There are a million things I remember about my mother, about growing up as Karen Griffin’s son. I’d be lying if I said that none of the memories are bad, but I’m thankful that the good far outnumber them. Some I remember as if they happened yesterday while others are just hazy visions that hover in the distant corners of my mind, stirred up every now and then by a familiar smell or song or the occasional feeling of déjà vu. I cherish them all; good and bad, vivid and fading, because they’re all I have.
One of my earliest memories of my mother is of not recognizing her, which sounds awful until you gain some perspective. I was young; I don’t remember how young, only that I had enough life behind me that I could walk, talk and blurt out my own opinion at the most awkward moments. This particular moment was a reunion of sorts. I was living with my mother’s father and mother, or Grandma and Grandpa as I knew them. From the table in the dining room where I sat coloring well beyond the lines I heard the screen door open and close followed by the clamor of adult voices. I remember peering around the door-jam and seeing her standing in the living room talking to my grandmother. I couldn't place her, but I recognized her hair that fell in dark waves around her sunburned face and her lively eyes and the soothing cadence of her voice. She took a seat on the sagging flower printed sofa with a Virginia Slim held delicately between the tips of her right index and middle fingers. I stood motionless, frozen with curiosity, and as my grandmother passed me on her way to the kitchen for drinks she told me that Mom was here and that I should go say hello. It took me a moment for the statement to resonate within my young mind, and even then I was uncertain of everything except that I knew she was someone I trusted. I entered the room and approached timidly, feelings of both apprehension and familiarity coursing through my small frame. As I stopped in front of her she looked up at me with kind hazel eyes and a smile like a soft warm blanket on a cold day.
“You know” I started, and she cocked her head attentively in anticipation of the long forgotten secret it seemed I was on the verge of sharing; some mystical truth about life, the universe and everything. “you shouldn't smoke. It’s bad for you”.
It may seem strange or unfortunate, but that is one of my first memories of my mother; a memory where I barely recognize her and proceed to chastise her health choices. When I was young my mother and father worked construction; not the kind that kept you in one place and allowed you to go home each night to your own bed and your loved ones, but rather working on highways and interstates that were miles away and kept them moving along as the construction progressed. They lived out of a camper for awhile and thought it best if I stayed with my grandparents. I never blamed them as a kid because I simply thought it was the normal way of things; I don’t blame them now because I know it was as much a sacrifice for them as it was for me and they were doing it to try to make a better life for all of us. So while one of my first memories of my mother is of only a vague recognition, it was for good reasons and I'm alright with it.
Other memories are more pleasant. I remember our summer vacations when I was still far enough from my teen years to look forward to family trips to Disneyland. Because my mother hated flying we spent two days crossing the country, my father manning the wheel in marathon driving shifts from Kansas to California and back again. My mom, much to my dad’s always quiet, stifled annoyance, would make him pull over at touristy junk shops and kitschy attractions that huddle along America’s highways in the hazy spaces where towns end and the long quiet stretches of world begin.
We would stay in the cheap family motels that once lined Katella Avenue across from Disneyland; The Aladin’s Lamp or the Castle Inn or one of the other charming, comfortable, just-this-side-of-trademark-infringement establishments that were bulldozed years ago to make room for mega hotels with none of the charm at four times the cost. When we settled into our room my mom and I would go out onto the balcony that overlooked Disneyland’s once vast parking lot where California Adventure now stands and watch the fireworks explode over the castle that peaked just above the trees in the distance, a taste of what the next day would bring. Somehow my mom would never tire at Disneyland. Maybe she knew she’d never get me to stand still and simply had to keep up or maybe being there made her feel as youthful and energetic as her eleven year old son; either way she’d rarely back down from a ride or stifle my rampant exuberance. To this day its one of my favorite places, not for the rides but rather for the memories of those long summer adventures that started with me half asleep in the backseat at four in the morning with my dad driving and my mom fiddling with the radio trying to find Fleetwood Mac. Those treks that spanned the deserts and the mountains where the sky beyond my backseat window fell into an endless horizon of adventure and possibility. Those few precious days where we smiled and laughed and my mom could give her son the childhood she never had and the memories she always wanted.
As I got older, things changed between us. Some of it was my fault; in fact I can probably claim the lion's share, but she wasn't without blame. My parents’ relationship was strained; in truth it had run its course years before, sometime after those perfect summers, and they only lingered together for my benefit. That rarely holds out for long, though. My mom eventually lost her trust in my father and things were said, or implied, often. My father shouldered it as well as he could at first but there is only so long you can be suspected of something before it becomes a reality. I was asked if I knew what my father was up to, told by my father that he thought my mom had stopped loving him long ago. I didn't care who was right, who was lying or what had happened; they were my parents and I couldn't pick a side and was angry that I felt I was being forced to. I spent less time at home and more nights at the ten dollar concerts that would play the Nile a few nights a week. The music was angry and loud, but I won’t be so cliche as to say its how I felt. I was certainly pissed at my parents for putting me in the middle and I suppose the blue hair and spikes hinted at an angsty rebellion I never really felt. In truth, though, I still loved them both very much, still maintained my grades and never thought of doing anything rebellious like running away, until I kind of did.
My mom kicked my dad out; got a restraining order in fact even though I know he never had and never would hit her or anyone else. Regardless, the suspicion and mistrust had led to fear and fear sometimes makes you do desperate things. I didn't know how she thought we would get by, her unemployed and me part time student, part time worker, and I asked her as much. I was angry at her and found a way out with the parents of my girlfriend at the time who graciously offered me a place under their roof for as long as I needed. At the time all I could think of was how right I was, how badly things had been messed up largely because of her and my dad, and how I just wanted out. Years later when I thought back on it I was ashamed and sad, feeling that I had abandoned her. She’d just kicked my dad out and then her son left; it must have been a terrible abandonment and I apologized eventually but am not certain it could ever be enough. But for a long time I’m ashamed to say I didn't go out of my way to keep in touch, and to be fair neither did she. The first time she called me was six months after I’d left; she wanted to check to make sure I had gotten new glasses and also to let me know she had moved to Tampa. I didn't quite know how to respond so I simply assured her I’d gotten a new prescription and said that I hoped Tampa was nice. It would be like that for some years; intermittent contact spread over vast swaths of silence, but every time she called I knew that it was because she loved me and wanted to make sure I was alright in spite of the massive asshole I’d been.
The calls got more frequent my junior year of college. I’d leave class and find voice mails waiting for me when I checked my phone; messages that spoke of doctors and tests and maybe cancer but then again maybe not; essentially a string of information that nobody wants to hear, especially from their mother. She had always been a bit of a hypochondriac and the optimist in me chalked it up to an overactive imagination. Regardless, she asked me, my brother and my sister to come visit her in Tampa in June. It would be the first time I’d seen my brother and sister in nearly a decade, and the first time the four of us were together since I wore pajamas with cartoon characters on them.
One of the last memories I have of my mother is not unlike the first; I didn't recognize her. When I walked in the door of her tiny apartment a few miles from the gulf shore she sat on the sofa with a Virginia Slim inching its way toward the thin fingers that held it so delicately. Her hazel eyes were not so lively as they once were. The Cher-imitating hair that had been dark and flowing all my life was silvery and pulled back away from her spotted and freckled skin. Her voice was still kind but she could no longer spare the warmth it once offered. I didn't remember her being so small, I thought. She would forget things and repeat things and I did my best to stifle an anger that I couldn't quite understand the reason for. I declined her offer to stay at the tiny apartment and opted for a hotel a few minutes away, partly because I didn't want to impose and partly for selfish, shameful reasons I can’t even name. I know now that she just wanted me near, just wanted time with me. I did stay one night, sleeping on the floor as she dozed quietly on the sofa, looking more at peace than I could ever remember, and I’m thankful I did because its one more happy memory of her I got to steal. I only had a few days before I flew back to Phoenix. The time was too fleeting, too crowded with three of us wanting her attention while at the same time trying to accustom ourselves to relationships that were not at all the same as they were the last time we’d all been together. Before I knew it I was saying goodbye with a promise to visit again soon, but I think I knew even then it would be the last time I saw her.
She fell after we all left. The hospital wouldn't let her go home, fearing for her safety, and eventually they transferred her to hospice. My sister, as much a nurse to our family as she is to her actual patients, was able to fly back in early August to be with her. She stayed with her and talked to her, calling me daily to provide updates. She caught me on lunch at work one day and said that mom had been asking for me, that she wanted to speak to me. I walked outside and sat in the cool shade in a bank of grass that ran along the storefront. Her voice was nearly a whisper and I could tell by the urgency of her speech that her thoughts were tormented. I strained my ears to hear her quiet words. She was sorry, she said. She hoped I didn't blame her, that I didn't hate her. She hoped I knew she loved me. I told her that I didn't blame her for anything, that there was nothing to be sorry for. I understood why she left and it was alright; I wasn't angry or resentful. I told her I loved her and knew that she loved me and that I couldn't imagine a better mother than her or a happier life than the one she had given me. Her voice trailed off again, less tormented though which I hoped meant she had found some peace. My sister picked up the phone then, told me she would call me with any news and I went back to work.
The following day, September 2nd, was my birthday. The worst part of having a birthday so early in the school year is that generally you're not able to skip class as easily as you might a few weeks into the semester when you have a better idea what the hell is going on. Because of this I found myself standing in the language building killing time before my Spanish class when my phone rang. I saw my sister's name on the screen as I pulled the phone from my bag and before I even answered I knew; I knew what words she would say; how shaky and quiet and tear stained her voice would sound. I knew how I wouldn't know how to react; how I wouldn't know what to do next or who I was supposed to call or what I was supposed to say; how the numbness would wash across my mind and take me and I'd hear nothing more after those first few words. I knew that I had known for weeks that my mother would die that day, my birthday, and still I was completely unprepared for any of it.
I am thankful for the numbness because with it came a sort of sleepwalking dignity, a composure that allowed me to mime the acts expected of me in that situation even though my mind had ceased to function. I don't remember the rest of the conversation with my sister. I don't remember what I said to my professor, I think some toned down version of the truth; a distant relative or friend of the family. I was afraid she wouldn't believe the truth and if she would I didn't want to be the guy in class whose feelings she felt she needed to coddle. I don't remember what I said when I spoke to my dad; I do remember his condolences, and I don't remember what I said to my brother nor what his condolences may have been. I do remember sitting in my car, though I don't recall walking the three blocks to get there. Somehow I managed it without falling to pieces. I sat there in silence for quite some time, perhaps a half hour, motionless and numb in the stifling September heat of my seclusion. I don't know what my thoughts were, how I felt; I only know that at the end of it, exhausted and disoriented, rather than burst into tears, I laughed.
I've moved around quite a lot throughout my life and because of this I learned to form strong bonds with people who I rarely see, to which I'm sure many of you can attest. We don't always get the relationship dynamics we want in life and with that in mind I've always striven to hold on to the people who are important to me no matter how far away they may be. The people I consider my closest friends, my best friends, are scattered all around the globe. Some of them I'm lucky enough to see weekly, others perhaps once or twice a year. Others still I haven't seen in two years or even four. This is true, too, of family. I'll go months without calling my sister or father and that trip to Tampa and a couple calls afterward were the only times I've been in touch with my brother since I was a teenager. When we're together though, whether its been a week or a year, we mostly pick up the thread of our relationship without missing a beat. I'd love to be in their lives more; to see their kids and go to their art exhibits and be a bigger part of their world, but again, sometimes you have to simply be thankful for what you have and not bemoan what you don't.
This is how I was able to maintain a relationship with my mother with limited contact for nearly a decade and its at the heart of why I laughed that day in the car with the news not an hour old. My mother knew how atrocious I am at keeping touch and realized she wasn't much better than me (I'd picked up the habit somewhere, after all). She knew how we parted on uneasy terms and how ten years apart can strain even the closest relationships. I think this was her way, or perhaps the universe's way of making sure I never lost touch with her again; that there would always be a day, a day set aside for happiness, that I'd think of her and smile; a day that would always recall the memories both happy and sad; my Birthday. That and my mother always had a great sense of humor; I'm sure she laughed at the surreal absurdity of it too. Thanks for the memories, mom, and for making sure I never forget.
