To Know Her Was To Love Her: Remembering My Mom When We Were Both Adults

I've been getting little signs from my mom the past few days, so I decided to post this from a chapter I've been working on from a book about my mom. This is just a draft, I will most likely add more to this, or just rewrite the damn thing. I've been reminiscing about the memories I have with my mom as an adult, and writing this has made me burst into fits of laughter, as well as into fits of crying. I'm sure anyone who has dealt with the loss of their mom can relate to this in their own way. Writing has become a form of therapy for me, and hopefully I can help people dealing with the loss of their mom through my experiences.

Here is my draft:

One of the last times my mom and I spent in the ER, it was during the afternoon, around 3pm or so. It was late August, and after receiving another blood transfusion, my mother was not feeling too well.

Two men were sitting nearby, and they kept glancing over at us. One of them struck up a conversation with my mom. He had been injured on the job, and his younger co-worker, who looked about a few years older than me, was with him for support. He looked to be in his 50s, good looking, blue collar man.

After about an hour of exchanging stories and mild flirtation, the older man asked my mom if he could take her out. She replied "I have cancer," to which he replied, "Ok, so, can I have your number?"

That was the magic of my mom. Anyone she met, they either found a certain comfort and fondness with her, or they fell in love with her.

When I was 21, we would go out dancing and drinking together. Because my mom looked so young, most of the men that would come up to hit on us thought we were sisters. Whenever we went out, we were hit on constantly, some of the men only interested in my mom, once a father and son were hitting on both of us; but almost entirely, my mother would get the most attention.

One night at one of our old stomping grounds, an Irish pub called The Curragh, a young man in his late 30s came up to talk to us and bought us drinks. My mom thought he was interested in me, but once I uttered the words "Twenty-one," he wanted nothing to do with me, and focused all of his attention on my mom, who was 44. I then became the third-wheel, which I was accustomed to when being out with my mom.

Later that night, the man who called himself "Bill," walked us out to our car. I was talking about something and he looked over at me and asked, "Would you please shut up so I can kiss your mom?"

I was mortified.

The week after, I went to The Curragh again, this time by myself waiting for a guy friend of mine, and I ran into the man who kissed my mom. I walked right up to him, and he smiled and asked "So, where's your mom?"

I was very mean and replied, "Well, she's old, and probably sleeping by now."

He just laughed and then I said, "Oh, and by the way, I believe you owe me a drink."

"Oh really, why is that?" He asked, still laughing.

"Because you made out with my mom in front of me, that's why!"

So, Bill obliged, and as he was handing me the drink I so rightfully earned, my friend Dan arrived at the bar.

"Um, do you know this guy?" Dan asked, looking confused and awkward.

"Yes, as a matter of fact I do, " I said excitedly, "He's dating my mom!"

Bill's face turned about five different shades of red. My mom went on a few dates with him, but because he had young kids, she wasn't feeling it. She had been there, done that, and respectfully backed out.

Some of the best moments I have of my mom were when we were both adults, dancing the night away, getting hit on, and being on the same wavelength. Our trip to Vegas was one of the happiest times of my life. We were the best travel companions, because we understood each other, and we knew what we could and couldn't do. We also loved to dress-up, and the one night she dragged me to see Gladys Knight, I wore a classy black-wrap dress, and she wore a little black dress with a plum-sequin shawl, both of us wearing our black heels. As we walked through the lobby of our hotel, a man walking past us stopped us in our tracks and said, "You two look great! Now this is how you dress for Vegas!". My mom loved the attention, and was also proud she had a daughter who loved to dress classy just as she did.

The day of her wake, I was so drained and stricken with grief, I didn't even anticipate how many people would show. By the evening, there had to have been about 300 people that made an appearance, and it was difficult to even walk to the other side of the room at one point. So many people, some I had never met, stopped to tell me how much my mother meant to them.

At the end of the wake, we asked if someone would like to share a special story or moment they had with my mom. A man my mom's age stood up and said, "I used to take the bus with Cherie when we were in high school. That was always a fun time, and I never forgot about that."

A neighbor of ours we only knew for a few years came up to me and gave me a huge hug. I saw tears in his eyes, and I said, "I know, it's sad, I know you liked her a lot." He got choked-up and and said, "No, Tracey, I loved her," as tears streamed down his face.

The wake was a sea of faces, people from my past mixed with new acquaintances, family who made sure I ate something, friends to give me a reassuring nod and a level of understanding that no one else could. All of these people loved my mom in their own way; she touched their hearts in a way I couldn't understand. But, simply put, I guess you could say to know her, was to love her. Her best friend of 30 years said it best when she got up to speak at her wake:

"She was a good mother, wife, sister, daughter, and friend. There is a saying I have on my refrigerator, and not until today did I glance at it, that it reminds me of Cherie. The saying goes like this:

Dance like no one's watching

Love like you've never been hurt

Sing like no one's listening

Live like heaven is on Earth

That is my mom.