This year marks the 25th anniversary of my Mom passing away. I was barely 17 the day she passed away. Today being the day she would have turned 74. It feels like it was a lifetime ago. Because, it was.

I don’t want you (the reader) to think that I don’t love my Mom. I do love her. I will always love her and be thankful to her for giving me life. But I also want to make it clear of how my life came to be what it is today. With being 100% authentic and honest with my site. Even if it doesn’t paint the perfect picture or may hurt some’s feelings. It’s also the story of how I forgave her. It may all come out as word vomit, but it’s better to get it out than keep it all in. This is my therapy.

I always write these notes in my phone about what I want to write about, reminders, stories, “don’t forget” and so on. Unfortunately in the 90’s that’s not something a 17 year old kid would have done. Something that I regret often. Which I think is why I started journaling. That way I wouldn’t forget the important stuff.

One note that I wrote to my self was “You probably sang to me the day I was born, but I can’t remember your voice”. I was originally going to make it into a poem (which could still happen), but it turned into something way bigger. Being older and wiser, I was able to process it in a way that didn’t bring me back to the mentality I once had, or felt alone. This time I had my “Moms”. Even if I didn’t tell them exactly why I called or was asking specific things. I had the tools now because of them, that I was able to seek out their guidance in a way that didn’t cause worry. I may be a grown up, but I will always need my “Moms”.

It was at the beginning of Covid when everything was so scattered, the future was unforeseeable and I was organizing my memory box/life. Like everyone else was. Also, we had just moved to a new apartment. Listening to my tapes on the boombox, Mike had bought me for Christmas. I was looking at old pictures and found 1 of the few photos I have of my Mom. I thought of what she would be doing during this time. Especially since she suffered with Crohn’s Disease and toilet paper was becoming scarce. Another thought popped into my mind with a zap to my heart. I couldn’t remember the sound of my Mom’s voice. I turned off the radio and closed my eyes, trying like hell to hear it. But it was gone. I could no longer remember the sound of her voice. It was gone and still is to this day.

I have very few mementos or belongings of my Mom’s. It is all contained in 2 small boxes. 1 holding her ashes with a few things and the other is a tote under my bed that holds the contents of her wallet, her comb, cards I received from when she passed away, a necklace from Mark/Kathy as a remembrance and the ca-single of “Whoop there is it”. That’s it. The contents of her life in 2 tiny boxes. Add what I know of her and memories I have, it’s just as small. Her part in my life was small. It was 25 years ago. I am 7 years shy of the age she was when she passed away. It’s also the biggest impact of who I became.

We always turn loved ones who pass away into martyrs. We share all the good, how they lit up a room, how they were just too good for this world and “God needed them sooner”. Mary Susan (My Mom) was far from that. I inherited her wicked sense of humor, great taste in music, anxiety and saying whatever I want without thinking. Which can be eloquently said, beautifully written or like a knife, a stab in the heart. I think she tried as hard as she could, but selfishly for her, she would always be first. As long as she had cigarettes, coffee, cable TV, scratch offs and her medication, she was content. Then somewhere down the line we came into importance. She loved us, but she loved her more.

I can hear it now…..

“Oh, no. You can’t talk ill of the dead. Especially your Mother”.

Yes, yes I can. This isn’t me speaking ill of her either. This is a fact. Chapters 1-17 of my life. This was my reality. Becoming an adult before I even hit puberty, was not something I planned on. I didn’t start working at 11 (babysitting) because I wanted to. I did it because it was survival. There was no way around it. Plus Walter wasn’t making any effort in the upbringing of me, or my siblings.

From the time I can remember as a kid until she passed away, my Mom was always sick with some ailment. Whether it was her Crohn’s, Cancer, Cirrhosis, Closed head injury or dealing with her mental illness, she was always sick. We made excuses because she was “sick”. But she used that to her advantage and selfishly blended sick with “ME ME ME ME” together. It blurred the lines of what was really going on or what she wanted. What she wanted was to be taken care of most of the time. Whatever the reason may be, she wanted everyone to drop what they were doing and take care of her. It was Mary’s world and we just lived in it. Regardless of the toll it took on others. Even when she said unforgivable/unforgettable things. Again, I unfortunately inherited this trait from her. Good or bad. I have to check myself (often). Words hold power. I never want to be the cause or damage of someone’s feelings/hurt.

When I think of the note I wrote in my phone. It breaks my heart a little every time I read it. How does someone forget the sound of their own mother’s voice? I can’t remember the tone of her voice, the sound of her laugh or saying the words “I love you”. Nothing, its as if it was erased from my mind completely. Which makes me mad, since my memory has always been above par. I remember everything. I can hear a song and tell you the day/month/year, where I was, what I was wearing, the weather and every little miniscule detail. I remind people of times past and they are in awe with the detail of how well I remember that moment. But this, this is something I can’t remember.

Don’t get me wrong, I do have some really wonderful memories of my Mom. Memories I will cherish till the end of my days. It was not always doom and gloom. The events at the end of her life left an ugly scar that took a long time to heal. You also have to remember, I was a teenager when she passed. 15 days after my 17th birthday I joined the “My mom died” club.

Prior to her passing, I lived with my brother because my Mom wanted to move to a different city than where I had been living. We moved like gypsies, and I was so tired of packing and leaving everything I knew behind. I had my friends, school and my job at NGH. I refused to leave or give any of that up. It was selfish of me, but it was my way of putting my foot down. To stay where I wanted and needed to be. If I was old enough to go to school and work 30+ hours a week, I was old enough to make the choice of where I wanted to live. I don’t regret it either, even if that makes me selfish. I wasn’t always close with my Mom either. I was the baby of 5. By the time I came around, Mary and Walter had “been there, done that”. It’s why I have such a close relationship with my sister, Tina. All of my early “Motherly memories” are of her. Hell, she had to stop me from calling her “Mom” when I was a toddler. It’s also why I have “daddy issues”, but that story is for another time. Thankfully I have my Brothers and Daddy Warbucks (Mark).

Not many people know this, nor have I shared it, but the last conversation I had with my Mom was an argument. Like everything else, I remember it vividly. I know the exact date/time of it to as you’ll read.

November 5th, 1997 11:10am. I received a pink slip while in 3rd hour, I thought I was in trouble for something. Even though I was a good kid, receiving a pink slip was never good. The student aid handed me the note that said “Call your mother immediately”. My brother didn’t have a phone at home, so this was her way of getting ahold of us, unless I was at the Bingo Hall. I walked down to the office and called her. She was mad. She was mad that my brothers house phone was shut off. She was mad that my brother was getting my child support. She was mad that she had to take care of herself. She was also mad that I hadn’t been down to visit her, since I “had” a car. Little did she know, my brother Scott drove the car into the ground and it was dead. Sitting in a vacant parking spot in a trailer park in Mt. Clemens, waiting to be towed to the junk yard. As she yelled at me, I just tuned her out. I remember watching the secretary file her nails, thinking “Wow, great way to start my birthday month”. She ended her tirade and I said I had to get back to class. She hung up on me. The last conversation I had with my Mom was an argument and she hung up on me.

It gets worse.

10 days later, not a single member of my family remembered my birthday. Not a call, not a card, not gift, not a nothing. The one that hurt the most was my Mom not reaching out. I had worked at the hall the night prior. Knowing we didn’t have a phone at home, she could have called me there. But she didn’t. I was mad at everyone for forgetting, but I was infuriated that she did. This wasn’t the first time I had been forgotten on my birthday. The one day a year that’s supposed to be about you, to celebrate you. I sat in my closet aka “bedroom” and cried. It wasn’t until almost 7 pm when Heather came over after work to wish me a Happy Birthday. She knew as soon as I opened the door, something was wrong. I told her. She asked me what I wanted to do. I replied “I want to get out of this apartment and call every one of these assholes and scream at them”. I grabbed my coat and my yellow change wallet, we got in her car (the green Bonneville) and drove to the payphone in our apartment complex. I had every intention of screaming at every single family member. I called my Mom first but she didn’t answer. Probably didn’t recognize the number on the caller ID. I couldn’t call Tina, she didn’t have a phone or a car (couldn’t blame her) and Scott sat in my face all day, but couldn’t remember my birthday through the weed clouds. My second call was to my other brothers. I knew Joe (who also lived with Scott and me) would be at Bill’s. I didn’t end up screaming. I ended up crying. All the fight I had in me diminished with each call. I remember it was sleeting, the smell of the exhaust from Heather’s car, the condensation of my breath and how little my voice sounded when I said “You all forgot my birthday”. They tried to make up for it by inviting me over, and buying me a cake. Heather drove me over there, but it didn’t matter. None of it mattered. There was no thought. There was no effort. It was a “pity party” that turned into my birthday party. It was just another day. Even with one last call to my Mom and no answer. It clearly didn’t matter to her. I expected it from Walter, but not from her. I wanted more than anything to yell at her and hang up on her, like she did to me at school. I had a bone to pick with her the next time I saw her. I was going to make her wish she never had me, because at that moment in time. I wasn’t sure why she did. How do you forget your child’s birthday? (It’s why I’ve never made a big deal about my birthday. But it is a big deal. As I do for others, I deserve to be celebrated too. Took me until almost 40 to learn that.)

It gets worse.

5 days later we got the call that she was in a medicated coma at Bi-County Hospital.

It gets worse.

10 days after that, she died.

I never spoke to my Mom again. Our last conversation will always be an argument and her hanging up on me.

It drained the remaining innocence I had left. I was officially an adult. No more crying over forgotten birthdays. No more being a kid. And no more Mom. Mary Susan left the building and left the door open.

Being a grown up at 17, sucked. But with darkness, comes light.

I am not a religious person. I think I once was, because we were all raised with some form of it. The belief and faith of it all has turned into a fairytale, the older I get. Like Santa, the Tooth Fairy and the Easter Bunny. I don’t knock those that do, and am often envious of their blind faith. But I am also a realist. I can’t fathom this “thing” that wants to punish or take from someone unless there is 100% belief and obedience. Or “allows” such horrible things to happen, but “it’s for the best”. Or used as a weapon. I can’t get down with that. I don’t endorse it either.

I do however believe in spirituality, fate, shooting stars, and things happening for a reason. Things I can see/feel. George Carlin taught me that along time ago. Kids these days would be offended. That’s a topic of another time. I like to think all of the things my Mom would have wanted to do, but couldn’t/didn’t, were tasked to others. She was sick for so long and tired and selfish. Maybe it was her Devine Intervention. Maybe it’s the made up story in my head of her redemption for my 17th Birthday. Maybe it’s the guilt I have for the things I have said/feel about my deceased Mom. Maybe it was luck. Whatever it is/was, it was meant for me.

I encountered some very special women. Women who took it upon themselves to be the Mom I needed and to heal the part of my heart that was damaged for so long. They saw all of my broken pieces and fixed them, piece by piece. They turned all the hate and hurt I had for my Mom into something special and unique. It was never about anything material. It was love. It was support. It was hugs and kisses. It was being there at my greatest achievements, but also there when I was at my lowest moments. It was allowing me to grow but accepting the young spirit that needed to be nurtured. It was teaching me right from wrong. It was forgiveness. Even when they made mistakes, as we all do.

Tina (my sister), Kathy (Mama Bear), Suzanne (Sassy) and Carol (D & Wendy). 5 women that were the Mom, when Mary couldn’t. How lucky am I? It’s one of the top reasons I am a huge supporter of women. Without a woman I wouldn’t be here, but without women, I wouldn’t be who I am. That’s a soapbox I will never step down from. The Covid era made me appreciate them, even more. The “reuniting hug” after the separation after so much time passing, is something I will always cherish. I never got that with Mary. I don’t remember the last hug, the last kiss or I love you.

I had to forgive my Mom, so that the good memories were not overshadowed by the bad. As they were for so many years. Hell even within this post. It’s not written with malice or anger, it’s written with hurt and honesty. It’s written with love. It’s written with compassion. It’s written with years of learning to forgive. It’s taken me 25 years to get here. It’s taken me 25 years to say/write this.

It’s taken me 25 years to forgive her.

I can finally embrace these days with a clear conscious and know that I truly forgive her. I can say “Happy Birthday to my Mom” and mean it. And even though I can’t remember the sound of her voice, the voices that took over, where she left off, are the voices of Women that I think she hand picked for me, in her own “Devine way”. Mary may have been many things, but she will always be my Mom.

Happy Birthday Mom, I love you.