Pride, Joy and Sadness

It's been a banner few days at our house. If you've read the last couple of blog entries, you know that I somehow managed to wrangle what was a story in my head six months ago into an actual, published e-book yesterday. (The paperback and non-Kindle versions are coming soon.) It might sell 10 copies or 10,000, but I'm pretty proud of the achievement no matter what happens.

I'm not the only one earning my stripes at our house. Not only did Hubby single-handedly cut up an entire fallen tree in our backyard with a hack saw this weekend, but tonight he brought in the first squash from our summer vegetable garden, where he's been working all spring.

Monkey will be two in a little over a week, and he just learned to count to SIX, in the right order and everything. He's an amazing little boy with a sweet nature and a goofy sense of humor. He loves trains, just like his namesake, a man I knew as a loving grandfather and who raised my mother from the time she was nine. And in about three months, he's going to be a big brother to another little boy who I know will bring equal joy to our lives.

All of this good stuff is laced with a little sadness, since my mother is not here to share in it. She died ten years ago today, and it's hard for me to believe that a decade has passed. I've been thinking for the last couple of months that I would have more to say to mark this milestone: about mothers and daughters in general, and about my own mother specifically. Her spark, her humor, her seemingly endless ability to love those around her (especially my brother and me).

I have to admit, though, now that the day is here, I am at a bit of a loss for words. Maybe it's because both the happy and challenging events of the last couple of months have overcrowded the more reflective emotions of a loss I have lived with for so long. Obviously on some level that's true.

The other thing, the harder thing, is this: when someone you love chooses to take her own life, the grief is different, the pain is different -- even ten years later. Just as sadness lingers, ebbing and flowing with the events of the years, so do the guilt and the anger. I still miss my mom every day, a feeling that has intensified since Monkey came along and I know how much she would have loved and enjoyed him (and vice versa). Underneath that longing will always be two unspoken questions: "How could you choose to leave me?" and "What could I have done to stop you?" Of course there are no answers.

I know from talking to others who have lost loved ones to suicide that these questions are an inevitable part of our reality. I also know that nothing is that simple. So rather than try to unravel the mystery of her choice, or linger on the complexities of our relationship when she was alive, today I focus on what I loved about her: her passion for music, boundless generosity, deep faith, beautiful singing voice, wonderful laugh, enormous capacity for friendship, and much more.

I try -- with mixed results -- to cultivate those characteristics in myself, and I already see them reflected in my son day by day. I believe that is what life, however it ends, is all about: leaving behind something of yourself that can be cherished and passed on in the hearts and memories of those who follow. My mother's life was imperfect and her death tragic; but her legacy can be beautiful. Ten years later, that's the story I would rather write.