The Dance of Motherless Daughters

 

In early 2006, I ran across a book while searching for something that would help me love my nephews well after the sudden and devastating loss of their mother. The book, Motherless Daughters, by Hope Edelman (2006), was the results of a nation-wide bereavement study, coupled with Edelman’s own research on mother-loss. I bought the book, thinking, at the very least, I would gain understanding into losing a mother by death, and would perhaps learn something that could help me understand a bit more about what my nephews were going through at the ages of 5 and 9 years old. I was surprised, however, to find that Edelman’s book gave me profound insight into another experience of loss that had touched my life indirectly (or at least I thought it was indirectly at the time).

My mother, Wanda, was a motherless daughter. This fact I knew my whole life, and I also knew that it was her greatest sadness. Mom’s mother, Edith, passed away unexpectedly when Mom was only 3 years and 3 months old. I grew up knowing about Mom’s mother-loss, but it was not until I read Motherless Daughters, that I truly had comprehension of how life-altering Mom’s early experience of loss was for her. This is what Edelman (2006) said,

            Our mothers are our most direct connection to our history and our gender. Regardless of how well we think they did their job, the void their absence [through dementia or death] creates in our lives is never completely filled again. (p. 69).

I had always wondered why Mom had a hard time moving past her mother’s death, even as an adult. Edelman (2006) helped me understand that

motherless daughters constantly try to situate their mother within the current context of their own lives. [Britton, 2021, p. 34] ... The surviving member of the relational dyad continues to live in the loss of the interactional identity [between herself and her mother] but must find a way to continue the bonds of the relationship moving forward. (p. 44).

I realized that Mom had been in a renegotiation of her relationship – her dance, if you will – with her mom since she was 3 years old. With very few real memories to enlighten her view, Mom continued to grieve her mother-loss with every new milestone in her own life: her graduation from high school, her wedding, the birth of her children, her career, the loss of her brother, the births of her grandchildren. She reached for that interactional identity and sought ways to continue her inextricable bond with her mother.

I, too, looked for ways to have a relationship with a woman I never met and only saw one image of in a family picture. I longed to have known my Grandma Owens, wondering if I would have called her Nanny or Nana, like so many children in Arkansas call their grandmothers. I just knew she would be delighted to know my cousin, Karen and me, and would have called us her “twins,” since we were only 10 days apart in age, and had dark hair and dark coloring. We would have been her shadows, learning all we could from our grandma, while our moms watched on with pride. This is how I learned to have a shared relationship with this woman I never met, but who touched my life deeply because she had an interactional shared identity with my mom.

On this day last year, 365 short days ago (December 31, 2023), I spent my last 24 hours with my mom on this side of heaven. It was a quiet, peaceful Sunday. As she lay in her bed, warm under her blanket, transitioning to a new life, I sat vigil next to her. We “watched” the KC Chiefs play, something we would often do together. I held her hand, spoke softly to her, and reminded her how much I loved her. When nighttime came, I couldn’t pull myself away to go home and sleep. I told Marty I didn’t know what to do. He said, “What does your heart tell you to do?” I said, “It tells me to stay.” So, I did. I curled up in the recliner where I could watch her breathe, and drifted off to sleep, lulled by the rhythmic inhalations and exhalations coming from her bed. I had heard a very measured, even breathing like this before so it didn’t scare me. In 2018, I sat for 34 days next to a person in an ICU whose very life was sustained by a ventilator. As I closed my eyes next to mom and dozed in and out, I imagined that I was just hearing a ventilator doing its job again. I slept.

At 5:50 a.m. or shortly thereafter, the night aide made one last check on Mom as she was completing her rounds for the night. She woke me up with these words, “Happy New Year, Miss Wanda.” I heard Mom’s rhythmic breathing and started to close my eyes again. But as I lay there quietly, I suddenly realized the “sound of the ventilator” had stopped. The rhythm was no more. I opened my eyes and looked over at Mom just in time to see her take two deep and relaxing breaths. She closed her mouth and it was over. In that sacred moment, shortly before 6:00 a.m., I became what my mother had been for 86 years – a motherless daughter.

Mom and I had always had a good relationship, but like many mothers and daughters, we struggled during my adolescence as I tried to become my own person. Added to my own emotional and physical upheaval was the fact that Mom had her own emotional struggles during those years. She was not the best version of herself for about 10 years, and to be honest, she was a very difficult person to be around most of the time. Because we had a shared relationship, however, and because our interactional identity was so strong, we weathered that storm and, I think, became closer as a result. Mom’s final 20 years of life were peaceful, serene, and without some of the emotional chaos that had marked the previous 10 years. We never had the kind of relationship where we went shopping or out to lunch, but we had quiet moments together playing games, reading books, and just living life. I much prefer that, I think.

Over this year, as I’ve reflected on Mom’s life, and as I’ve tried to “continue the bonds of the relationship [with her] moving forward,” (Britton, 2021, p. 44), I’ve thought much about how changing the dance steps to walk her home with dignity became not only my mission but my heartbeat. When I wrote my doctoral dissertation in late 2020 and into early 2021, Mom was at a critical juncture in her health care. COVID-19 caused many dance steps to be changed for everyone, but for Mom and me, I felt like we started a completely new dance. As I listened to other daughters of dementia share about their caregiving journeys walking their mothers home, I was also negotiating big changes in Mom’s own dementia journey. For the sake of the research, I had to bracket my feelings and distance myself and my own experiences from that of my participants. But once, the research study was complete, I was able to reflect on all I learned. What I wrote about my participants, I lived out with my mother over the next 2½ years until her death:

            Each daughter’s candid and thoughtful dialogue about her caregiving journey revealed conscious and unconscious efforts to change the dance steps in order to move with the innocence of dementia as daughters worked to protect their mothers’ identity, preserve their relationships with their mothers, and insulate themselves from the loss of shared identity by following their mother’s example and drawing on their lifetime of intimate exchange with their mothers. (Britton, 2021, p. 323).

Like all of my participants, I “made a commitment to stay with Mom until she passed, regardless of the difficulty of the journey” (Britton, 2021, p. 324). One of my participants shared, “And I’d often say, we’d go for walks and I’d say, ‘I’m gonna walk you all the way home. And I did ... literally” (p. 330). Walking Mom home became,

about the intimate exchange between [us] – mother and daughter, caregiver and cared for. [It was about] the privileges and pains of caregiving, the gratitude and the regrets, of learning to do something because it is the right thing to do, even if it was never or will never be reciprocated. (p. 330).

Just as many of my participants came to realize at the end of their caregiving journey, I realized that it was my privilege to “overcome past relationship issues in order to provide safe, loving care for [my] mother that guarded her dignity and promoted [my] sense of perceived obligation in caregiving” (Britton, 2021, p. 430). But more than just fulfilling an obligation, I extended my shared relationship with my mom. I learned how to continue my bonds with her;

I felt a sense of accomplishment and purpose from having mindfully walked her home. ... My shared identity with Mom was irrevocably altered, [and I feel that today] I have a stronger relationship with [her] as a result of [our] shared dance. (p. 446)

Today, it has been 365 days since I last held Mama’s hand, since I last heard her rhythmic breathing. It’s been 366 days since I’ve looked into her twinkling blue eyes. It’s been over 366 days since I’ve seen her beautiful smile. I miss her as much – maybe more – today as I did on January 1 of this year. There is so much I want to tell her. I catch myself looking for her. I hear myself making a mental note to tell her about the latest family happenings. I still remind myself to “go get Mom” and bring her to the church service, or family dinner, or birth of her great-granddaughter. These intrusive thoughts stop me short every time. Even now, as I write this, my eyes burn with the tears of missing these moments of our shared relationship. I miss Mom more than I can say. There was a time in my life where I didn’t know how I would feel when she was gone, but our shared dance steps changed that. I’d walk her home over and over again if I could.

She speaks to me even now. As part of gathering up and sorting through the last of my parents’ keepsakes, I stumbled on some writings of Mom’s when she was only 23 years old. I was a new bride with a new purpose – to share in life and ministry with my pastor-husband. And Mom spoke to me; this young, 23-year-old woman who was embarking on a life of ministry with her new pastor-husband in 1957 said,

I’ve been thinking lately about the job of pastor and his wife. You know, Honey, we are the servants of the people there. We’re nothing but instruments in God’s Hand for the purpose of serving and ministering to His people at that place. I have a lot of self to get rid of before I’ll be the servant of the people I ought to be. I pray that self will die that He may live in me. (Wanda Owens, 12-5-57)

Today, I remember Mama. I remember all she was, all she stood for, and all she taught me. I remember the good times and the challenging times. I remember the laughter and the tears. But most of all, I remember the privilege of changing the dance steps so I could walk her home and preserve our shared identity. It’s been one year since she left for heaven, and I cannot wait for the day when I can join her and tell her how much her life impacted my own.

Happy New Year in heaven, Mama. I love you.

 

Britton, K. B. (2021). Dancing with Mom: The shared identity between caregiving daughters and their mothers with dementia: A qualitative narrative study [Publication No. 28546883) [Doctoral dissertation, Northcentral University]. ProQuest Dissertations and Theses Global. https://www.proquest.com/docview/2572567030?pq-origsite=gscholar&fromopenview=true&sourcetype=Dissertations%20&%20Theses

Edelman, H. (2006). Motherless daughters: The legacy of loss. Da Capo Lifelong Books.

Of Lasts ... and Firsts

Of Lasts … and Firsts

“This is the last time I will …”

                “Do you remember the last time we …”

                                “This is our last day in …”

 If you’re like me, you’ve said it before: “This is the last … .” The last day of vacation, the last ride on the roller coaster, the last time to cross the threshold of a hated class, the last time to see someone you love on this side of heaven. It seems the lasts are always mentioned and are often marked in our  memories as fond or foul. Some lasts are significant and we can clearly demarcate the moment they occurred. I remember the last time I left a hospital with a brand new baby; I savored every moment of that last birth experience. And I will always remember the last “first day of kindergarten”  with my youngest child. I looked at the doors of the school as we approached and thought, “Ok; this is the last time I start a child in this school. Thirteen more years … I can do this.”

Some of our lasts are significant, but we can’t pinpoint the moment those actions or occurrences became the last – we only know they were in retrospect. I remember my babies crawling, and I remember their first steps, but I don’t remember the day when they no longer crawled anywhere. I remember my son’s imaginary friends who went everywhere with us. And then one day, I woke up and realized they were no longer a daily or even weekly mention. When did they go away? When was the last time he talked about these treasured “members” of our family?

Maybe you’re like me; the lasts in your life take on an importance that you know must be documented, or that are so seared in your brain that they become a core memory. Here are just a few of the lasts that I carry with me and refer to often:

   

• I remember the last conversation I had with my sister-in-law before her death. I was in Thailand and she was in Northwest Washington. We had an email conversation about next steps in caring for my parents. At the time, I had no idea it would be the last time we talked, and I wish I would have expressed my love for her in that email – but I didn’t know.

• I remember the last walk down the center aisle at my church as a single woman. I knew life would never be the same as I leaned on my dad’s arm and all eyes were upon me. I tried to savor every moment of that last time when it was just my dad and me, walking in the sanctuary.

• I remember the last day my daughter sat with her high school classmates and sang with her high school choir. I treasured every moment of her graduation day, knowing it would never be the same again around our house.

• I remember waking up to see my mom’s last two breaths on this earth.

This has been a year of lasts for us. Beginning with Mom’s first day in heaven, I have experienced the last time to see her on this side of eternity. I have attended my last Sunday service at my beloved church in rural Hesston. I have driven out of Halstead for the last time as a resident of more than 14 years. I have locked the doors to my little house on Chestnut for the last time, bidding its safety and security a fond farewell. Marty and I said goodbye to a single life (very willingly!), experiencing the lasts of doing things “our own way.” And now, we have experienced the last day in our De Soto home. For me, this last is not as significant – I only lived in the house for 3 months. But for Marty, his last day in De Soto marked the end of a 26-year journey of living, loving, and raising a family in a house he and Joni built and a home they treasured. So, we pause to remember the lasts.

The lasts are important. They signify pivotal moments in our lives that represent change. We mark time by the lasts. We set up “stones of remembrance” (Joshua 4:1-8) because they help us recognize God’s goodness to us, even in the hard times of life. The lasts remind us that “there is a time for everything” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). They remind us to treasure those around us, and to absorb the wonder of God’s world more keenly and with reverence. But the lasts also do one thing that nothing else can do … they signify the firsts that follow. And firsts can be good, if we let them be. Firsts can comfort us in our moments of lasts; firsts can excite us for a new beginning; firsts can delight us with the realization of new skills gained or new experiences attained. Firsts represent new things. And God calls us to place our hope in the firsts: “See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland” (Isaiah 43:19).

What is better than a first? A first time to watch the wonder of a child’s gaze when they discover something new. A first time to experience a thrilling new piece of music. A first look at your new baby. A first breath in heaven. When my mother said goodbye to 2023, she woke up bright and early on January 1, 2024, with her first glimpse of heaven. Even as I watched her last two breaths here, Mom took her first breath in the arms of her Savior – how could I deny her that first just to hold onto my lasts? And although our lasts are often deeply embedded in our memories, they can be enhanced by the firsts that come along after.

Today, we celebrate the first! Today, we step inside our brand new home for the first time as its homeowners. We will be the first to use the dishwasher, the first to cook on the stove, the first to fill the house with the perfumed scent of candles, the first to sleep in the safety of this home’s walls. I’ve never experienced a first like this – a brand new home full of possibilities. It is a little bit like what I imagine Mom felt when she heard, “Happy New Year, Miss Wanda,” and opened her eyes to the beauty of heaven. Oh, I know our first day in our new home pales in comparison to the first day in heaven, but the freshness, the possibilities, the wonder that the old life is over and the new life has begun (2 Corinthians 5:17) are gifts we do not take for granted. We experienced the lasts – the good moments and the sad moments – we will treasure the memories and remember the lessons for the rest of our lives. But today – we rejoice in the firsts. We rejoice that God has made all things new for us.

Welcome to our new home!

From Lasts … Happy to be HOME	To Firsts … Our Door is ALWAYS Open