Birthday

My birthday is this week. I will be 52, and for a long time I didn’t think I’d make it this far. You see, my mom died at the age of 38, back in September of 1977. I was 19 at the time and her death sent me into a tail spin that kept me swirling around in a frantic whirlwind of activity for the next 20 years because somehow, in my mind, my mom’s death at 38 meant that I would die at 38, too.

My mom and I were living in Santa Cruz, California at the time. She and my dad had divorced, and after 21 years of marriage and being a stay-at-home mom, my mom wasn’t sure what to do next. She had always loved the ocean and dreamed of living by the sea, so that is what she decided to do. I went with her, partly as an adventure, and partly out of worry – she had a lot of health problems, and having married my dad fresh out of high school, had never lived on her own.

Santa Cruz is a pretty town, right on the coast. At that time it was affordable, and my mom found a little apartment two blocks from the shore. There was a long sidewalk along the cliffs above the sea and we spent a lot of time walking along it, talking and watching the waves and the sea lions, the sea birds, surfers and boats just off the shore.

It seemed odd that my mom loved the ocean so much, because she was deeply afraid of water and couldn’t swim. It seemed particularly odd that she loved walking along those Santa Cruz cliffs, because she was also afraid of heights and the cliffs were steep, slick, and obviously, potentially quite dangerous.

The evening my mom died, she picnicked with a friend near the edge of one of the cliffs. Something happened – no one knows what – and she slipped and fell into the sea. Before anyone could call for help, she drowned. (Imagine…life without cell phones. Her friend frantically trying to flag down a car or get someone to call for help from a house nearby…)

I was too young and too sad and in too much shock to process what had happened. I moved back to Colorado (where the rest of my family still lives) and tried to figure out life without my mom. For years, I’d see someone in a crowd that looked like her and my heart would leap and I would think, “Is that her?” Of course, it never was, but it took me a long time to stop looking for her…

Shortly after my mom’s death, I put myself on a crash course to “get everything done” before my 38^th birthday. (I’ve since read this is a common reaction among young women who lose their mothers - especially to a sudden death - but, knowing I was not alone did not make the urgency to “do it all” by 38 any less pressing.)

I married at 21 and had kids right away. I threw myself into raising my kids as if I wouldn’t be around long enough to see them through. I threw myself into a lot of other things that way, too. And, I had a very hard time committing to things that reflected a belief in permanence. There was never much savings and little or no concern about working any job long enough to earn retirement…after all, I wasn’t going to be here that long…

When our kids were growing up I spent a lot of time with them. We traveled a lot and took them on a lot of fun trips because every moment seemed precious and every year brought me closer to my last…

My 38^th year came and, miraculously, nothing happened. When I turned 39, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. I was alive and well! The curse was over! I had escaped my mother’s fate…But the fear, urgency and expectation of disaster continued, and the voice of doom never stopped whispering in my head…

I remember realizing that my life might, indeed, be only half over when I took my then 90-year-old grandmother to a family wedding in Mexico when I was 45. She was (and still is) quite spry, alert and mobile. We had a good time, but doom still whispered and I continued to move quickly, unsure of how much longer I might have…

It was not until a recent visit to the mausoleum where my mom’s ashes are, that I realized I had the power to silence the fear and hurry that have been my companions since my mother’s death. It had been 20 years since I had been to Santa Cruz and much had changed. The mausoleum, however, was the same – a pretty peaceful place, with lots of big windows, flowers and nice light. It took me awhile to find my mom’s marker and my first reaction, when I saw it, was shock that it looked just the same.

That reaction surprised me - of course nothing’s changed; it’s a mausoleum! Then it occurred to me that while my mom’s story ended, abruptly, on the date on that marker, my story had continued on, but I had been in such a hurry I hadn’t actually experienced it.

As I walked out into the sunlight, I realized that I could honor my mother’s memory and let my story be my own. I didn’t need to harbor the ghosts of her tragedy any longer; I could leave them, along with my sense of doom and urgency, inside those mausoleum walls and simply walk away. And, that is exactly what I did.

So, for the first time in a long time, I welcome my birthday with calm and I look forward to what the year will bring – good or bad – knowing that the ghosts I will tote from here on out, will be my own.