My Mother Lives on Through Grandson Named After Her

Our Bond Will Never Die

By Neilia Sherman


This will be ninth Mother's Day without a mother. The loss is something that is still sinking in slowly. It is especially painful when I see a mother and daughter together. In Chinatown, I spotted a dutiful daughter helping her mother walk down the street, the two of them graceful as in a well practiced dance.

Or at the mall, I'll catch site of a daughter with baby and mother in tow. Three generations enjoying a day out, grandmother helping daughter, baby being loved and known by grandmother. At times like this I can feel envy rise tangibly in my throat. My youngest will never meet his grandmother. And for my firstborn, she was too sick to keep me company on routine errands or to baby-sit, so my husband and I might have a night out. She was relegated to dispensing advice over the phone, the oxygen tank, always droning audibley in the background. She lived in a little room on the first floor of my parents home, never leaving unless for medical necessity for close to three years. Visits took place in this room filled with medical supplies with barely enough room to move. A sudden movement might send multiple bottles of pills, needles for insulin and her ever present jug of water crashing to the floor. How could she get to know her grandson in this environment? How long could a toddler safely stay in this room?

The loss hung in the air. She tried to interest him in TV or games but soon he tired and ran out. No one could stay in that room without feeling claustrophobic.

One of the main things that I miss is my mother's unconditional love. The way she told every nurse and homemaker who tended to her that her daughter was a writer. She would pull out copies of my published articles and demand that they read them, then and there. At that point, I was having some success getting my essays published in a large daily newspaper. She would wake up my father at 6 am so that he could bring in the paper and she would look hurriedly through it, until she came upon my name in print. Seeing my by-line was her signal to call everyone she knew and read the piece to them over the phone. She would call me at this ungodly hour, so excited, the happiest that she had been in weeks. Often she would read my article to me out loud. How I loved to hear her melodic voice, always phrasing each sentence perfectly, as if she understood my exact meaning.

No one but a mother can express this kind of unabashed pride and love. Others might say you've published before what is the big deal? Or I'll read it later. Or I don't get that paper. But no matter if it was a poem in some unknown ‘zine’ or an article in a major magazine; my mother had the same reaction. If it was mine she loved it.

Of course, there are regrets. I didn't see her as much as she would have liked She had to hire people to give her the kind of care that I, as the only daughter , would have, undoubtedly, provided even a generation ago. But she didn't raise a 'drop everything to take care of your mother' kind of daughter. Career was stressed from a very young age. She wanted me to be a doctor but was satisfied when I became a psychiatric social worker instead. My achievements definitely gave her a vicarious thrill and at times she expressed regret at having been forced to leave school at 15 in order to work and help support her aging mother. She had three kids, one with a physical disability, and a family where illness was common place. When her mother became ill, she visited her at the nursing home every day. No matter what else was going on, her mother was her priority.

So when her time came, at far too young an age, part of her wanted me to do the same for her, as she had done for her mother. The other part was glad for my success, my strivings, even though they took me away from the role of dutiful daughter.

But though neither of us was able to be there for the other in a conventional way, we were extremely close on another level. Advocating for each other, understanding the other's deepest fears, hopes and aspirations. We had an open relationship that was the envy of my girlfriends during high school. We could talk about sex, relationships, and everyday problems. She saw me through high school break-ups, a failed engagement, and my own struggles with depression and anxiety. As a young woman I couldn't conceive of life without her. She always knew exactly what to do. No matter what the problem. She knew how to take care of illness or injury, workplace conflict, household organization, and getting babies to eat. She was a treasure trove of information, taking in knowledge like a sponge and able to spew it exactly when needed.

Before my mother died, I used to ask her if she would ever communicate with me once she passed on." If it is possible in any way I will, "she would say. So I was disappointed not to hear her voice or see a shadowy presence at night when I lay sleepless in bed night after night. But six months after she was gone, I became pregnant with my son Brandon, who is named after his grandmother Brenda according to Jewish tradition. His beautiful smile and sweet disposition have helped me through these trying times. Through my sweet boy, my mother lives on and we are in contact every single day.