Painting Pictures + Making Soup

Matzo Ball Soup, the cure all.

In the nearly 6 years since my Mom died, I’ve noticed that my absolute lowest moments are when I realize that I can’t share my hugely amazing / horrifyingly bad experiences with her.

She wasn’t there for my wedding, or my divorce.

She wasn’t there for the following months of depression, when I was trying to remember who I was or what I was all about.

And now as I work through a recent break-up and equally recent job loss, she isn’t on the other end of the phone talking me through, and making me laugh at my foibles.

In a thoughtful conversation about loss last month, my father asked me if I was angry with her for leaving me, for dying. For not being around when I need her and even when I don’t.

At first I said no. And then realized that maybe I am a little mad after all. Just not at her.

Although I know my mother can’t be blamed for getting Cancer, I often find myself feeling angry that she isn’t at the other end of the phone, and resentful that she was taken from me. Those feelings are always soon replaced by a gaping sadness, and sometimes tears.

I often wonder if there is something wrong with me, still crying at my loss 6 years later. I tell stories about her and still get that lump in my throat. Part of me wishes that feeling would go away, and the other part embraces that sadness for what it is: A colorful memory, a reminder that I’m human. And an ever present reminder of how much I loved my Mom, and how much she loved me.

Every new happening, every new experience, is a jolting reminder that I have to figure things out on my own. Although my Dad has become my sounding board, and the person on whom I can lean when I need to, it isn’t the same as the Mother/Daughter chemistry. And I’m pretty sure my father doesn’t want to hear about my leg waxes and bad dates, although he feigns interest because he loves me.

As a little kid, I would paint pictures or draw at the kitchen table. I would hardly look up from my project, dutifully coloring within the lines, or painting rainbows and houses. And every single time I was done, I would hold it up proudly for my Mother to see, and wait for her to say “That’s beautiful!” or “Good job!” It was that loving validation that made everything worthwhile. I painted for her, I colored for her, and I even brushed my teeth for her:  I only ever wanted to make her proud of me. And now, as an adult, I so miss that validation. I miss hearing my Mother tell me not only that everything will be fine, but that I’m doing a good job.

When you lose a parent, it can feel like you’ve lost your decision-making abilities. You second guess yourself. You can’t make choices without running it by them first, or at least letting them know you’ve done something you’re excited about.

In losing my Mom, I have become my own sounding-board. I do seek opinions and validation from those I love and respect, but at the end of it all the final bang of the gavel is mine. My amazing Dad celebrates my successes and gives me the best advice he can on a regular basis, but I know that I have to be able to stand behind the decisions I make. I am the only person who can really and truly celebrate my accomplishments and learn from my mistakes.

So today as I sit at home with a fever and a sinus infection, I’m making my own damn soup. It’s exactly how she would have made it, but with some tweaks from me.

And it’s really good because I said so.