SPEAK
LIFE AFTER DEATH
Growing up without a mom by Malinda Osborne
On November 4, 1985,
less than two years after I was born, my mom had her first seizure. After putting my sister and I in our play crib, she called my Dad and then an ambulance. She was later diagnosed with a brain tumor. She lost her hair from the radiation and continued to have seizures for the next three years. She died when she was 37, married, with three daughters (all younger than 11) and our family was building a new house.
When people find out my mom passed away, one of the first questions they ask
is "What's it like not having a mother?" It's like asking me what it's like to be female — I don't know any differently, and it's hard to explain.
I don't have many memories of her. I remember what she looks like mostly from pictures. Looking at them is always odd because it's like seeing a stranger who looks exactly like me — dark curly hair framing a pale-complected face with piercing blue eyes and a raffish smile. Most of what I know of her comes from stories people tell me. Each one is like a puzzle piece
that creates a picture of what her personality was like.
Through these stories, my mother became a mythic figure in my childhood. Most stories were about her kindness and benevolence, like the time she bought new clothes for some neighborhood children whose apartment burned down or when she volunteered at a cancer survivor center after she was diagnosed.
When I got older I began to yearn for stories that made her seem like an actual person — someone who made mistakes and got in trouble. For a while I felt guilty for feeling this way; living up to her legacy was difficult, and I guess I just wanted to make it easier on myself.
When I allow myself to think about it, I'm almost shocked that someone who is supposed to be so integral to my life isn't there, and yet life goes on. People talk about their moms taking care of them when they're sick or telling them not to worry so much. I listen with curiosity, wondering what it would be like to have a doting parental figure.
Don't get me wrong — I love my Dad tremendously and he did a great job raising us. However, he definitely lacks maternal instincts. For instance, whenever any of us got sick with anything from the flu to food poisoning, he always suggested gargling warm salt water as the remedy. His idea of comforting us during stressful times involved the words "buck up" and a pat on the back.
Again, this is not to say
My mom attended Kansas
State University after
transferring from the University of
Kansas. I still love her, though.
Sitting in my mom's lap during a visit to her mother's. I was four years old.
I was deprived of any love or affection growing up. Every member of my family was constantly loving and affectionate. My dad worked out in the morning and returned before 6 a.m. just so he could help us get ready for school. My sisters did everything from helping dress me (which explains the body suits and bulky sweaters I wore from kindergarten to third grade) to taking me on college visits in high school. My grandparents drove me everywhere and watched more than their fair share of painfully long dance recitals and soccer games.
It's now been 18 years since my mother's death and our family is doing fine. Actually, in the past year my dad got remarried, one sister got engaged and the other received her master's degree. I know my mom would be happy for all us. She wouldn't want us to stop enjoying our own lives and commiserate the loss of hers. She wanted to make us happy, and she still does, every time we think about her.
03.09.2006 JAYPLAY <42>