wednesday morning in 1987 when my mother died from pneumonia due to a lousy immune system, aggravated and tortured by a 15-year-long battle with Hodgkins disease, in a hospital room in Billings, MT. I was twelve years old and she was only 32. And get this - - when she was a 17 year old H.S. senior, she was diagnosed with Hodgkins (that's lymphatic cancer; she was in the 3rd stage of 4 stages, considered terminal) on March 18th in 1962.

Before I continue with what I have to say, lemme' just say this once and only once: I’m writing about this because I've been figuring some things out and I want to write about those things, not unlike any other post I may write; I want to share my understanding of my world and my life and my feelings. IN OTHER WORDS: I am not writing this as a plea for sympathy, nor as a ploy for attention = this is NOT a woe-woe is poor-whittle-ole'-me post, mmkay? Now if that sounds a bit snotty on my part, it's meant to be directed toward any meanies who may try to tell me, "Get over it already."

Anyhow... Although my mother has been gone for 19 years now, "March 18th" is a date that has never passed without note. Come the new year, I always buy a new wall calendar and I sit down to fill it with all the birthdays and anniversaries to be remembered. Before 2004, when my roomie Seorin moved in, I don't know why, but I could never not somehow make a mental note as to on what day of the week, March 18th would fall "this year." Really, I have never made a conscious effort to take note of the day; I don't try to remember it or even see it on the calendar, but invariably, I see it (now Seorin's birthday!) and if anyone were to ask about it or mention March 18th, I can tell them on what day of the week it'll be. This very thing happened last month in a work meeting... Something was planned for March 18th and someone wondered aloud on what day of the week would that be and I knew – "Saturday." Are you sure? "Absolutely," I say without any doubt. Now, I don't remember seeing that March 18th would fall on a Saturday this year. In fact, I have zero recollection of that moment, but I knew that I had seen it and somehow absorbed the information and that I was right... "It’s on a Saturday," almost adding "Trust me," but I didn't. Honestly, I have tried to forget. I've tried to ignore it. I've tried to hide it. I have tried and tried to treat March 18th like any other day of the year. I have tried.

Last year, a friend of mine unexpectedly lost her mother (only 55) to a heart attack. I offered to lend a listening ear, if she ever needed to talk at any time, whenever – the first time she called at one in the morning, we had a 3 hour-long talk. We’ve talked more and more since then and in talking with her, more and more of my own experience -dealing with my own mother’s death- has come back to my memory and it's been sorted some more and become more clear to me than ever before. The most prominent realization is this: If anyone -including me- expects me to ever forget March 18th and what happened on that day in 1987, I've realized this idea is completely nutso. No matter how much I try to be strong or nonchalant about the matter, I can’t forget it and certainly can’t ignore it; that day simply cannot pass without some acute pain felt, coupled with giggles and smiles through my tears, remembering her and the memories I still have... and ALL THIS IS OKAY. I don't need to apologize anymore.

At this point, I should mention this: I miss my mother every single day; not one day goes by in which I do not think about her in some way or miss her... not one day.

Whenever I eat cold cereal or hot cereal. Anytime I have French toast or a grilled cheese sandwich… nearly every song from the 60s and 70s is attached to my mum, especially anything from ABBA or The Beatles and Sergio Mendes with Brasil. The color red - the color green - and navy blue. Tulips and daffodils. Skyblue-pink sunsets. Watermelons. Raspberries. Any kind of fruit jam. Cotton pajamas. All pajamas. Every time I wash my face at night and fail to gently pat it dry, giving in to my urge to wipe and rub. Every vitamin I take. Clinique make-up and the light green color of Clinique packaging. Every cup of tea I drink. Every time I eat an apple. String cheese. Cottage cheese and applesauce. Yogurt. Tapioca. Rice pudding. Anytime I see melting chocolates or baking chocolate. Jasmine perfume. The smell of vanilla. When I go around the house (or work) turning off unnecessary lights. Every time I rinse and ring out a dishrag. Every time I vacuum. Whenever I floss my teeth. When I trim my toes and fingernails. When I brush my hair. Whenever I meditate. Shakespeare. National Public Radio. Every time I sing in my car (that's everyday). Doing yoga. Every time I kiss the angel boy-O, “Goodnight and sweet dreamings.” Every time I am sure to kiss my honey-man “hello” and “goodbye.”

Would you forget the birthday of someone you love? Okay, I know some people do forget birthdays and/or don't care about them, but typically, a birthday is considered an important day that one should never forget –just gimme’ that, k?… Well, if a birthday is considered one of the most significant days to pass in each year of a person’s life, celebrating the day that person entered this world, why wouldn’t the day he/she died be equally significant, if not more for the fact that the day someone dies, it’s the end of birthday celebrations for him/her? It’s their last day.

Another thing: I envy everyone who can simply pick up the phone, dial a number and talk to their mother.

Unlike any other day of the year, March 18^th comes and goes, but knowing I’ve lived another year without my mum, it always comes like a slap in the face. When I was 24 and realized I had lived half my life without her? It's just not like any other day.

My friend has asked me when it will quit hurting. I’ve tried to be honest, and I tell her that for me, so far it hasn’t - - but that she’d learn to feel more and more grateful for what she had, and that that would help balance some of the pain and the sense of loss.

Another realization and the most important one: Last week I ran to the grocery store for some ice cream –a different friend of mine was feeling down and it was time for reinforcements! As I walked toward the store’s entry doors, I saw a big stack of bright blue plastic childrens wading pools on sale. I used to have one with a bottom textured with images of starfish, seahorses, crabs and bubbles. I used to play in it for hours and hours in the backyard, and my mum would come out every two hours with an icy cold homemade O.J. popsicle in exchange for her chance to slather me down with a fresh application of SPF. So last week, seeing the plastic wading pools, I burst into tears - - and why? Despite all the hospital visits and my mum being sick the whole time I knew her, despite my feeling a bit overprotected occasionally and despite the continued loss I now feel after all these years, when I had her I always knew without a doubt (and still do) that I was adored and loved - that I meant the world to her - and I always knew that nothing I could ever do would change that; I had a happy childhood despite it all.