The Hole Remains…

I don’t notice it most of the time.  I choose not to.  There is living to be done.  She would want that.

Most of the time now, it’s business as usual.  Even mentally, despite my introspective tendencies to hash and rehash everything.

But there is still this hole. 

Where she should be.

Since Baboo 2 made her appearance I haven’t been able to ignore the hole.  There is the absence of her arms to place her grandchild in.  The absence of her voice to reassure me.   The absence of her hand to squeeze mine.  The absence of her giddiness at not just any baby to hold and ooo and ahh at, but her grand-daughter.

I had her sweater with me in the delivery room and after.  In quiet moments when no one was around, I would lean into it and cry wishing for her to share in those beautiful first moments of my daughters life.

She should be here to see that Baboo 2 has dark hair, and beautiful alert eyes during her awake time.  She should be here to muse at her easy-going nature.  She should be here to hear that she is named after her mother (my Grandma)–the other most extraordinary woman to bless my life.

And today…  my first day on my own, for some reason the awareness of the hole is especially strong.  I want to talk to her.  I want to share my children with her.  I want to hear her laugh, and smile, and remember what she looks like when she’s sitting across the room from me, or what it feels like to hear her voice on the other side of the phone-line.  I want her.  This is no time to not have a mother. 

I don’t see it most of the time, but the hole is still there.  Truthfully, I still just can’t help but feel like she should be here. 


6 thoughts on “The Hole Remains…

  1. I’ve been thinking of you and how much you must miss your mom right now….hugs to you today. There’s nothing to say that will make any of it any better.

  2. Your mum seems so alive to me as I read your post. I know I am a stranger to you, but your life is not strange to me. What’s to say that you can’t speak with her? Write her a letter; go walk around the block and talk outloud to her. I do it all the time with my son (childhood cancer, passed 1997). She isn’t gone. Her role in your life is just different now. It will find a shape in your life that isn’t so prickly, so painful. The pain you have now is what rubs off those pokey nibs.

    Best wishes, virtual hugs, and congratulations on your new daughter.

  3. Thank you, thank you, thank you, for writing your feelings. I have a one week old daughter and lost my mother to a stroke in March. It is so hard to think that she’ll never meet her beautiful granddaughter. I was very close to my mom, we would talk about everything, and to now not be able to share with her my thoughts is agonizing. I see my mother’s eyes every time I look at my daughter. Sometimes she even makes the same facial expressions. I like to think that that’s her, signaling to me that she’ll always be here.

  4. One more thing about my mother: in her last days, I was sitting by her side at the hospital. She could still move her left side at this point. I saw the struggle and the fear in her eyes when she realized the long road of recovery (we thought) she had. I know she was thinking about her unborn grandchild, and how she would not get to hold that child with her two arms. That must have been devastating for her. But with her good hand, she would squeeze mine. Hard. I like to think she was transferring her soul to me with those squeezes. My daughter was born one day after what would have been my mother’s 61st birthday. The circle of life continues. Like you said, it breaks my heart that she won’t meet her granddaughter, but I have to believe she is there somehow, in some way.

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