The Other Side of Mothers Day

My first job out of college was at the Indiana Women's Prison. And this was by choice.  I had a lucrative offer at Merrill Lynch waiting on me, but I was desperate to save the world to the tune of $15k less a year.  My orientation included a day with the chaplain, a short but very large Puerto Rican woman with a thick accent and even thicker facial hair, dressed head to toe in black, complete with priest collar.  She gave me the nickel tour of the chapel where I was sure all these women would find Jesus, told me about all of the programs and various visiting prison ministries and then started poking around to see just how green I really was.

"What do you think is the hardest day of the year for these offenders?"

"Well, it has to be Christmas.  I can't imagine what it must be like for these women to be away from their families on that day," said the know-it-all world savior.

"Not even close," replied the pudgy faced woman.  "Christmas has always been a disappointment for most of these women.  Poverty, abuse, alcoholic fathers, nothing under the tree.  They got used to that real quick. Mother's Day.  That's the day I'm here all weekend, all hours.  Just trying to stop the bleeding. Just trying to get to Monday."

I've thought about that conversation numerous times in the 20 years since I had it.  Why Mother's Day?  It always seemed like such a benign holiday to me on both sides. Construction paper cards, hugs and then we get to go out to eat.  Until 2001.

The year the face of the world changed, happened to also be when one of my own pillars came crashing down.  I lost a baby in late January and by May, no one still seemed to see that the world had stopped turning.  I started looking around and it was the darnedest thing.  Apparently, I wasn't the only person to ever be wounded by the institution of motherhood. The unbelievably insensitive comments were not exclusively headed my direction.  Who knew? So much of our identity as women is tied up in who we mother.

This is my weekend to work but because I work nights, I got home just in time to eat the annual Mother's Day breakfast attempt of my 3 sweet boys.  As fate would have it, we lost 2 patients yesterday, both women, both mothers.

I have of course, witnessed this scene before.  The daughters sit close by, holding their hands, stroking their hair.  The sons stand in the threshold of the door, afraid of the vulnerability of death but drawn to do something, so they guard the door.

I tried to picture what this would look like on my deathbed. Maybe I'm naive, but my boys are cuddlers.  They give me whacky hairdos and invade my space with regularity.  I think they will hold my hand and stroke my hair in that moment.

My life is filled with those who squirm when this holiday draws near.  I have friends who were never able to have children.  Those who have lost them.  Those enduring the grueling adoption process.  Those who are estranged from adult children.  Those going through the devastation of divorce.  Those with children with disabilities they must overcome daily.  Those who  live on another continent from mother or child.  Those whose children are in prison.  Those with children in addiction.  Those who will visit their mother in a nursing home and feel helpless guilt.  Those with a mother with Alzheimer's who no longer recognizes them.  Those who were in the foster care system.  Those whose pain is not eased by the years that have passed since they held their mothers hand.

Where should they all turn?  The glib answer is to their Heavenly Father and i know its true, but sometimes you want your mother.  And since I'm secretly Catholic, I envy the sentiment, "when I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom, let it be."

Let it be.  Let it be so, that we open our eyes and see who is just trying to stop the bleeding. Just trying to get to Monday.  Happy Mothers Day, to all who nurture.