Dear Mom,

Fall is here, and the crisp air reminds me of you. It reminds me of all the time we spent back-to-school shopping at BP, it reminds me of you leaving work early so you could take us to Office Max for all of our school supplies before dinner, it reminds me of you yelling at us from the yard ("Get out here and help your dad and I rake all these leaves!"). You brought home pumpkins for us to carve and would only let daddy use the carving tools. You worked from home for the first week of school so you would be there when we got home to hear how everything went. You dragged us to high holiday services and told us to hang up our fancy temple clothes. You asked dad to make chili.

Today, the falling leaves take me to different memories that I wish I could forget: flashes of hushed phone calls, a fire truck, a worried neighbor, a crying aunt. Eleven years ago today you slipped away from us while Steph and I slept on the couch. Hours later, I sat in my room alone looking out the window, waiting for Kristen to arrive, watching the leaves fall off the trees. Since then, fall has always brought a bittersweet flood of emotions.

But everything seems harder this year. We went to yizkor services on Yom Kippur, like always. My usually numb reactions abandoned me and were replaced with an hour of slow tears. Your yahrzeit service this past Friday used to be an opportunity for me to respect your memory with a Kaddish and a visit to our family shuel. This time, I was overwhelmed by you. I could hear you singing every song. My heart ached during the Mi Scheberach, which I unsuccessfully sang for you countless times while you were sick. I could barely speak the words of the Kaddish through my tears. I asked Lindsey to drive by our old house and lost it. I see you in every inch of that space.

And I think that maybe this is all because of Lindsey. Lindsey, who drove two hours two weeks in a row to support me and honor your memory. Lindsey, who told me she talked to you during the silent prayers. Lindsey, who watched the video you left me and cried and said "I understand you so much better now". I know that you know Lindsey well by now, but I wish you could know her. I wish you could see all the things she does every day to keep me safe and make me happy. I wish you could hear her talk about the students she works with; her compassion reminds me so much of you. I wish you could see her yell at me when I'm mean to Steph, push me to prioritize family, and drive me two blocks to my car so I don't have to walk alone at night. I love her madly, and you would love her too.

Getting married makes me miss you more. I feel more like a "grown-up" than I ever have, and I want you here to help me with that. How will I know what it means to be a good wife? How will I know how to be a good mother? It's heartbreaking to picture myself moving through these beautiful milestones without you. I'm so lucky that you chose the partner you did--he shows me every day how to be a patient and supportive parent. But I need you too.

Please make your presence known this year. Give me signs that you're with me at the dress fittings, the vendor meetings, down the aisle and under the chuppah. Please help me stay focused on the marriage and not get caught up in the details of the wedding. Come to me in moments of stress and whisper "Mommy loves you", like you always did. I promise to listen.

I love you forever,
Diana




A glossary for the non-Jews:

Yizkor: Memorial
Yahrzeit: Anniversary of death
Kaddish: A prayer recited in honor of those who have died
Shuel: Synagogue
Mi Scheberach: A prayer for healing
Chuppah: The canopy a couple is married under

How My Mom Paid for Cobblestone

This story begins a few weeks ago, on the night my family celebrated Linds' birthday, when my dad brought my mail that had been sent to his house. I rolled my eyes and sighed, because this usually means I paid a parking ticket late and the City of Ann Arbor is writing to gouge me a little bit more. But this time was different--the envelope was from Israel Bonds Direct. What?

At home later that night I used google to decode all of the financial jargon, and realized several things:

1) My mom had purchased an Israel Bond for me, in both of our names, in 1996
2) It was reaching maturity on July 1st
3) Someone was going to mail me a check for $900

Clearly, this was exciting news. I'll spare you the details of the awkward, depressing, lengthy process of removing her name from the account (tip: avoid carrying your mom's death certificate around for a week. it's weird.) and just skip to...

a few days ago, at my weekly sit-down with Linds to go over our budget. We were discussing how to re-allocate money in order to pay off the balance on one of my credit cards, which holds only the rental fee for our reception venue (Cobblestone Farm). We decided to just use the bond redemption check, since it's almost the exact amount as the cost of renting the space.
Then last night, when I glanced at my mom's picture hanging in our "living room", I was hit over the head with a sense of faith in the universe, and her memory, and her spirit. I didn't know this bond existed until three weeks ago, which was almost exactly a month after we booked Cobblestone. The bond just happens to be for nearly the exact amount as the rental fee. The bond that my mom bought, in both of our names.

Sorry, but even this humanist only-marginally-spiritual lady can't write that off. I am overwhelmed with a feeling of connectedness with her. We've been thinking about ways to include her and honor her in the wedding, and I'm sure those will be beautiful and meaningful. But this surprise? Amazing.

On Being Motherless

Heavy title, no?

Well. Not to be overdramatic, but planning a wedding without a mom blows. Or, perhaps more specific to my situation, planning a wedding without a mom once you move past the drama with the family members still living is really really shitty and hard.

When I first started talking to my therapist about proposing to Lindsey, she cautiously questioned me about how making these life changes might feel without my mom. It certainly was a valid question, but I didn't have much to say about it other than "I don't know". Grief is a funny thing that way--sometimes it creeps up for seemingly insignificant moments, and sometimes I'm surprised by how numb I feel in the bigger moments. For the first several weeks of being engaged, I felt only joy. Well, that's not true. I felt rage and hurt because of misunderstandings with some family members--but I was able to keep that pretty compartmentalized, and mostly felt only joy and excitement.

A week ago, all of those misunderstandings were cleared up. We're moving forward, and I felt so relieved to leave all of the hurt behind. I was ready for the endless stream of inane but oh-so-fun discussions about centerpieces and escort cards. I've spent so much time overwhelmed and sad because of the state of the world, and I'm excited to have an excuse (not that I ever needed one) to let myself focus on something happy--and yes, shallow.

And I am having those conversations. I'm obsessively consuming advice and inspiration from all over the internets, and throwing idea after random idea at Linds to hear her input. But I'm also sad. Really sad. I'm missing my mom more than I have in a decade. I'm used to tough days--Mother's Day, her yahrzeit, a holiday, a graduation. I'm not used to tough weeks. I'm not used to feeling her absence this profoundly. I miss her in a way that makes everything feel bittersweet.

But I also think this is good. It's painful and sucky and frustrating, but it's also comforting to know that she's with me through this--even if it's in a different form than either of us would like.