I acted oddly after Gladys died. When particular people offered their condolences, I would shrug off my mother’s death and make inane comments about not really liking her anyway. And yet I would burst into tears at the sound of Harry Belafonte, the sight of maple walnut ice cream. I alternated between remembering every horrid thing my mother did to me, and the sweetness in her.
It wasn’t until I sat down to dinner with a woman, who had lost her mother a few months before Gladys died, that everything fell into perspective. I confessed to her that I was trashing my dear, dead mother. She understood perfectly. By remembering all the bad stuff, I was managing to keep my grief at bay. Exactly! Why didn’t I think of that? Bingo!
Once I allowed myself to feel the loss I truly felt, then, although, I felt like poop, I felt better.
In August, I flew to Guelph and my brothers and I had an internment ceremony for both my dad and Gladys in a beautiful cemetery where most of my dad’s family is buried. Neither of them would have wanted this, but I did. It made me feel peaceful that they were there. My brothers and I totally disregarded their wishes. I remember when a friend of mine, whose husband died of cancer years ago, overrode every instruction he left when he died. I thought she was evil and selfish to do so. Couldn’t understand it. Now, I understand it.
I loved Gladys very much, and not a day goes by that her voice doesn’t pop into my head giving me advice that I’d heard so often when she was alive. Sometimes, she comes to me in dreams that are so real, and we talk. She is loving and gentle. This, too, leaves me peaceful.
My Life with Gladys Blog 