May 15, 2024
Another Mother’s Day Without You
Here we are. Spring has sprung and as always predictable Mother Nature is peppering our back lot with a variety of glorious wildflowers, birds are busy building nests, and sunsets have been stunners. I breathe in the soft air, the lovely scents, and reminisce about Mother’s Days in the past.
I honestly do not remember much about Mother’s Day in my childhood. I do remember our family went to church, and the mothers were given red corsages, the grandmothers, pink. I wonder, did our family not make much of that holiday?
When it was my turn to be a mother, I was seventeen, living in shame and secrecy in a Maternity Home for Unwed Mothers in New Orleans. I had been repeatedly told by my parents and the staff; I would not be allowed the privilege of becoming a mother. I was coerced into thinking only women wearing a wedding ring were given that honor and I surrendered my son to a closed adoption. I believed I would never celebrate Mother’s Day.
But life went on and years later I cherished Mother’s Day with my other sons who I had raised. Oh, those precious handmade Mother’s Day pictures, “You are the best Mommy” printed in childish letters, messy breakfasts in bed consisting of soggy French toast made by their sweet sticky hands, their smiles covered in syrup. I knew how lucky I was, but I always privately mourned the secret son who was not there to call me mommy. That loss was crushing, never to be spoken aloud.
These days those little children are adults, with their own children and they never fail to remember me on Mother’s Day. There are visits, flowers, gifts, beautiful verses written inside lovely cards, and loads of laughter. My husband gently smiles at me as I open gifts and banter with our children. And I usually smile so much that day my face aches when they all leave our home.
I am grateful for my life, my children, and grandchildren and always will be, but beneath my smile and beneath my heart there is a jagged scar. A scar that has been ripped open twice.
That newborn son I had been pressured to leave behind in 1967 to a closed adoption, reunited with me 49 years later. It was the most magical time in my life. My broken heart healed, and my life exploded in technicolor. I floated on air for months and every day was Mother’s Day because for once I could fall asleep at night and know where all my children were and that they were safe, healthy, and happy. I felt a peace I had not felt for fifty years. My secret son was back in my life, and I wanted to tell the world!
The first Mother’s Day card I received from my adopted son in 2017 was not a handmade card with a sweet childish “I love you Mommy” scrawled across it, but a beautiful card with a profound and heartfelt message written inside. “I love you Mom, and I always have.” I proudly displayed that card along with my other children’s cards on the mantel. The hole in my expanding heart was healing.
For four more Mother’s Days, I felt that way. Is there anything that makes us mothers more joyful than watching our children grow and flourish? Here I was, lucky enough to have all of my sons in my life.
Then the unthinkable happened. My adopted son took his own life, shattering me and traumatizing our entire family. His family. I was no longer the happiest mother in the world. This second and final time losing him ripped my heart into.
I hold close the memories of having my first-born son in my life for those short 4 years. I cherish his children whom I would never have known if he and I had not reunited. But this I know, my scarred heart will never completely heal from the knowledge of the years we did not have together, his baby hands I never got to hold, his first steps, his birthdays, his first day of school, the pride of watching him grow and finding his way or the 50 years of Mother’s Days we were deprived of.
Mar 31, 2022
The Universe often decrees a path that we never envision and all we have to do is open ourselves up to the possibilities and dreams do come true.
Today, I pinch myself. I have written and published my first book. It is a memoir about a time in my life I never dreamed I would even speak about, let alone write a book about. It took seven decades to sit down and write it, but the seed was planted many long years ago.
***
I have a distinct memory of summer, 1958 in my hometown on the Gulf Coast of Mississippi. School had let out and I was looking forward to countless lazy days with neighborhood friends. One game we had made up consisted of play-pretending we were our favorite movie characters, Tarzan and Jane, and favorite television stars Roy Rogers and Dale Evans. I always demanded I play the part of Jane and Dale, partly because I was bossy and often, I was the only girl playing with my brothers and boy cousins.
But best of all I looked forward to months of free time to read. Like my Daddy I was a bespectacled bookworm. My favorite books that year were the Laura Ingalls Wilder books introduced to us by my third-grade teacher. I planned to re-read all of them before summer was over.
I loved writing my own stories as much as reading books and always included illustrations. Hours alone were spent sprawled across my bed, drawing ladies in antebellum gowns, embellished with magnolias and roses. I named my characters Belle, Sarah, or Charlotte and they were always beautiful with loads of dashing suitors, who would soon expire in a bloody Civil War battle. They were Rebels, of course.
There would be morning walks to Back Bay with my younger brothers where we would set our crab nets, loll around on splintery piers, and dip in and out of the murky water. Hours later, sunburned and starving we would bring home blue crabs for Mama to boil. As she dropped them into a vat of scalding water we would scream along with the thrashing, hissing crabs. I always raced from the kitchen, covering my ears, but the memory of the crabs’ tortured demise never hindered my delight once they were boiled and dumped on the newspaper covered kitchen table for our lunch.
Another summer pleasure was when my brothers and I joined the neighborhood kids for late afternoon walks to buy snow cones at the neighborhood snowball mecca…Millie’s. There was nothing better on a sweltering summer evening than that smooth shaved ice, loaded with sugary syrup. My favorite was a chocolate/coconut combo… I can still taste it and feel the icy concoction as it coated my mouth and slid down my throat.
I would miss school, but I loved summer.
***
At the end of May it was my birthday. I was turning nine. No party was planned which was the norm in our home, but I knew Daddy would have stopped by Uncle Paul’s Electric Maid Bakery and picked up a delicious birthday cake. It would be topped with the decadent buttery frosting that Uncle Paul was known for in our town.
That afternoon after whiling away the afternoon at my neighbor Diane’s house, I ran into our back yard and stopped. There, holding hands and ambling towards Keegan’s Bayou in our back yard was Mama and Daddy. I watched as their heads leaned into each other. My Daddy loved Mama beyond measure and sometimes it almost hurt to watch them. They both turned as I ran towards them, interrupting their precious time alone, butting in, wanting to be part of whatever they shared.
“Hey, Mama! Hey Daddy! I’m home!”
“Daddy brought you a special birthday surprise. Did you see it in your room?” Mama smiled.
Making a swift U-turn I ran towards the house, slamming the back screen door, and heading straight to my bedroom.
In the corner of my room set a dark mahogany desk. Small, with drawers and shelves above it. There was even a matching chair tucked neatly beside it. A thrill ran through me. This was the very best birthday present I had ever received. My own desk.
Slowly running my hand across the grain of the wood, I marveled. No one in our family gave such extravagant gifts for a birthday. At once I felt special as well as a bit guilty. What would my brothers say?
At my bedroom door, my parents stood watching me. Gentle smiles lit their faces.
“I love it!” tears threatened to spill from my eyes.
“It was your Daddy’s idea.”
Daddy grinned. “Plus, there’s a cake from Electric Maid.”
I rushed to Daddy, hugging him. Never demonstrative, he shyly smiled.
“You can write a book one day Laura. I know you can.”
I hugged him tighter, already visualizing myself burning the midnight oil, writing non-stop with a fountain pen in a fancy notebook.
Less than ten years later, still a child myself, the heartbreaking loss of a secret newborn son to closed adoption changed the trajectory of my life, leaving me bereft and feeling I had no family. My parents had told me this was the right thing to do, and they truly believed, along with our pastor and my grandmother, it was. I would go many years feeling my parents had let me down and feeling quiet anger towards them. Pulling away from all I knew and loved, I would travel far from home determined not to be part of my family, only to return to them years later a wiser and more forgiving me.
Yet even during those hard years I would never forget that moment in time and how safe and loved I had felt when my Daddy believed in me and thought I could do just about anything.
“Write a book one day.” He had said.
And I did.
Feb 10, 2022
“Your pub date is May 10, 2022.”
My heart quickened when I first read those words from Samantha, my project manager at She Writes Press. A smile spread across my face, and I raced outside to share the news with my husband Gene. He looked up from his garden giving me a thumbs up.
“Excited?” He grinned.
“Yes!” I grinned back. “But it seems so far away!” I protested. It was early 2021. Over a year seemed an awfully long time to wait for my book to be published. A book that had consumed much of my life for years.
I started writing (seriously writing) my book March of 2017. I could not even imagine calling myself a writer. I was a fledgling, a beginner, and hoped not a fraud. I knew I had a story inside of me, a story to tell.
An avid reader since my bookworm days as a little girl, I had always admired authors and held them in such high esteem that I was not ready to pin that title on myself. Slowly but surely my writing journey began as I struggled through memoir writing classes and a variety of writing workshops, writing retreats, and one on one coaching over the next four years.
I was comfortable calling myself -a woman, a wife, a mother, a grandmother, a retiree, a friend, a senior citizen – and the list went on. But adding writer to that list caused me to squirm a little. I was even hesitant to say, “I’m writing a book.”
After years of remembering parts of my life I had blocked out forever and endless research I found myself soul searching and handwriting notes non-stop. I had a story to tell, and it poured out of me onto the page. Something I did not expect happened then. Peace began to replace fear and discomfort.
I realized if I wasn’t a writer, what was I? As draft after draft colored my days, I began to say out loud to anyone who asked, “I’m writing a book.” and each time it got easier to say. After winning places in three anthologies, after watching scenes from my memoir performed on stage, and having a monologue from my memoir performed on a virtual production – writer still stuck in my throat.
Still, where was the self-confidence I felt in all the other aspects of my life?
As I met more and more talented and fabulous writer friends I was told. “You are a writer. Say it loud and say it proud.” I tiptoed in a little further. I learned so many lessons from those generous and supportive writers and teachers holding my hand. Not only did I learn to believe in myself with all my heart, but to believe in my effort and to be bold. To be brave.
I also learned the huge impact they made on me by gifting me with their time, their wisdom, and their encouragement. This is something I will carry with me forever and hope to give back by bestowing that same gift to all the beginning writers I meet. To inspire and challenge is the best gift writers can give fellow writers and our readers as well.
I know my book is important because all words are. Your story matters as does mine. Mostly I do know my story is not just my story, but the story of hundreds of thousands of young women during the fifties and sixties who found themselves pregnant, no ring on their finger, and nowhere to turn.
Best of all the reward is now in sight. My book will be published and available wherever books are sold on May 10, 2022!
What seemed like forever is less than three months away and I’m saying it now and saying it proud. I am a Writer!
May 3, 2021
In my worst nightmare, I never could have imagined I would become a member of this club.
Over the years, when a friend or acquaintance lost a child, I felt devastated for them. How are they still standing? I cannot even imagine. I cannot let my mind go there.
I was convinced I could not survive that kind of loss or that unbearable pain. No, there was no way I could endure any of my children dying before me.
Well, I have learned many things in these last two months.
I have learned that when you lose a child, no matter their age, no matter the circumstances, you have to bear it. You have no choice. You have to because you cannot escape it. Whether you want to or not, you must continue putting one foot in front of another. You continue to live for the living and soon learn you must stop asking yourself the painful question every parent who goes through this must ask themselves hundreds of times. What more could I have done?
I have learned that grief like this is every bit as debilitating as I ever imagined. Crushing.
I have learned that we humans can cry more tears than we ever thought possible.
I have learned there are days you wonder if you will ever smile again or be completely happy because a black cloud has wrapped itself around you until you are numb, paralyzed.
I have learned there are others who cannot imagine this type of grief and may go so far as to tell you, “You simply need to push forward and get over it.” Be patient with them; they cannot imagine this, I tell myself.
I have learned friends and family will show their true colors. The majority will be incredibly comforting, the kind of human beings who are actually Angels here on earth, no questions asked. They love you and only hope to support you and care for you.
Then again, there will always be the others. They need more details, they cannot understand, and they are uncomfortable and cannot reach out. They bring you down even further, if that is possible. Forget them.
Be grateful for your Angels.
I have learned that the unexpected suicide of a loved one, in my case my oldest son Ray, is the most complicated debilitating grief one can deal with. It is uncomfortable. It is tragic and impossible to wrap your head around, much less your heart.
I have learned the hard way all the things NOT to say or ask a parent who has lost a child. Again, regardless of that child’s age or circumstances of their death, the parent can hardly speak or think clearly after such a loss. When a heart is breaking, one does not need to be asked the how, the why, or hear you pontificate your theories. All that parent wants and desperately needs is a shoulder, kindness, and a sympathetic ear.
I have learned that after you have lost a child, nothing relieves that gushing, ragged rip left in your heart. That open wound will live inside of you always, and as you heal over time and normalcy returns inch by inch, that wound will harden into a scar that is imprinted on you forever.
As I mend, I will carry on. I will laugh again and wrap my family and friends in the most intense love I can. I have my beloved children and ten amazing grandchildren to live for and my dear friends. And there’s my husband, my rock, who will stand by my side always.
Lastly, the hardest lesson I have learned is that our future is an unknown, no matter how we envision it or try to do all the right things to protect ourselves and our loved ones. I thought I knew that fact, but I really didn’t. How could I have?
Mar 2, 2021
Already March 2021… Last year on March 1st Gene and I were in Washington State. We had traveled to see our grandson Jake, play baseball at Central Washington University, and had a perfect weekend: a cozy romantic Air BNB complete with a rushing stream flowing past, fun dinners with Jake and his college pals and baseball game–watching in frigid freezing hurricane force winds. (well, that part wasn’t exactly perfect but it truly was a crazy time we will never forget) Heading home in our rental care we encountered beautiful blizzard-like snow on the freeways headed back towards Seattle airport and we were eager to get back to warm toasty San Diego where the sun was shining.
Little did we know that would be our last trip for an awfully long time and within two weeks we would be in lock down because an extremely scary virus invading our country. Would we have believed the world as we knew it was slowly shutting down with what would soon become the frightening speed of an avalanche? Like everyone else, I do not think we could have comprehended the magnitude of change that was in the works.
Life continued and like everyone else we stayed home, followed the guidelines to remain virus free and adjusted. We learned (maybe the hard way) that we had not always appreciated all the ‘givens’ in our lives. Just hopping on a plane and flying anywhere we wanted to. Hugging. Celebrating birthdays. Simply sharing meals with friends, classes, concerts, holiday gatherings…. oh how I missed the hugs, the face to face conversation with our children and not being able to fly and visit loved ones…. the list goes on.
I knew I would not take those wonderful ‘givens’ for granted ever again.
Despite the horrifying numbers of people dying and sick all over the world and the constant unsettling fear, despite the unrest and deplorable politics and violence raging around the country and regardless of so many mornings of awful news and saying out loud, “just when I thought it could not get worse…it is.” we all plowed on.
Gene created his spring summer garden, cared for the orchard, stayed busy with projects around our home and our acre of property. He even did most of the shopping that I did not do online, worried because of my underlying condition, asthma. We became the new human parents of a 7-week-old golden retriever puppy, our Layla Louise, and that little beauty took considerable energy and hours of our time. The perfect distraction. Like everyone in the world, I learned to Zoom and continued my classes and meetings virtually. The Memoir Association, where I am president took up many hours and kept me busy.
We were thankful we could maintain contact with our children and grandchildren virtually and the ones here locally stopped by for social distanced visits in masks outside on our patio. It was not the same, but we were thankful for that. Best of all a new (number 10) grandson was born during the COVID-19 year. Our little Arthur.
And then lo and behold, I finished my manuscript, a fifth (at least) draft of my book and submitted to a few agents and to a publisher that I had admired from a far. Last summer I received an email. She Writes Press was interested in my book! I was thrilled and scared to death at the same time, but mostly I must admit I was a bit ecstatic. Signing a contract with She Writes Press – Brooke Warner, was something I had dreamed about and it was coming true.
Right now, I am in the Spring 2022 cohort and my memoir, You’ll Forget This Ever Happened has a pub date of May 10, 2022!
Needless to say, that has kept me focused on the future and relieved so much of my COVID-19 fatigue. Gene and I have done this together. Without his continued support and belief in me, I wonder if I would have ever gotten this far with my story.
I hope this finds all of you feeling more hopeful and proud of the strong survivors that you are. I thank you for reading my words and for being a shining light for me. I hope I can be for you as well.
I feel there is light at the end of this long tunnel we have all traveled together. The grey clouds are lifting and let us look forward to a healthier world in more ways than one.
Until next time.
Laura
