Cycling Back

When Mom was 43, the last thing that she expected was to get pregnant. Her mother had died tragically at that age when she was 12 so, for some reason, she thought this would happen to her too. Instead, she got me. Surprise! Now here I am, 43 years later, living with Mom and Dad again. The prodigal daughter returns? Not exactly. 

I don’t know how old I was when I learned of my grandmother’s untimely passing but it is something that I have felt and carried for a very long time. The years of awfulness that followed her death changed the path of Mom’s life; the grief and pain of those years have never left her. I have always been aware of this haunting and have tried, in vain, to shake it. Now that I am that age myself, I have decided to lean in instead. What is this cycle I am in and what do I do with it?

It was a shock for Mom to be pregnant at such an old age. There weren’t many 40+ pregnant ladies around in the late 70s. With grey hair and all, she pushed me into this world and gave me the life I have now. 43 and with three young kids in tote, I can say with 100% certainty that I would be in the fetal position for months if I found myself in the same situation as Mom did. I literally shudder thinking about that. 

Knowing the history behind my birth and the fact that I was the exact opposite of expectations for that year, I approach this birthday just passed with a touch of anxiety. I don’t know what I’m thinking, maybe that somehow the fate that Mom expected at 43 will pass to me. I know how insane that sounds but sometimes we just have to give voice to our inner crazy. Over the years, I have thought about my grandmother often. Hit by a car, she has been gone for almost 75 years yet has come to influence the lives of all who have descended from her. Writing about her now feels strange, as if I am opening a forbidden chapter. But even the painful chapters are meant to be read and re-read. Grief is really just love persevering. I wish I could take credit for that but I learned that on Wandavision last night (a great show on Disney + that I highly recommend). 

The other night, as this household of 6 gathered for yet another meal, we listened to David Muir eulogize some of the 500,000 lives lost to Covid. I looked over at J.D. and saw sadness fall across his face. Struggling to absorb what he was hearing, I asked if he was OK. “It’s just sad” he said as his eyes filled with tears. Then I started to cry, then Mom started to cry, Isaac was frozen in shock, Maire ran to go jump on the couch, and Dad continued to shovel food into his mouth. As I hugged J.D. and he wiped his tears away, embarrassed by their presence being the manchild he is, Mom rubbed his back and said “March is going to be a wonderful month. Just you wait. It’s going to be marvelous.” Dad finally looked up from his plate, perplexed. “Why the heck is March going to be a marvelous month??” he asked. He had a point, March is terrible in New England. And just like that, our tears changed to laughter and we got back to eating as Wheel of Fortune started up after David Muir bid us a good evening. 

So this is the story I will continue to dive into. This grand cycle of life, marred by death, and pulled together by connection and love. To our grandmother who art in heaven, I hope you are proud of your legacy here that still lives. Your daughters are strong as hell and I imagine you would not be surprised to know that, sometimes, they can be royal pains in the rear. No offense, ladies, but the struggle is real when dealing with you forces of nature. You know I’m right and it’s probably why you’re both trucking along through this pandemic like the badasses you are. Just the messenger here, don’t shoot. Your stories, and the story of where you came from, should be told. So let’s cycle back into the evergreen and grey and cycle forward this story that is both magenta and bold.