Having now been 3 1/2 years without my mom, and more than a quarter-century without my dad, I can tell you that I have often had those moments where I stop to think about being an 'orphan', and to compare my father's life to my own. I am now the age he was when he died, and often I find myself wondering, "Was he that much more mature than I was, or was it all a con-job?"
And then I remember the corny stuff -- the deliberate and exaggerated off-key singing of stupid road songs on long car trips, the comic-book-store runs in which we divvied up the purchased treasures, the not-so-subtle blackmail involved in telling the rest of the leaders and parents in my old Boy Scout troop, "Well, my son and I are the only ones who can cook, so I guess we get to pick and choose our tent and campsite." I remember all of that every time I pull one of my godchildren close to me and spoil them rotten. I remember all of that every time my fiancee and I talk about the future, and how we plan to raise our children someday. I remember all of that every single time I catch a syndicated rerun of Star Trek, or Mission: Impossible, or some other show we used to love to watch together.
And I remember the same kinds of things about Mom, though perhaps somewhat less through the lens of adolescent idolization. I remember the time we snuck out near midnight to plant a 'gift bag' of $20 worth of food on the doorstep of a hungry woman Mom had to investigate for child neglect, only to discover that the neglect was that she was still waiting for her first paycheck for a new job and the lady's neighbor exaggerated the kid's complaint of an empty belly; it was not a nice neighborhood, and we had to roll up with the lights off, and drop the bag off anonymously, because technically it could have cost Mom her job. I remember a local government honcho who had worked with us both through different programs of the same agency, but had spent several years not knowing I was her son, and I remember the look on his face when a few years into abusing me verbally he found out; I remember that same guy taking the time out from his *honeymoon* to email his condolences on the day before her funeral. I remember yelling at her for not doing her arm exercises after her lumpectomy, so that the excess lymphatic fluids might drain from her arm properly -- she kept blowing it off and her arm would swell up painfully and I would get so damn *mad* at her for doing it to herself, and forcing me to be the adult. I remember how she refused to tell my brother about the cancer at first, and swore me to silence, because my brother was just about to get married and she didn't want to spoil the wedding with bad news, and I remember how damn mad he got at both of us when he found out.
And then I remember every single morning she made me breakfast during my teenage years, gently scrambling one egg, putting it on wheat toast with a single slice of low-fat cheese or mock bacon, so that I'd start the day with breakfast that wasn't McDonald's; I remember *that*, especially, every morning that I cook breakfast for myself and my sweetheart. I remember the screaming fit, both of us in tears on the linoleum of her kitchen floor, about 3 years before she died, baring our souls painfully and comparing our emotional scars and eventually coming to terms with the fact that I was as much an adult as she was, and the adult that I had become was basically two breasts and my father's cheesy smile away from being her.
And then I realize what I hope you realize sooner than I did: That feeling of not having a parent around? It's an illusion. They're still there. They'll always be there. Because unless they left you in an alley to be raised by wolves, they've already made every single mark in your psyche they're going to make, they've imprinted themselves on you in ways beyond DNA.
You'll make a choice, you'll say something your Dad used to say. You'll hear a song he used to like and you'll start humming it. You'll stumble across a photo of him and think 'Hey, sometimes Jo or Vic or I have that same expression'.
And then I remember the corny stuff -- the deliberate and exaggerated off-key singing of stupid road songs on long car trips, the comic-book-store runs in which we divvied up the purchased treasures, the not-so-subtle blackmail involved in telling the rest of the leaders and parents in my old Boy Scout troop, "Well, my son and I are the only ones who can cook, so I guess we get to pick and choose our tent and campsite." I remember all of that every time I pull one of my godchildren close to me and spoil them rotten. I remember all of that every time my fiancee and I talk about the future, and how we plan to raise our children someday. I remember all of that every single time I catch a syndicated rerun of Star Trek, or Mission: Impossible, or some other show we used to love to watch together.
And I remember the same kinds of things about Mom, though perhaps somewhat less through the lens of adolescent idolization. I remember the time we snuck out near midnight to plant a 'gift bag' of $20 worth of food on the doorstep of a hungry woman Mom had to investigate for child neglect, only to discover that the neglect was that she was still waiting for her first paycheck for a new job and the lady's neighbor exaggerated the kid's complaint of an empty belly; it was not a nice neighborhood, and we had to roll up with the lights off, and drop the bag off anonymously, because technically it could have cost Mom her job. I remember a local government honcho who had worked with us both through different programs of the same agency, but had spent several years not knowing I was her son, and I remember the look on his face when a few years into abusing me verbally he found out; I remember that same guy taking the time out from his *honeymoon* to email his condolences on the day before her funeral. I remember yelling at her for not doing her arm exercises after her lumpectomy, so that the excess lymphatic fluids might drain from her arm properly -- she kept blowing it off and her arm would swell up painfully and I would get so damn *mad* at her for doing it to herself, and forcing me to be the adult. I remember how she refused to tell my brother about the cancer at first, and swore me to silence, because my brother was just about to get married and she didn't want to spoil the wedding with bad news, and I remember how damn mad he got at both of us when he found out.
And then I remember every single morning she made me breakfast during my teenage years, gently scrambling one egg, putting it on wheat toast with a single slice of low-fat cheese or mock bacon, so that I'd start the day with breakfast that wasn't McDonald's; I remember *that*, especially, every morning that I cook breakfast for myself and my sweetheart. I remember the screaming fit, both of us in tears on the linoleum of her kitchen floor, about 3 years before she died, baring our souls painfully and comparing our emotional scars and eventually coming to terms with the fact that I was as much an adult as she was, and the adult that I had become was basically two breasts and my father's cheesy smile away from being her.
And then I realize what I hope you realize sooner than I did: That feeling of not having a parent around? It's an illusion. They're still there. They'll always be there. Because unless they left you in an alley to be raised by wolves, they've already made every single mark in your psyche they're going to make, they've imprinted themselves on you in ways beyond DNA.
You'll make a choice, you'll say something your Dad used to say. You'll hear a song he used to like and you'll start humming it. You'll stumble across a photo of him and think 'Hey, sometimes Jo or Vic or I have that same expression'.
And it will all cohere.
Rambling done now.
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