Dealing with death on this Mother's Day
Kathryn Dobie, the author’s mother. Credit: Courtesy of the Dobie family
Last weekend, my two youngest grandchildren, 5-month-old twins, had their first swimming lesson. And they reveled in it, almost as if they were born to the water. And perhaps they were.
My mother was a nymph of the water. A pool, an ocean, a kettle pond on the Cape, those were both home and refuge. My daughter, the twins’ mother, was born on the same day as my mother. It was easy to feel a certain vibe.
On the night of the twins’ first plunge, in the overnight, my mother passed away. And that happy moment of first splash became something much more, a lovely passing down of a spirit that seems destined to live on in these little ones.
It is interesting how someone’s death can do that. The way it can conjure both grief and joy, as if they are opposite sides of the same coin we all roll. You think about a life lived and its emotional tendrils are wrapped so tightly that they touch you all at once in every way.
The high points and low spots come at you in a blur, the tears and laughter mingle. Every photo, every memory, is a story that leads to another and yet another in a procession that seems to have no end and yet you find yourself wishing you had asked one more question about one more story to gain one more bit of understanding about who and why you are what you are.
No matter how much time we have with someone, it is never enough.
My mother, who was 88, had been on the decline, but the end was not anticipated so soon. Especially not for a woman we used to refer to as “Oklahoma tough,” a reference to her place of birth and her stubbornness and the way she pulled out of innumerable earlier medical maladies. It didn’t seem likely this time, but one could not be sure.
It takes a certain toughness to raise a brood of six kids, and we were, shall we say, a tad on the energetic side. Large families like ours were rather common in those days, or so it seems now, but my mother had four of us by the time she was 24, something that is quite incredible to me now. And then, once all of us were off more or less safely into the world, she flashed that toughness again and went back to school. In her 50s, she earned a bachelor’s degree and a master’s degree, then taught English in college. And she published a book with a colleague on the unknown stories of American women who served their country during World War II.
It was a terrific second act.
The last day I saw her we brought her a chocolate milkshake. One of my brothers had told me she was craving one, which was confirmed by her broad grin and the way she clutched the cup like it was a grail. Smiles and sadness, mixed again.
All of which makes this Mother’s Day different for me and my siblings from the many dozens that preceded it. Now it’s her spirit and legacy that we honor.
Fortunately, there are many other mothers to celebrate today — most closely, my wife and our three daughters, all now mothers themselves.
When I called the three of them to give them the news about my mother, their grandmother, each of our quiet conversations was punctuated by the sound of little voices in the background. Little voices squealing and cavorting and cooing and shouting and carrying on as little voices are wont to do.
And there it was again, the churn of life, the youthful vigor amid the quiet lamentation, one a much-needed balm for the other.
One generation makes a graceful exit after a good long run, another moves onto the stage, excited at the explorations that await.
And so we go.
Columnist Michael Dobie's opinions are his own.
Michael Dobie is a member of the Newsday editorial board.