My mother's birthday: A day for reflection

Today is my mother's birthday. She would have been 84 years old.

Today is also President Jimmy Carter's funeral and burial. I just finished watching his funeral mass while sitting at the cemetery visiting my mother. Needless to say it got me thinking about a lot of things.

I think I've learned a lot in the three-plus years my mother has been gone. They say knowledge is power. In my case, I think knowledge hasn't given me some power, but it has given me even more support and comfort.

I've learned a lot from writing this blog. I wouldn't have started it if my mother hasn't passed. It may have been one of the best things I've done in the last three years. I am not benefiting monetarily from it, nor was that ever my intention. I am surprised I even have a few subscribers. Again, I never expected to have anyone read my material, nevermind, actually, subscribe to this site. I am thankful and very appreciative of that, but my intention all along was just to write my feelings as a way of documenting my journey for myself.

Today is a day of reflection for me, and this blog helps me do just that. I find myself thinking back to the stories I have written. The mere fact I have some subscribers and a few of you have taken the time to reach out to me shows me that I am not alone in this journey. I think that is one of the first things one has to come to grips with when suffering a loss.

When I think about not being alone, I think about the Andrew Garfield article I wrote in which he recalls walking along the beach after his mother died. He recounts having a conversation with the ocean – just go with it – in which the ocean tells him that he has just been indoctrinated into a club that has been going on "for millenia." For as long as humans have walked the earth, people have been losing their parents, but that is the way life is meant to be. Parents are supposed to die before their children. It is painful, but it is reality.

I also think about how Garfield says that he never wants to let go of the sorrow of grieving his mother. It is at those times, he says, that he feels closest to his mother.

I think about that today as I sit in my car, watching light snow flurries blow sideways across my windshield. It really is a beautiful, typical January, New England day. This is the kind of snowfall which is beautiful because you know it is not going to stick to the ground, thus requiring shoveling. The sun is glowing behind the murky, gray sky.

I feel closer to my mother today than I have in some time. It is because I am thinking of her more today than I have in some months.

As I sit in my car watching and listening to Jimmy Carter's sons and grandsons eulogize him on my propped up phone, I am reminded of the article I wrote about Alex Van Halen. Death is death. It doesn't matter if you were once President of the United States or, if, as in Alex Van Halen's brother's case, one of the greatest guitarists and musicians to ever walk the earth.

Alex recounted watching Eddie Van Halen take his last breath. Alex says he was disappointed at the simplicity of it all. There were no bells ringing or angels singing. He didn't see Eddie's spirit float up through the ceiling. There was no flickering of a light bulb or blowing out of a candle. There were no doves or cardinals flying past the window. In Alex's own words, it was "an uneventful end to an eventful life."

Watching Carter's funeral, I am struck by the simplicity of it all. Sure, this ceremony was being broadcast live and I am sure millions of people worldwide were watching it just like me. Sure, the church where the ceremony was being held was filled with dignitaries like the current and former presidents of the United States and other celebrities.

But the ceremony itself was just like my mother's. I delivered a eulogy for my mother just like Carter's son did. It wasn't witnessed by millions of people, but, if I should say so myself, my eulogy was every bit as eloquent.

It is always beautiful to me to hear family members eulogize their loved ones. It humanizes these people you only know from seeing on TV. In other words, it brings them down to our level. To Carter's family, he wasn't Mr. President. He was "dad," or "grandpa," or "Uncle Jim." It reminds us that these people are merely human beings, just like you and me.

The prayers at the ceremony were the same including the one about "walking through the valley of death." They played the same songs, although my mother didn't have a professional singer backed by an entire choir singing "Amazing Grace."

The coffin was carried out to a simple black hearse, just like my mother's was. It was my brother and me that were carrying the hearse and not a bunch of military personnel, but it was the same concept. Later today, the former president of the United States will be buried in the ground just like my mother was.

For you are dust and to dust you shall return.

And that applies to all of us. Like Alex Van Halen said, it is an uneventful end. It was for Eddie Van Halen. It was for President Jimmy Carter. And it was for Maria Branco, my mother.

The events of today also remind me of the article I wrote about "the dash." That dash is the one that will be engraved on your grave stone between the date of your birth and the date of your death. It seems like such a simple marking, yet not everyone's dash is the same. Take someone like Jimmy Carter, for example. That simple dash between his date of birth and date of death represents so much more than what is represented by such a small line.

My mother's dash will be the same size as the former president's, but it will mean so much more to me. I am part of that dash. My life story is included in her tiny little dash that I run my fingers across every time I visit her grave stone.

On this day, as I run my fingers along that groove on her gravestone, I am inundated again by the grief that I felt the first time I saw the date of her death engraved on that gravestone, weeks after her actual burial.

I am reminded of one of the first articles I wrote about grief just being love with no place to go. It is because I loved my mother so much that I grieve so much. That is comforting to me in a way.

That is why I go back to the Andrew Garfield comment about feeling closest to your deceased loved one when you grieve them. For that reason, you don't want to let go of the grief. You hate it, but you love it at the same time.

I think to Alex Van Halen referencing a Billy Bob Thornton interview he had heard in which Thornton talks about the death of his teenage brother in 1998. Thornton says that he never wants to forget the way he felt the day his brother died, "because he deserves" to be remembered. Thornton goes on to say that if he has to suffer and be sad for the rest of his life in order to honor his brother, than so be it.

It seems a little drastic, and counterproductive to recovery, but I feel the same way. But I have also learned that you need to live with that grief. It doesn't "get easier over time." Please, don't ever say that to someone who is grieving.

The grief never goes away, nor should you want it to. Your loved one deserves to not be forgotten. If being sad for a moment is the way you remember them, then so be it. If feeling a momentary bit of pain is the way you remember them, accept it. That grief is just a representation of how much you loved the person.

Therapy has taught me that the goal is not to get rid of the grief, but instead learn how to live with it. There is nothing wrong with embracing the grief and acknowledging it. That is what I am doing today on her birthday.

On every anniversary of her birthday or the day she died and several times in between, I read the poem I wrote for her on the day she died. I will end this article with it.

My mother passed away today

I don't know what to say

No longer will I be able to kiss your soft cheek

or hold your comforting hand

It is too much for me to understand

You worked so tirelessly all your years

So your children would have fewer cares

Your eyes were always so caring

Your laughter was always endearing

Your love for your children was always immense

It is so hard to talk about you in the past tense

My mother died today

I have a little more to say

You taught me humility

You taught me the importance of family

You picked up every penny

Because when you were young you didn't have many

You taught me the meaning of unconditional love

You truly were an angel sent from above

You taught me not to be selfish,

But it hurt to let go of the hand of someone I cherish

I wanted you forever here with me

And for that I can't help but feel a little melancholy

You didn't deserve to have it end like this

But I am comforted knowing you are now in eternal bliss

My mother died today

I guess I had a lot to say