First Mother’s Day Without Her
By: Carol Adler
Tags: Birthday, Mothers And Daughters, Family, Mothers Day, Cancer

I cried as I wrapped my daughter’s presents for her 16th birthday. My mom would’ve given my daughter all the presents she wanted. She would’ve asked my daughter for a wish list with links to the store’s websites. My mom would’ve wrapped the gifts in crisp, colorful paper, with satin ribbon and silk flowers on the packages. Elise, my daughter’s name, would be written in impeccable script on the gift tag. My mom would’ve done all of this if cancer hadn’t spread through her brain.

There will be no more birthdays with my mom, and no more gifts from my children’s grandma. My mom was a generous grandma. When the kids created holiday wish lists, she wanted to be the one to get them everything. She didn’t like the years that Hanukkah came before Christmas, because the in-laws might give our kids the gifts she wanted to give. When Elise was into American Girl dolls, Grandma was the one to buy her the newest doll, the miniature ski gear, the roller skates, the horse, and the bike with the banana seat and tasseled handlebars and every new doll outfit too. Grandma would also buy things my kids didn’t even know they wanted. Art supplies, puzzles, and books on topics that interested them.

My mom was a gifted, creative teacher that spent a lot of her own money buying books for her classroom, then later for her grandchildren. She was a master at pairing kids and books. When my son was a toddler, she brought him books every time she came to visit. And that was weekly. Whatever his interest, she could find books on the topic — trucks and construction, dinosaurs, sharks, rescue heroes, and the Percy Jackson series. My mom read Thank You, Mr. Falker over and over to Elise, who loved hearing about a girl who struggled to learn to read, as she had.

I cried again the day after my daughter’s birthday. This time, as I looked at photos on my phone of Elise with her friends, celebrating her Sweet 16th at the Ariana Grande concert in downtown L.A. I used to text my mom photos of my kids all the time. It was an easy way to connect with her. As my mom’s cancer progressed, it was more difficult to find ways to connect with her. She was in pain. She was frustrated. Angry. Tired. Tired of doctor’s appointments and tired of the pain. My mom was a beautiful brunette woman with brown eyes and a big smile. Always wore lipstick — hot pink or red, or burgundy, if it matched her outfit. She always matched her outfits. Colorful clothes. And she had long, acrylic fingernails that were painted to match, too.

This Sunday will be the first Mother’s Day without my mom. I won’t see her in a bright pink outfit from Talbot’s. I won’t hear her ask my son about his first year of college or the camp job he’ll start this summer. I won’t eat vanilla bundt cake with her. Or smell her latest perfume purchase from Bloomingdale’s. I won’t feel that my gift for her is “not enough.” Because I sometimes felt “not enough” around her. She was a perfectionist and sometimes that made me feel pressured to behave perfectly too.

Cancer has a cruel way of reminding us of our imperfections. It stripped a woman of her pride in her outward appearance. Before she died, we had time alone together in the hospital. She wasn’t wearing one of her bright silk blouses, or pink lipstick or matching Tory Burch shoes. She was in a hospital gown. And hospital socks, that didn’t match. Her wig was askew. She tugged on it and said it itched. I asked her if she wanted to take it off and she said, “Yes, I’m done with this.”

That was the first time I’d seen her like that. She’d lost her hair from the cancer treatments, but she’d gained a vulnerability I hadn’t seen. We talked a lot and she was so interested in hearing about her grandkids. She wanted them to know how much she loved them and that they will find their way and that maybe the first year of college didn’t go so smoothly for my son, but he didn’t have to stay there. He could come home or go to junior college or do something else. He’s such a great kid, she kept saying. And so creative. About my daughter, she kept saying how brave she is to high jump and go snowboarding. And she’s so proactive about exploring hair styling classes and she should pursue that if she loves it.

They will find their way, she kept saying. They will find their way. My mom passed away a week after that conversation. Now I am trying to find my way.