That's a Wrap

This was my Mom. The smile that lit up the room!

One day, well into my Mom’s battle with Cancer, we lay snuggling on her bed in her bedroom at home. We were watching Sally Field in "Norma Rae", one of our favorite films. 

We watched in silence, and suddenly I found myself looking at my mother, and not the movie. I studied the lines around her eyes, that one eyebrow that wasn’t perfect because she picked at it with tweezers all the time. Her freckles stood out more than usual, and I chalked it up to the soft light coming in through the window. She was so beautiful. 

I looked at her, and softly said “I’m not done with you yet.” She turned to look at me, smiled sadly, and said “I’m not done with you yet either.” And then we cried. We wept, holding each other, afraid to let go. We fell asleep hugging each other, tears still wet on our faces.

I am certain that I will never be done with her, nor she with me, and that wherever she is, we will find each other again one day.

She’s with me in everything I do. When I feel the sunshine warming my face, I imagine it’s her. When I’m cooking something new and it turns out amazing, I feel like she had something to do with it. And when I face uncertainty or life’s stresses, I know that she is why I’m strong willed, always pushing forward.

As I approach the 7 year anniversary of my Mom’s death, I realize that my pain isn’t as sharp. I still miss her and I still cry about my loss when I need her most, but I have found a peaceful place I didn’t think existed. 

Loss and grief are a long and dark tunnel. It’s so hard to believe there is a light at the end of it, but I promise you there is. Now that I’m standing at the end of the tunnel, standing in the light, I want to share that today’s post will be my last in Fish Tacos + Monarch Butterflies.

When I started this blog about 3 years ago, it was a tool of sorts. I needed a place to channel my hurt, my loss, and my stories about my Mom. I felt like I wasn’t done knowing her, and typing out those stories made me feel a little less empty. As though sharing my experiences made them new to me again, so that I could feel those feelings once more, both good and bad.

Although this blog is complete in its content, the messages within remain ever present. Sometimes we lose the people we love most. Moving forward doesn’t mean we’ve forgotten them: It just means we are healing.

If you’ve read all or even one post in this blog, I want to say thank you. Thank you for reading/sharing my thoughts and feelings, telling me about your own thoughts and experiences in emails, Twitter and Facebook messages. With you, the healing process was that much more meaningful.  

My final words in this blog are ones I have typed and shared before in a previous post: 

“To those of you reading this who have suffered loss and been judged for how you chose/are choosing to get through your grief: Please never stop sharing. Your stories are not meant to be locked away. You can’t heal if you hide.”

Thank you for walking this path with me. 

Love, 

Amy

Stress Balloons

When my Mom was 40, she was diagnosed as a Diabetic. Following which she was diagnosed with Hypothyroidism, Rheumatoid Arthritis, and Cancer.  In just over 14 years, her 4’11” frame was hit by one health attack after another.

I’m almost 38 and I am terrified. Every time I don’t feel well, have a stomachache, have weird and random pains, I think “This is it. I’m getting the Judi package.”

Just like I do every January, I stare in the mirror on the 1^st day of the year and try to motivate myself to do better for myself. When everyone flocks to the gym to undo the prior year’s indiscretions, I’m thinking: “THIS is the year I make it count.” And then I don’t. It feels a lot like denial. This is probably because it is denial. And yet knowing that it is denial and fear, I still retreat instead of attack.

Right at this very moment, I’m kind of sick. I look fine, give or take bags under my eyes and the occasional pimple. My illness can’t be seen, but my goodness can it be felt: STRESS. Served up often, and always piping hot.  I cannot shake it, no matter how many naps I take, hugs I give my dog, and wonderful times I spend with my boyfriend, friends and family. Stress owns me.

My stress levels in 2011-2012 were so high, that my digestive system is now in defense mode. This means that on some days, I can’t even digest a glass of water without having pain. I don’t have a Gluten problem: I have a problem with channeling stress so it doesn’t attack my stomach.

When I feel sick, my self-esteem plummets. It feels hopeless to try and get better, because “I’m just going to get stressed out about something and then I won’t feel well.” So I stopped going to the gym, and I stopped going to Yoga. I just didn’t feel good all over, inside and out. And that just made it worse.

Over a week ago, I woke up and decided to stop letting stress win. Any time something stressful entered my mind and body, I pretended it was a balloon, and I let it go. This may seem silly, but I had the picture in my mind of me as a scrappy little kid, holding a big balloon, and letting it fly up into the sky, watching it fade until it was the size of a speck of dust. I clearly was not prepared for the ensuing feeling of awesome, and the impact of it was so immense that one of those times I ended up crying in the bathroom at work (Oops!). It was new to not feel the anxiety and anger build up in my gut. I owned my gut, not stress.

Suffice it to say, that feeling was enough for me. I’m seeing a Naturopath to help me figure it all out, and I’m checking out different fitness possibilities to keep my mind and body healthy and awake. Because really, I’m almost 38 and I can’t live like this anymore.

So here’s to no more stress. And here’s to drinking a glass of water without feeling sick. And truly, here’s to my Mom: The fiercest warrior I ever knew. I hope I can kick ass as well as she did.

The Festival of Lights

Latkes are my favourite!

When I was a kid, I quit Chanukah.  

Chanukkah.

Hannukah.

Hanukkah.

However you spell it, I wanted nothing to do with it.

I was about 9 years old when I declared my disenchantment with the festival of lights. I told my Mom that I wanted to celebrate Christmas instead, because all of my friends at school did. I was one of only a handful of Jewish students in a small elementary school, and I wanted to do what everyone else was doing. Naturally.

My Mom found this humorous. She thoughtfully reminded me that I was born into the Jewish faith, and there was not one thing wrong with that. She also told me that I was free to choose the religion I wanted to subscribe to, and if I chose none at all, she would love me all the same. She even took me to our local public library, so I could read about the Jewish holidays, and the holidays of other faiths. If I was going to make a decision, it was going to be an educated one. With colorful pictures and huge print.

That year, I explored Christmas. I read about the baby Jesus, the wise men, and the *gasp* Virgin Mary (Hey, I was a kid!). I helped a classmate decorate her Christmas tree. I was pretty much done with Chanukah. My family, however, continued to celebrate the holiday. My Dad would help my brother hold the shamash as he lit the other candles. They all said the prayer, as I sat at the kitchen table and didn’t participate. They lit the candles, and then we all ate dinner together. When I reached for the latkes, my mother smirked and jokingly said “Those are for Chanukah.” I scowled at her.  This went on for several nights. As the holiday drew to a close, I approached my Mom to say I had changed my mind. I wanted to be Jewish again.

She smiled at me and raised her eyebrows when she asked me what had changed. She hugged me tightly when I said: “I missed lighting the candles with you, Daddy and Adam. I didn’t like being by myself.” And that’s how I learned the most important thing about faith: Having faith, no matter where you stand on the idea of religion, is about being with family, and never ever feeling alone.

Although I’m not religious at all, and often joke that I’m Jew-ish, I have always had faith. I have always believed in family, and tradition, no matter the format. In my home, there will be a menorah AND a Christmas tree, for both me and Tyler. This weekend when I head to Trenton to visit his family, I’m bringing the menorah my Mom got me for my first apartment in Toronto, and a bunch of fancy candles to light. Lighting the menorah is how I stay connected to my heritage, but mostly how I stay connected to my family and my childhood. It is the only holiday I truly celebrate, because it reminds me of the freedom I was given to choose, and to be my own person. And I also love latkes, and would eat them every day if it were socially acceptable. With applesauce.

So to all of my Jewish friends, I wish you a very festive and happy Chanukah. May your latkes be plentiful, and may your dreidel games win you heaps of gelt.

Here's some Adam Sandler to make it extra special. Eight craaaaazy nights!

To everyone who is reading this (thank you!), Jewish and not: 

May you always have faith in something. And let there always be family and friends to support you, and remind you why just being YOU is enough.

Happy Holidays!

Nameless Thanks

Always get the Cheeseburger.

When my brother and I were kids, there was this one restaurant the family always frequented. We always ordered the same thing, and the car ride to the restaurant was just as exciting as the actual meal. The words “Are we there yet?” and “I’m hungry!” were uttered so many times, my parents turned up the radio to tune us out. Even parking the car was a good time, trying to find a place close to the restaurant, which happened to be on the always-busy Rue Ste-Catherine Ouest. The restaurant of choice was Mr. Steer, and they still make my favorite burger EVER.

When I come home to Montreal, I still try to get out to Mr. Steer for a bite. When I’m there, my mind is always flooded with memories of my brother and I staring at the menu and ordering our burgers, eating the bread and butter pickles out of the jar much to our mother’s dismay. Walking in there now, the floors are still slick and slippery with burger grease and/or a recent cleaning, and the booths are still too small. There is still a small plastic dispenser of Kraft French salad dressing at each table, and jars of bread and butter pickles that remind me of the old days. The burgers aren’t huge, but they are thick and very juicy. The signature ‘Suzie Q’ fries still make us say: “Check out how long and curly this fry is!” They even sell the Thrills gum behind the counter at the cash, the kind my Mom loved even though it tastes like soap.

Although the restaurant fit most of the requirements to be a dive, it was our favorite place to eat. It was Mom’s place first, when she was a kid. And then it was ours. A place we all loved. A treat we enjoyed as a family, even if Adam and I bickered and annoyed each other the entire time, and drove my parents crazy.

The Millers didn’t need fine dining. It was always about being together, sharing fries and a piece of my parents’ history. The whole process of driving downtown from the suburbs was an adventure in itself: If it was a nice night, my father would roll down the windows for us so we could people watch on Ste-Catherine. My Mom would point out the *ahem* street walkers, which probably was ill-advised for kids under 12, because we took it upon ourselves to yell “Look at the HOOKERS!!!” not really knowing what we were saying. Did I mention the windows were rolled down?

Over the years, I’ve tried many different burgers. In Toronto, my boyfriend and I were on a burger mission of sorts, trying the best of the best that our city had to offer. Still, the Mr. Steer cheeseburger is my favorite. It might not be the biggest burger, and it might not be made of bison or buffalo, but it’s delicious and it reminds me of my childhood, and my Mom. You can travel the world and try a million different flavors, but the taste of home is hard to reproduce.

One particular Mr. Steer visit will always be in my heart, and the point of this post. I’m just taking a long time to get there. Although totally possible that I’d write it someday, this isn’t just a blog post about burgers.

A few weeks before my Mom died, she asked if she could go home. We couldn’t give her the full spectrum care that she needed at our house, and the Jewish General Hospital truly took such amazing care of her it didn’t make sense to remove her from her care team. The doctors and nurses felt that no harm would be done if she was home for a day, and organized it for a Saturday afternoon. 

I’m not sure it has been mentioned on the blog before, but the placement of my Mom’s tumor was such that its size enabled it to push through her bladder and press directly onto her sciatic nerve. She had no mobility in her left leg, and was so swollen she could no longer walk. She was also hooked up to morphine, and a catheter. Coming home was going to require some effort, and she was coming home on a hospital bed.

The ambulance technicians arrived at our house, and began to carry her bed into the house. As they brought her up the steps to our front door, she softly asked them to stop. They paused on the front stoop. It was unseasonably warm out that day, almost like summer, and she told them that she wanted to feel the sun on her face. She took her arms out from under the sheets and held them up to the sun, tilting her chin up to feel the sun beaming down on her face, warming her.

They placed her gently on the sofa, where my brother and I sat by her, holding her hands. That was the last time she ever came home.

When it was time for her to return to the hospital, the ambulance technicians gingerly placed her back on the hospital bed and put her back into the ambulance. And then they created what might have been the most beautiful moment ever, simply by asking: “Is there anywhere else you’d like to go?”

Mr. Steer.

That’s where she wanted to go. She wanted a burger and Suzie Q fries.

So on arguably the busiest street in downtown Montreal, the ambulance double-parked, and the technicians waited with my Mom while my Dad went in to order burgers and fries for everyone. She didn’t eat much of her Mr.Steer burger, but the small bites she had were, in one word: “Delicious.”

My Dad always says that his one regret was that he never got the names of the ambulance technicians that day, because he so wanted to thank them for their kindness and compassion. I wrote this post today in hopes that this makes their way to them, so they know that their wonderful deed has been remembered and appreciated all these years:

On April 29^th, 2006, two ambulance technicians from the Jewish General Hospital gave my Mom, Judi Rival Miller, the gift of sunshine, love, and a trip to Mr. Steer. If you’re reading this, thank you from the Miller family. You made her day, and ours. We have never forgotten you, we just never knew your names. 

Rebel With A Cause

In a previous post, I mentioned having some trouble with family members that did not have my best interests at heart. Although I’ve moved on from them, one thing I heard mentioned in the last 15 months of drama was that I’m not a good person, and terribly selfish. I’m the “black sheep” of the family, apparently.

Selfish:(Adjective): Concerned excessively or exclusively with oneself. Seeking or concentrating on one's own advantage, pleasure, or well-being without regard for others. Arising from concern with one's own welfare or advantage in disregard of others <a selfish act>.

And so I sat here, at my computer, for an hour. Typing and erasing. Wondering if that’s true. And coming to the realization that no, it's not.

We all have our need for “me” time, and sometimes that’s disconnecting from all social media (which I’ve done), or taking a Yoga class. Sometimes it’s taking yourself away for a weekend to re-balance.

I think we all often peg ourselves as selfless, but I wonder if those who consider themselves beyond altruistic really understand what that means. Being charitable and giving your money away doesn’t make you any less selfish if you’re only about yourself on a regular basis.

My immediate family has always been a charitable bunch, with our hearts, our time, and sometimes in a monetary manner. My Mom was always available to help a friend, be it by listening to someone talk out their troubles, or by stocking a fridge when a friend was on their way home from an extended trip. It was a never a question. It’s just who she was. She was like the best concierge ever at Hotel Friendship. In more news, my goodness was that corny.

Dad is the same way, if not more. He is selfless beyond what’s necessary, and sometimes is so helpful with labourious tasks that he exhausts himself. This drives me nuts, and I shake my fist at him often. I don’t like when he’s not feeling well because he wanted to help, but that’s just the wonderful human he is. When a gift to friends and family is required, it is often a donation in their name to my mother’s Cancer research fund at the Jewish General Hospital in Montreal, the Judi Miller Fund. If my Dad only had $5.00, and needed to get someone a gift, he would donate it. Most of us would take that $5.00 and buy a latte at a fancy coffee shop, myself included.

My brother and I learned early on that giving is more important than receiving. My Mom stressed that notion to us often. In our thirties, we both try to help people where we can, when we can. Sometimes giving can take a turn for the worse, and my Dad is often on my case because I’ve been known to befriend people because I think I can help them, only to learn that it’s not my job to help those that are trouble unto themselves. I have learned from my Dad that although I can certainly help with sailing tips, the boat and the wind are someone else’s to master.

I’ve only volunteered once in my life, and I think that will be a 2013 goal to rectify. I can do more, and time is something I can definitely give. And though I haven’t donated tons of money, I’ve given of myself in other ways: In 2003 and 2007, I cut off my ponytail and donated it to those going through chemo so that they might have wigs made. Short hair on a redhead with curls is not a good look, I can assure you. I looked like Little Orphan Annie. 

Both donation moments were shared with a tremendously close friend, B, who chopped my locks both times, and then let me cry and hugged me at the meaning of it all. She’s the good egg who shaved my Mom’s head in our kitchen, when the chemo began to take its toll. My Mom asked her for help, and B didn't even hesitate. She even asked my Mom if she needed a moment to reflect and take a deep breath before she turned on the electric razor. You don't find hearts like that very often.

In 2008, I participated in the Weekend to End Women’s Cancers, and walked 60km in the cold rain in my Mom’s memory, raising money for the cause. It was the most intense thing I've ever done, and something everyone should try once. Just to be part of something so meaningful and amazing.

Since I lost my Mom, people recommend me to friends who have suffered familial loss as someone who has gone through the same trauma, and who is a very good and empathetic listener. I try to be that person every day. Some days aren’t so easy, and sometimes the shoulder I lend is abused, but I do try to be available when friends or “friends of friends” need to talk, no matter the situation. And although I write this blog for myself, I know that it serves a purpose for the bereaved in the Hope and Cope group at the Jewish General Hospital.

This week I’m hosting a swap party in my home, where my girlfriends and I can swap clothing and accessories without spending a cent. Anything leftover is being donated to Goodwill or Dress for Success, which if you haven’t heard of please click the link. It’s such an awesome cause, and one my Mom for sure would have supported.

If you’re reading this and saying “She’s trying to prove something!” I can assure you I’m not. I have a hard enough time remembering to drink enough water daily, so trust that my motivation is communication only.

What I’m trying to say is that there are ways of being charitable and selfless that don’t require your money, just your heart. Maybe one person will read this and be energized into doing something small, something amazing.

If you’re lacking inspiration, I’ve got some to offer:

My 11 year old cousin just chopped off a foot of pretty blonde hair, and donated it to a charity that helps children with Cancer get wigs made with real hair. Although she’s only 11, she has been touched by Cancer three times already. She lost her Grandpa (my Dad’s brother) and two beloved aunties, one of which was my Mom. That’s a lot of loss for one kid, for anyone really. She’s so young, and yet she has taken her sadness and allowed it to motivate her to do good things for others. Maybe her Mom will let her read this one post, because I don’t think I have ever been prouder of anyone in my whole life. Tea, you’re a very special little lady. And you’re my favorite, but don’t tell anyone. *wink*

We can all do something small, even if it is just giving an unsolicited cup of coffee to a stressed out colleague.

Let’s all mirror the heart of a 6^th grader today.

Do something good.

The Times They Are A Changin'...

This is going to be a weird post, because my Dad reads these.

In the last 9 months, my father has been seeing someone. A woman. He’s DATING A WOMAN.

I’m his biggest cheerleader in terms of getting back “out into the field,” but I don’t think I really ever realized what it would feel like once he actually did. It feels crazy. My heart beats all happy-like and breaks at the same time. I feel weird.

On the one hand, I can’t even imagine what it must be like to start dating someone once you’ve been widowed. As someone who has been divorced, moving on makes sense. That person, for whatever reason, wasn’t the right one for you, nor you for them. But when your spouse dies…that’s a whole other kettle of fish.

My parents were happy. I mean, they had their moments (who doesn’t), but after over 30yrs of marriage, they clearly loved each other very much. So I admit here on the interwebs that I am working on how to cope with these feelings I’m having, and maybe my Dad is feeling the exact same way. I’d only ever known him with my Mom, so the notion of seeing him with someone else was foreign, even uncomfortable for me as I pictured it in my head.

For months, it was like this woman was a secret. It seemed like my brother and I would never meet her. She was the Snuffalupagus. All in all, we were happy for him. His zest for life had made a return, and I could hear happiness in his voice when I spoke to him. I helped him plan meals and desserts when he cooked for her at home, and I went shopping with him for new clothes for a trip to the tropics. I even went out and bought her a Christmas gift, because the thought of him being in a mall trying to figure it out in the midst of the holiday madness made me nervous, and I was fairly certain he’d come home with a potato, a ceramic giraffe and a bag of black licorice (for himself).

Months went by, and it all seemed fairly normal. Except for the part where we hadn’t met her yet. And then I started to wonder if maybe my Dad was afraid for us to meet her. Or that maybe he just wasn’t sure how HE felt about the whole thing. About dating in general. About his children meeting a woman he was fond of, that wasn’t our Mom. I don’t even know how you do that. I am clueless as to what this feels like for my father.

On a trip home in mid-July, I finally met my Dad’s companion and her daughter. My father hosted a BBQ for us to meet. Adam had met her prior to me coming home, so I was essentially the missing link. When I called my brother to ask what she was like, hoping for some insight, he said “She’s short.” Which wasn’t much help, clearly. I had daily panic attacks for the week leading up to this meeting, so I can only imagine my Dad was feeling a little anxious as well. I cried when I was alone with my boyfriend, and couldn’t put my finger on the real WHY. My father has a right to happiness, and to companionship. My weird and obscure fear of meeting her bothered me.

This weekend after some bizarre nightmares about my Mom and weird memories of our time in the hospital, I realized what was upsetting me: It wasn’t that my father has moved forward with his life. It was that it is another reminder that my Mom isn’t coming back. And as juvenile a notion as that is, that’s how I was feeling. She is gone. And my memories of her in my kitchen are still so vivid, so seeing another woman in there helping me slice tomatoes and pickles was unfathomable to me. Seeing her gently touch my Dad’s forearm at the table, and hearing the smack of a kiss in the hallway simultaneously gutted me and made me happy for my Dad. I thought people saying “I’m not trying to replace your Mom” was something they only said in the movies, so when she said it to me during a moment alone at the BBQ, I almost burst into tears.

I always think about what it must be like for my Dad to move on and to try and create a new normal as a widower. I try to picture his side of the coin before I ask questions or make decisions. And I wonder if this time we’re feeling the same thing, for the same reason. Fear, hope, and love. All at once. Some days I get it, and some days I don’t. I figure it’s the same for him.

Oh, and meeting “J” and her daughter was totally fine. They were great, we had a nice evening, and “J” is clearly quite smitten with my Dad. I mean, he’s pretty fantastic so that’s a given!

Just when I think I’ve got it all in the bag, life moves forward with a new change and a new kick in the pants. It doesn’t much care if I'm ready or not. Like anyone else, I just have to manage through whatever the pivotal moment is, and cry if required. I have good days and bad days. And I learn from both. My Dad is dating. And even if I’m not ready for it, he is. And that is the most important thing.

Music Notes

My Favorite Dance Partner

In order to fully appreciate this post, I ask that you click the music links. That way you get a feel for my love for music, and a peek into our kitchen where the music happened.

I have been obsessed with music for as far back as my memories go. Music is so enmeshed in my genetic make-up that I don’t think I could function without it. Basically, I can’t live without music. It’s a bold statement, I know: It’s the truth.

Some of my first steps were probably dance moves, wiggling my little diapered bum in time to the music. And some of my first accidents were because I didn’t have enough balance yet, and danced myself face first into the bricks surrounding our fireplace. My father loves to tell that story, by the way. And it happened 35 years ago. *sigh*

I loved hearing the tunes in my ears. I didn’t know what band it was, I didn’t know who was singing, but the moment my parents threw the needle on the record, I was in heaven. My earliest memories of music are of my Mom singing to me while strumming on her guitar. She had the prettiest voice, and I remember feeling warm and safe when she sang to me. Sometimes it was The Beatles. Sometimes it was Carole King. It was always Leonard Cohen. I knew the words to So Long, Marianne before I knew the words to Raffi’s Baby Beluga.

My parents always made sure there was music in our home. We had a very fancy turntable and stereo system. We even had speakers in OTHER rooms in the house, and it was the 1970’s. That’s some very advanced technology. Although there was plenty of kiddie music to go around, like Sharon, Lois and Bram, Raffi, Fred Penner and Free To Be, You And Me, I was obsessed with all of my parents’ music. This song by Flamenco Fever Hands and Feet made me go insane with joy when my Dad played it. The clapping, the stomping and the beat: I went nuts for it. I stomped my little feet, slapped my hands together and laughed my face off. I think there is probably incriminating video somewhere, my Dad tends to keep all of my embarrassing moments on tape.

We grew up in a house filled with music. Our vinyl collection was insane. As a kid, my Mom gave me the important job of making sure the albums weren’t out of order. Beatles with Beatles, in order of year. James Taylor’s albums needed to be at the front of the pack so she could see his face, her “Sweet Baby James.” My Dad is planning on living to be 107 years old so that the fight between Adam and I over who gets the Iron Butterfly album is delayed. I even remember locking myself in the bathroom with Heart’s self-titled album in 1990, trying to get my eye make-up to look like Nancy Wilson’s.

In a previous post I mentioned that whenever my Mom was cooking, she would put on The Beatles. Her favorite song was Rocky Raccoon, and she taught my brother and I the words so we could sing it with her. She loved music with a story, just as I do now. She once taught me the words to Why Don't We Do It In The Road, with a funny little smile on her face. She explained Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds to me. I grew up in my kitchen, watching her cook, learning about music. Listening to the lyrics, and soaking it all in. I’m guessing my strange ability to learn and recite lyrics after one listen is due to my Mom’s instructions to “open my ears”. I can’t remember where I put my keys, but ask me the lyrics to any song and I probably know them.

Every time Julia came on, my Dad would stroll into the kitchen and sing to her, giving her a little squeeze as he walked through. Julia was her full name. Judi was the name she preferred. To this day, I have a fairly intense reaction to hearing that song. It’s like I am instantly back in my Mom’s kitchen, watching my parents love each other, while a song about a beautiful girl with seashell eyes and a windy smile plays on. I miss those days so much I ache. I ache for a time when things were simple. And the only things that mattered were love and music.

My mother and I shared love, music and a car, and there was always some CD or other already loaded, ready to go before she even put her seatbelt on. Road trips required some very essential CDs, like the Gipsy Kings, Emo Philips comedy, and James Taylor. One time when we’d had a fight, my mother left her love note to me in the car. A post-it note on the steering wheel said “Put on song #7, from me to you. Love Mom.” And when I did, Carole King’s beautiful voice came out of the speakers, singing You’ve Got A Friend. Music said things we weren’t brave enough to say. It said with lyrics what was in our hearts when we were at a loss for words.

Even at weddings, I never needed to bring a date. If my parents were going to be there, I danced with them. So did everyone else, for that matter. They knew how to get a party going, and danced long after the “old folks” had gone to sit down and pick at the sweet table. My Dad even has a specific dance move that I love. And whenever our song comes on, Stevie Wonder’s Sir Duke he is nimble on his feet, busting that move with me with a smile on his face.

If you think I’m a little music obsessed, I got it from Dad. He’s a music freak. I’ve made him numerous mixed tapes and CDs over the years, introducing him to The Avett Brothers, Rufus Wainwright, and other artists he’d not listened to before. Whenever I go home to visit, he guilt trips me with this sentence: “You haven’t given me any new music lately.” His musical collection rivals mine. He’s been at it longer than me, natch. Being able to share music with my Dad makes me so happy. Above all else, we have bonded over music. We have healed our hearts while listening to bluegrass. We have laughed while my Dad dances around to My Humps by the Black Eyed Peas. I also am shaking my head that I just linked to that song. What a difference 30+ years make.

I love music so much that I’ve gone so far as to not want to date someone who doesn’t love it as much as I do. This is crazy, I know. I live according to Nietzsche’s quote: "Without music, life would be an error." So to, would be dating someone who doesn’t love music. When telling a friend about someone new and special in my life, she asked me: “But Amy, does he love music as much as you do?” I’m true to my heart, if not totally predictable. Oh, and yes he does: This someone is so special that he surprised me with tickets to see Leonard Cohen in concert.

I can attribute songs to my favorite memories of my Mom, for nearly every year of my life. Truly, my Mom was music for me. She was, and always will be my favorite song. Music and memories are built to last. Our job is to make sure to play the tunes and tell the stories that mean something to us.  

Music you have healed me. You have propelled me forward. You have opened my heart and mind. Without you, Music, I never would have known my Mom or Dad. And I certainly wouldn’t dance in my kitchen while cooking, just like when I was a kid.

And as John Lennon sang for his late mother, Julia, I write to my Mom in this blog post: “When I cannot sing my heart, I can only speak my mind…”