Mothering in the Blank Spaces

Jennette McCurdy’s recently released book is titled I’m Glad My Mom Died. My first response upon hearing this title was “hey, me too sister, me too.” And while I know that the majority of people who hear that title (and my affinity for it) may be shocked and appalled that someone(s) could feel that way and then have the gall to SAY it, I am thankful. I’m thankful that there is now discussion about complicated maternal relationships and different responses to loss. I am one of 9 siblings. A family built by both biology and adoption and headed by a complex and intimidating matriarch. When we 9 lost our mom in July 2021 we did not, and could not, all feel that loss in the same way. One of my sisters was devastated by the loss of our mom. She and one of her children mourned that loss as deeply as my dad did, who had lost his wife of almost 50 years. I did not. While I had empathy for my nephew, sister, father, and aunts who missed her, I like Jennette McCurdy, was glad that my mom was dead. I wrote about my feelings about my mom’s passing to help me process it, which I share here more than a year and a half after her passing. I’d like to hope that sharing complicated feelings helps others own and process theirs too.

My Mom Passed in July 2021

My mother died last night. I was sitting with my favorite sister 500 miles away from where my mom lay in hospice when my older brother called to let us know that she had passed. It wasn’t unexpected since she’d been diagnosed with mesothelioma a week or so before. This cancer diagnosis had been missed by her doctors on scans months prior, probably masked by her COPD and rheumatoid arthritis. But her passing was quick. She would have been in hospice for a week today. When Martie made up her mind to do something, she was “by God” going to do it. And that’s how she’d state it with finality, as she went off to do it, whatever it was. I imagine that being the phrase in her head as she let go of this life.

My mom was a beautiful, leggy blonde, with a quick wit, a smart mouth, and an attitude problem. If there was a rule, she was going to break it. If there was a proper way to do something (the way her mother and oldest sister preferred), she’d do it any other way but that one. My grandmother called her contrary and ornery. She even called her stupid once for jumping off the roof of the house with an umbrella a la Jiminy Cricket. She broke her arm and never forgave her mother for calling her stupid.

Though she held a lifelong grudge against her mom for this slight, stupid was something she called her own kids often. And lazy. And assholes. And Goddamn kids. Occasionally she’d call us fuckers, sometimes with a mother thrown on the front. She cursed like a sailor, just in general, but also at us. She hit like a ball player, which was often and hard. Batting 1000 isn’t as impressive if you swap the bat for a fist, hanger, belt, hairbrush, or wooden spoon and the ball for a child’s head or body. She fancied herself a Mama Warrior, unfortunately more often than not, the enemy she was raging against were her own small children.

I think about the memories I have of being her daughter and I’m torn. Children are born to love their mothers, even the mothers that hurt their kids. We come into this world to love and be loved and there was so much that I loved about her. Her hugs were warm and soft and smelled like her own unique combination of Lady Stetson and Marlboro Lights. When she was feeling affectionate, we’d get her signature 3 pats on our arm or leg followed by a small rub. She’d spend days devouring dime-store romance novels as voraciously as she did her buttered popcorn, pots of black coffee, and packs of cigarettes. Sometimes she’d take her feet from the table and the cigarette from her lips to entertain us by thundering out The Charge of the Light Brigade, The Jabberwocky, or The Highwayman, poems we didn’t completely grasp but we loved the words and we loved her attention and passion. She taught me to love words.

But many of the words that came from my mother were intended to hurt, even into my adulthood and then they were directed at my children as well. As a mother, she hurled emotional, verbal, and physical abuse on us and took a passive, almost nonchalant stance when our worlds were tornado rocked by sexual abuse. As a grandmother, she was no less toxic. Her legacy of abuse continued when she chose favorites between the grandchildren referring to her least favorite ones as This One and That One, terms spat out with obvious distain. When she was tired of hearing their excited chatter, she’d yell to them to “shut up” or threaten to “kick their asses.” More than once I intercepted a shoe she aimed at one of her grandkids for a minor, yet unknown, offense. I knew that my sweet boys deserved better, even if I couldn’t acknowledge that I did. As the mother myself now, I had the power and responsibility to choose better for my children and in doing so, choose better for myself. I had less than a handful of conversations with her in the 9 years since my youngest son was born. All of them ended up with her trying to convince me of the badness of my character and the wholesomeness of hers. I had to put up boundaries.

Many who knew her thought her selfless and loving, a hero for children, a devoted mother and grandmother, a wife of almost 50 years. The dissonance of this long con was one of the most painful and defeating parts of being her child. We knew who she was, but she showed everyone else someone very different. In my mom’s quest to be the hero in all stories and a martyr in her own, I’m certain that she helped people. She worked in mental health, homeless shelters, and foster care, eventually adding 4 additional children permanently to our family. So these became the stories of her life that get told time and again to prove her value and goodness and worth. She loved words as much as I do, so it was easy for her to spin the tale of her own life with the words that turned her into a kind, loving, altruistic Martie despite the brutal reality behind the story.

There is truth that abuse is a generational cycle. While most of my siblings are in various stages of coming to terms with our childhood and setting their own versions of boundaries, I have one sister who takes after our mother in both abuse and martyrdom. She continues to live this pattern with her own children. Before my mom’s steep decline, the two of them together made quite the team. In all versions of their stories they have been wronged and almost bested, but in the end the pair of Mama Warriors vanquish the evil (usually this is my role in the story) and win. I was never sure what was won, all that seemed to matter to my mother was that others lost.

My mother was a damaged human who damaged humans.

Most of what my mom taught me was in her blank spaces, the places where she fell short and left me wanting what I didn’t have: compassion, empathy, the ability to see others and be seen and known and loved. I filled in within my life what she so clearly lacked in hers. And while this was an incredibly painful way to grow, I know that I am a better woman and mother and friend for all that she lacked and failed to give to us. Is that a gift? I pray that it is.

When I’m angry and torn, I endeavor to focus on the things that I am grateful for. While it’s almost cliché, I am grateful that she gave me life. I’m thankful for the siblings that she gave me; my lifelong friends who are as broken as me but so twisted in the very best way. I’m thankful for my wonderful children and the light and joy that they bring to my life. In mothering them I have been afforded the opportunity to break the cycle of abuse with this generation and also give myself a second chance to heal. And strangely, I am grateful for my broken upbringing. Living the childhood that I did inspired my drive to find the path out, the impetus to want more and be more and do more. It led me on the journey of my life through my incredible education to the career, family, and life that I have now. Wanting to live any life but that one helped me create this amazing life that I love.

I’m guessing based on this missive that I won’t be nominated to give the eulogy or write the obituary to acknowledge my mother’s life and her passing. That’s fine. I’m sure that my codependent dad or one of my siblings that didn’t break free from the dysfunction and abuse can praise her as a “beloved wife, mother, and grandmother” and mean it, but I cannot. I know people will ask me how I am, and I love them for caring, but I don’t know how I am or how this affects me. I don’t know how I’m supposed to be feeling. No one tells you how to feel or what to do when your estranged mother dies. There is no Hallmark for “I’m sorry that your terrible mother is dead” or “I wish she had loved you better when she was here.” How do you mourn a mother that didn’t mother you? For many years now, I have done the hard work to mourn not having the mother I’d wished I had or the mother that we all deserved years ago, but this feels more final somehow.

What I do know is that in spite of loving my mom as I was able, in my heart the world feels like a safer place for me and my children without her in it. I think I’ll go give my kids 3 little pats and a rub on their arms and read The Walrus and The Carpenter with them again and be grateful for what my mother’s “parenting” taught me in the blank spaces.