October 16, 2026 – The Dance

I miss my mom. She passed away 4 years ago today. I think. And by that, I mean that nobody really knows the actual date with certainty. And the reason? She was alive when last checked on by staff during the late hours of the 15^th, but had undoubtedly passed when they made their rounds at approximately 12:30 am the following day. The idea that she was alone when her soul left this planet really saddens me, but I do believe that is what she wanted. Amongst other things, she was an extremely private person and I can see her intentionally waiting until the room was empty so she could take her last breath without an audience. 

Once my brother Clover (her emergency contact) was notified, he called immediately to inform me of the tragic news. Even though I knew the writing was on the wall, I was beside myself. After getting off the phone, I remember feeling incredibly profound sadness and a sense that I’d lost my compass. In the throes of grief and shock, I kept repeating to my husband, “I don’t know what to do! I don’t know what to do!” Because no matter what was taking place in my life, my mom was my ‘go to’. Apart from the 6 months when I took a break from ‘us’ after feeling she’d stepped too far out of bounds, we communicated at least once or twice (or more) a week for years. Of course, that was until dementia got the best of her. 

Our relationship was complex, as most mother-daughter relationships are. She was my biggest cheerleader but also my greatest critic. As the matriarch of our family, she had a commanding presence. Many would describe her as strong, stoic and most definitely in control. She was the glue that held the family together, through the best and worst of circumstances. Another way to describe her? Without a doubt, she was witty, savvy, practical, talented, loyal, generous and determined. But weak and vulnerable? Never. Unless, you’re referring to the one time back in 1969 when at the age of two, I toddled down the stairs and into the basement and witnessed her standing by herself near the washing machine, sobbing uncontrollably. I think it had something to do with her impending divorce but I can’t say for certain. Aside from that one time, I’ve never seen her cry or reveal the slightest hint of vulnerability.

And trying to describe our relationship is really challenging. We were alike in so many ways and yet, vastly different. She gave birth to me during a particularly dark time in her marriage, when I believe she was preparing to once-and-for-all leave my biological father. While I was still in utero, she enrolled in real estate school in order to become an agent, studied as if her life depended on it, and successfully passed the exam. On several occasions throughout my life, she’d credit me with helping her pass the test. I’m pretty sure, as I was still in development and lacking any knowledge whatsoever regarding real estate matters, that I wasn’t able to help her with getting the correct answers on the test, but maybe I served as incentive to succeed? That’s the only way I can reasonably explain away her giving me any sort of credit. Credit for leg cramps, constant urges to pee, unusual food cravings, and stretch marks? Absolutely! But credit for passing a test? Not so much.

We are/were a great deal alike. My mom was born on a beautiful spring day in mid-March of 1929, and she had me many years later, just a few days shy of her 38^th birthday; therefore, we shared the same astrological sign, Pisces. But we had far more in common. Far more. The good stuff? My mom loved to dance and listen to music. She loved sweets, especially chocolate. She loved to write and wrote extraordinarily well. She was also skilled at drawing, painting, sewing and decorating. And when it came to her children? She loved them more than anything in the world. And should any of them ever indicate a need, she would do her best to fill it. She was witty and loved to laugh as well as make others laugh. And she was resourceful! Whenever faced with adversity or challenges, she always managed to find a way. And should you ask anyone who actually knew us whether we had those commonalities, I think they would steadfastly agree. Even on the not-so-good stuff.

The not-so-good stuff? I don’t like to speak ill of her but I will say this because it’s something I have also been accused of, she didn’t respond well to criticism, had to be in control, and often resorted to inducing or imposing guilt (the gift that keeps on giving) when things didn’t go her way. I wish that wasn’t the case and that we didn’t share those traits or characteristics, but what can I say? Nobody’s perfect. Nonetheless, I can wholeheartedly say how grateful I am that we share so many positive ones, as she had many to speak of. And fortunately, they far outweighed her negative ones. Still, we differed in innumerable, significant ways. If you’ve read any of my posts, you’re probably familiar with my tendency to over share. I put it all out there, no matter what the topic. But my mom? Good Lord! She was so private! One of her famous sayings was, “Never discuss your personal life at work.” But honestly, that belief or practice extended to well beyond her work environment.

A good example of this? During her memorial, after all the formalities were out of the way, one of the first clients she ever sold a home to stood up and took hold of the mic. He clearly had something to get off his chest. As he stood there dejectedly, his face wet with tears, he told a story about when he and his wife purchased their first home. It had been well over 50 years since that major milestone in their lives and he’d bought other homes since then, but something about that first purchase stood out from the rest. It was the sacrifice my mom made on their behalf. In order for them to qualify, she gave up part of her commission. She really could have used the money but at no time did she ever let on that she was a single mom with nine children and barely able to put food on the table, let alone cover the mortgage. While sharing the story about her selfless gesture, he said had he known, he never would have agreed. He would have found another way.

The other ways my mom and I differed? When it came to our political views, make no mistake, we stood on opposite sides of the fence. When she talked about who she supported, I just listened. She was a dyed-in-the-wool conservative and I was anything but, and I didn’t see the point in getting into a debate about it. I knew it’d be a big fat waste of time and only result in hurt feelings. The other things we disagreed about, which you’d think would be a much less volatile or polarizing topic, was my overall appearance and how I chose to dress. I’ve been racking my brain in an attempt to remember a single time when my mom actually complimented how I looked, but I’m finding it difficult to think of any. There were countless times when she would take it upon herself to pick me apart. Sometimes she would say aloud what she was thinking but there were other times when words weren’t required. Whenever I’d get the ‘once over’, when she’d scan me from head to toe with a look of disapproval, I knew exactly what she was thinking. And it wasn’t good.

When she did speak up, she’d generally say the following, “You’re not going to wear THAT, are you?” It was another one of her famous sayings and always immediately followed a ‘once over’. It never failed to get my hackles up. But I’ll be honest, I wasn’t a sharp dresser. My usual attire was clothing I found on a clearance rack at a department store or somebody else’s has-beens from a thrift store. And to this day, I don’t know why I paired waffle stompers with nearly every outfit. God, they were hideous! Look, I didn’t buy things because they were pretty or cute or well-suited, I bought them because I had a budget to consider and was trying to live within my means. What really burned me up was that my mom was always trying to dress me. If the clothing she’d encouraged me to wear was actually an improvement over what I was already wearing, I would have readily agreed to reconsider my look. But that wasn’t the case.

Nine times out of ten, when I’d come out to visit, she’d drag me to a store for ‘mature’ women and continually point out clothes she had near replicas of in her own closet. The thing is, she was quite a bit older than me, nearly 4 decades, so the tops and pants and skirts she would recommend looked like they came straight from the cast wardrobe of the Golden Girls. No thanks! “Isn’t that CUTE?” she’d often inquire while holding up a pastel-infused blouse with shoulder pads and a cinched waist. My response? “Cute on YOU or cute on ME?” We disagreed on the styles and we also disagreed on the colors. My mom always gravitated towards browns and beiges and blues while I preferred jewel tones as well as every possible shade of black or gray. There was no middle ground.

Putting all that aside, I can’t imagine having anyone else as my mom. When I walked my dog this morning, I was listening to my mp3 player. It was set to random. And out of the blue, The Dance by Garth Brooks began to play. It was the first time I’d heard it in months and I immediately thought of her. Decades ago, I vividly remember playing it while she was out visiting, and she’d made a point to remark on how beautiful it was and asked who sang it. The lyrics always hit home, especially the following two lines, “I could have missed the pain, but I would have missed the dance.”

She wasn’t perfect by any means, and our relationship was often tumultuous, but she was my mom, my one and only, and I’ll forever love her. And I’m so glad I didn’t miss the dance.

Miss you, Momma. And like I told you when we last spoke, I’ll see you again someday.