On February 7, 1977 my mother, Alice Cosandier Smith died at
the age of 62. I was 27 years old. No matter what age you are when you lose
your mother it is never “right”. When she died, I was just coming into
adulthood and I was unprepared not to have her around.
One of the great things she gave me was a sense that I could
go out into the world. Growing up in a small (I’m talking 800 people!) farming
community in north-east Kansas, all of the kids in my graduating class stayed
either on the farm or the few who did go to college stayed close to home. My mom took me to Topeka every week from the
time I can remember and gave me the opportunity to take dancing, piano and
violin lessons, orchestra and provided experiences in the world that were larger
than the small-town mentality. Although her expectations were excessive and her
motivation possibly confused, I am grateful now for all the gifts these
experiences brought to my life.
One of the things she did that was, I think, meant to be helpful
(from her own history and psychological makeup) and turned out to be a disaster
for me, was how she created dependence with me around caring for myself. From
the time I can remember I was told that I didn’t have to take care of myself as
an adult—she would always support me. I was not to pursue a career that
provided money on which to live, in fact, I was encouraged to go into music
(and not even music education) so that she could take care of me through my
adulthood. Likewise, I was not to get married. I was not to have children. The
same message was given for these.
These messages were devastatingly confusing to me especially
when she died. First of all, she didn’t have the resources to carry through
with her promise and she did not set
up her affairs in preparation for her death. Suddenly, I was dealing with my
father, who had inherited all of my mother’s resources. That was when I found
out about his anger and resentment with everything my mother had given and
provided for me. Her resources were now his and he had no interest in the myth
she had spun about taking care of me.
I felt like I had been dumped on my head. I hadn't been given the inner resources to take care of myself in the outer world. dI floundered for
the next number of decades trying to shape my self-image and self-esteem into a
healthy adult that could be responsible for myself. Most of the time, I failed
miserably. I would begin to make progress and then would grasp for a
relationship to keep me from falling through the perceived widening gap. Then
it would feel as though the rug was pulled out from underneath me and I would
free-fall for a while. Lost. Finally, I would find the shaky ground again and
start the cycle all over again.
This pattern did irreparable damage to me and looking back,
I can see how this hurt me deeply over and over again. And I regret the hurt it
caused others, as well. This wound never healed, it just got covered over with a band-aid
and then that was ripped off exposing the raw wound once again. I still feel
uncomfortable in the throws of this wound, even though my life is more
steady than it has ever been. I still cower at the thought of losing
everything, losing myself and falling through the crack created by my inability
to take care of myself due to lack of inner resources.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I loved my mother enormously. What
she gave me that was wonderful far outweighed this wound. I don’t believe,
given who she was and how her life had challenged her, she was capable of doing
anything different than what she did. I don’t believe her actions or promises
were intentional or malicious. I feel it was unconscious on her part. I choose
to look at it as a life--work challenge for me that is providing me more growth
than anything else in my life.
This February it has been 37 years since her passing. It is
hard to believe; as it feels like it was only yesterday she was here. I have
been thinking about her a lot all month—trying to put pieces together and differentiate
facts from feelings. I can tell I have grown a lot since I was 27. Losing your
mother is devastating no matter what your age. I have missed a lot not having
mine around. I honestly have been
weighing my grief and my loss against the old anger I have harbored with her
and am beginning to let it all go. I am fine, I am safe, and I am loved.
