Remembering my Mom, November 1st and Always

With so many people in this world suffering devastation now, today, whether at the hands of mother nature or fate or circumstances out of their control, it hardly seems fair to dwell on a loss I suffered 14 years ago. Let alone write about it, as though that loss gives me license to feel sorry for myself, over and over again.

But the pain of loss is very subjective. And the pain seems fresh every November 1st.

November 1st.

For some it means taking down the Halloween decorations and replacing them with Christmas lights and garland.

For others it marks day one of Movember, a month-long mustachied fundraising quest for prostate cancer. Or NaNoWriMo, the consummate writer’s extreme writing challenge.

For yet others it is a time to pin a poppy to their lapels as we…remember.

For me, I will never forget. But while most days I push away the sadness to a little corner of my heart, today I choose to remember her.

My mother.

My mother who would never see me walk down the aisle. My mother who would never hold any of my babies. Or hear their laughter. Or dry their tears. My mother who snorted when she laughed. Whose smile could light up a room. My mother whose empathy knew no boundaries. My mother who fought till there was no fight left.

I debated whether to write about her, as I have before. And then I questioned whether or not I could somehow find a little nugget of humour in this sadness that pervades, if only to keep this post from dragging me down.

Nope. No funny stuff.

Instead, I happened by a blog this morning by writer-artist, Christian Mihai and he wrote something that resonated with me.  He said:

Isn’t it true that we write about the things we had and lost not because of the pain we feel, but because we wish to recapture the moments of joy, to keep the flame alive long after our memories have turned to dust?

This sums it up perfectly.

Mom, my heart will never be completely healed, nor do I wish it so, for that will mean I will have forgotten you, when all I wish is…to remember.

About Erica

Erica writes with humour and heart about family, #fit40s and living life in the carpool lane. Part-time banker by day and Netflix-addicted-cake-decorator by night, Erica's in-between time is spent dreaming up ways to ruin her kids' lives. Obviously.
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  1. Oh Erica so wonderfully written. Your mom sounds like such an amazing woman. Your description of her sounds so much like you. I think you should remember every year that your mother will live on forever in you as she has helped make you into the amazing mother that you are. xo

    • Thank you, Lindsay. I’ve never had a loss shake me to my core like the loss of my mother. It makes me so sad that my children will never know her which is why I have to constantly try to keep her in my memories. To remember her…for them. xo

  2. Erica, mi amor, que quiero con toda mi alma. Gracias por ser como eres.

  3. Muchos besos Erica, pero intenta la proxima vez, escribir algo en español, ya que tu texto es hermoso, pero hay cosas que no comprendo.

    • Gracias, Cristina, por haber tomado el tiempo de leer mi entrada aunque hayan cosas que no hayas comprendido. Lo importante es que ver llegar el primero de noviembre siempre me llena de tristeza, aún despues de 14 años, que casi no me lo creo. Mi madre ha dejado un vacío en nuestra vida que nunca se curará y lo que mas me ayuda a hacer frente a la pérdida es la palabra escrita. Un abrazo.

  4. This was so nice and I’m sorry for your loss – no matter how long ago it was. I lost my mom 12 years ago, when I was 22 and I completely understand how you feel! Although, I still always miss her, my November is in April. She died on the 2nd, her birthday was the 15th and my parents anniversary was March 28. Lots of emotions are always stirred up that time of year. Anyway – thanks for sharing. This is a great way to remember her.

    • Thank you, Molly. It’s something you can only truly understand if you’ve gone through it. I’m so very sorry for your loss as well. Seems we were about the same age. Hugs to you.

  5. I’m so sorry for your loss, Erica. I’m sure your mom has been always watching over you 🙂

  6. Beautiful post. I believe your mom did see you walk down the aisle, and she is with your always, watching over you. I am so sorry for you loss

  7. Love this by the way. I spent most of Nov 1 on the couch in front of the fire, thinking about mom….family….good times….bad. As I do every year after my wicked birthday hangover.

    It’s funny…every year I drink less and every November 1st, I feel worse.

    When I read this though, I was overwhelmed with joy and sadness. Much like I am now, simply replying to the post. K……done. Verklempt. Gomez out.

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