Motherhood: All love begins and ends there. - Robert Browning
I can remember almost everything about my mom and nothing about her at the same time. I know how that sounds, but it's true. Even though I was little when she was around, I have some really clear, vivid memories of her. Mom would take Al and me places, like the zoo, and we'd have "dates" with Mom were it'd just be one of us and her. What sucks, though, is what I remember most is the cancer stuff. The hospital, the procedures, the wasting away... that's what I remember about my mom. And as I get older, I remember less and less about her. I can't remember how her voice sounded or how she talked. I only remember it was comforting. I can't remember how she would dress when she was out of the hospital. I only remember hospital gowns. I remember she sang when she cooked, but I can't remember what she cooked or what she would sing. See what I mean? I remember, but I don't at the same time.
I've been thinking about Mom a lot lately 'cause the anniversary of her death is coming up. No matter how much time passes or how much better I get, I always get super depressed that day, every year. Lucy wanted to take us out that day, but we turned her down. We know she was just trying to make us feel better, but it won't work. Nothing can take my mind off of it. I watched her wither away to nothing and those tend to be my strongest, most vivid memories of my mom that I have. It makes me feel so shitty. It's been eleven years this year and I still feel like I did when I was five whenever I think about Mom dying. Useless, helpless, and hopeless.
I've noticed Al's been way more withdrawn recently, too. Yeah, some of that's 'cause of Hannah and that he hasn't been feeling well recently, but I can tell it's about Mom. How could it not be? But he won't talk to me or anyone else about it. I know his depression is worse 'cause like mine his always gets worse in April, but something else is bothering him and it's Mom related. I just don't know what it is. I try to get him to open up to me about it but he won't. He won't talk about it in therapy, either. I'm worried. I don't like seeing Al that way. He's been upstairs in our room all evening. He hasn't been eating well, so he didn't have much dinner. I decide that I need to go check on him. I walk upstairs and make it to our room. The door's shut and it's quiet. I knock and wait for Al to answer. The door cracks open a little, a depressed and fatigued Al in the crack. His eyes are red and puffy, cheeks and nose pink. He's been crying.
"What's the matter?" I ask. Al shrugs.
"I don't know," he replies.
"Al," I sigh as he opens the door to let me in. He walks to his bed and sits down. I notice a picture of Mom on his bed and walk over.
"You miss Mom," I say, sitting down next to him.
"Yeah, but..." Al trails off, sniffling. He buries his face in his hands and he cries, "I don't remember her."
"Sure you do," I tell him.
"No, I don't!" Al argues miserably. "I don't... have a lot of good memories from when I was little like you do. I don't really remember preschool or Dada taking care of us. I remember Mom's treatment, but it's fragmented. My first good memory is the abuse starting." I sigh and put an arm around him. He rests his head on my shoulder and I say,
"Honestly? I'm starting to forget a lot about Mom. In elementary school, I could remember a lot about her. I remembered how she talked, what her voice sounded like, how she dressed, that sort of stuff. But now, it's fuzzy. It's like as I get older and make more memories, important stuff like Mom gets lost." Al glances up and me and I say, "I can't remember a lot about her, either, buddy. It's not your fault." Al doesn't say anything for a while. We sit on his bed for a few minutes, Al sniffling a little. This sucks. Admitting that I can't remember Mom the way I used to sucks. It makes me feel like I'm not a good son.
"What do you remember about Mom?" Al asks me.
"Her cancer treatment," I reply softly. "I... I don't remember specifics, really, just... I remember her looking one way – healthy, I mean – when the cancer came back and her getting sicker and sicker until she was basically a skeleton. But I remember she was always positive. Never saw her cry or complain. If she did those things, it was never in front of me and you. God, she was so brave. She was so strong. I can't imagine going through something like that, but she never let on how much it sucked." Al shifts on the bed, sitting cross-legged and looking right at me.
"What else?" He asks eagerly, his eyes wide. I grin.
"I remember the way she smelled," I tell him. "Mrs. Davis reminds me of how Mom used to smell, but Mom always smelled like a sugar cookie. She used to play with us, you remember?" Al shakes his head so I say, "She'd get down on the floor and play with whatever toys we were playing with. She would make voices for the characters when she played with and when she read to us."
"Wow," Al sighs sadly, wiping his nose on his hand. "I can't remember any of that." I frown and stand up. I have an idea. I pull him up so he's standing and guide him out of the room. "What are you doing?" Al asks as we walk down the stairs.
"We have home videos someplace of Mom," I explain. "I think we should watch some. I bet you remember more than you realize about Mom." Al makes a face and we get to the living room. I dig through the entertainment center, finding caseless VSH tapes. I pick one up and grin; it's my absolute favorite home video. I stand up and switch the TV over to the right channel and put the tape in. I sit down on the couch, Al slowly walking over and sitting down next to me.
"Trish?" The movie starts, Dada pointing the camera at Mom. Al gasps softly, hands covering his mouth as Mom smiles at the camera and Dada asked, "Is this on?"
"Yes, you silly man," Mom laughed, her voice as clear as a bell. Dad moved the camera, focusing on a playground.
"Edward! Alphonse! It's almost party time!" Dada called, two little blond kids running over. "Go to Mommy," Dada instructed. The camera moved back to Mom, Al now on her hip. He giggled, Mom kissing his hair.
"Okay, Al," she said warmly, "What are we doing here today?"
"It's my birthday!" Al cried, clapping his hands.
"And how old are you today?" Mom asked, Al holding up three fingers.
"I'm three!" Al exclaimed, Mom nodding proudly.
"That's right, you are," she confirmed, hugging him tight. "When did you get so big?"
"I don't know," Al giggled. I grin, watching Mom carry Al over to the park pavilion they rented for his birthday. Al scoots closer to me on the couch, watching the video intently.
"I remember," he breathes. "I think I remember this." I nod.
"Told ya," I say, younger me getting in the camera and loudly proclaiming,
"We've got cake, Dada! We gotta eat it now!"
"We need to wait for everyone else," Dada told me from behind the camera.
Who's coming?" I asked.
"Nana, Papa, Granny, Aunt Sarah, Uncle Urey, and Winry," Dada said.
"Yeah," I agreed. "Alphie! Nana's coming! Nana! Nana!"
"Where?" Al cried, looking around.
"I don't think she's here yet, baby," Mom told him, holding Al on her lap.
"Can I feel your head, Mama?" Al asked.
"Sure," Mom replied, pulling her wig off. Al gasps beside me and we watch as the little Al pats Mom's bald head.
"Fuzzy," he giggled, free fingers in his mouth. "When's it growing back?"
"I'm not sure," Mom replied. "It takes a while for hair to grow, sweetie. Let's potty before your party starts, okay? Edward?"
"I don't gotta," I protested loudly, reaching for the camera.
"Ed, you can hold the camera for a bit if you go potty with Mommy and Al," Dada said. I pouted for a second but nodded.
"Okay, but I don't gotta go!" I insisted.
"I do," Al said urgently.
"Let's go then," Mom said calmly. Dada turned the camera toward a table and got a close-up of the cake.
"Here's Al's cake," he said. "Thomas the Tank Engine. Al loves trains." Dada turned the camera again, Nana walking to the pavilion.
"Where's my little boy?" Nana asked, setting a gift bag down.
"Potty," Dada explained. "Ed, too."
"Last time I saw Al he was still in pull-ups," Nana commented. "He was still struggling with it."
"Well, Al will probably tell you himself, but we're only in pull-ups at night now and when he has an accident during the day," Dad told her. "We're making progress, just slowly."
"I guess he's going to start preschool in the fall, then," Nana said happily. "How's Trisha?"
"Tired," Dada sighed. "Just finished a round of chemo last week. She had it moved so she could be here for Al's birthday. She is so selfless, you know. She doesn't want the boys to miss important events or do things without her as much as possible."
"Well, that's Trisha," Nana chuckled.
"Nana!" The camera turned, little me making a b-line for Nana. She grunted and picked me up, chuckling a little;
"Hi, Ed. Are you excited?"
"Yeah!" I cried.
"Hi, Mom," Mom greeted. "Say hi, Al."
"Hi, Nana," Al said. He held up three fingers and said, "I'm three."
"I know," Nana enthused. "You're so big."
"After this," Al says suddenly, "Mom throws up while we wait for Papa, Granny, Winry, and Winry's parents. Everybody freaks out and I start crying. Everyone thought it was 'cause I didn't want my party to be over but that's not it. I was scared and worried about Mom."
"Oh, yeah," I say.
"And then, Mom just comforts me," Al goes on. "Promises me that she's okay. Holds me tight. She... she was always like that, wasn't she?"
"Yup," I agree. "Basically, she was the nicest person ever."
"She sang to me," Al says. "She sang I Will by the Beatles. That's what she sang a lot when I was upset or scared." I nod.
"Me, too," I say softly. I hear Mom signing and my throat gets tight. This is what she sounded like. This is the kind of person she was. I remembered, but not really. We watch what Al described happen on the TV and once everyone was calm again, I hear my little voice demand,
"Gimme the camera!"
"Okay," Dada replied, the picture shaking as he gave me the camera. "Be careful, Ed."
"Yeah," I said, uninterested. I zoomed really close up to Al's face and said, "Al's here!" Al looked directly into the camera, his face still pink from crying. "It's his party, so he's gonna tell us what to do! What are we doing?"
"Waiting," Al said matter of factly. "Papa an' Granny an' Winry gotta come."
"See?" I asked. "Al's in charge. Mama, I'm hungry!"
"We have to wait for everyone before we can eat, little man," Mom told me. "Granny's bringing the meatballs you love."
"Here," I told her, handing the camera to her. "My arm got tired. It's heavy."
"Okay," Mom said behind the camera. "Dear? Can you take this?" Dad enters into the frame and he looks so... young. Not that Dad looks old now, but he does have those fine lines and a wrinkle or two. But in this video, Dada doesn't have those lines on his face. He's thirteen years younger and hasn't suffered what we'll all go through later.
"Dad's here," Dada told Mom as he takes the camera. Papa walks over and gives Dad a side hug. They speak briefly in German and I hear myself blurt,
"Don't say those words! I don't know what they mean!"
"Ed, it's German," Dad explained to me. "You know some German words, don't you?" The camera was on me and I nodded.
"Guten tag!" I cried, Al rushing over to hug me.
"What's that mean?" Papa asked me.
"It means hi," I said.
"Ich leibe dich!" Al squealed, still hugging me.
"And what does that mean, Alphonse?" Papa questioned with a grin.
"I love you!" Al exclaimed happily. "Ich leibe dich, too, Papa! An' Daddy an' Mommy!" Papa squatted down and said,
"I think you love Edward the most." Al nodded seriously.
"He's my big brother best friend," Al replied. "But I love Mommy an' Daddy a lot, so they shouldn't be sad. They should be happy 'cause I love them an' it's my birthday. I'm gonna go to school, Papa, 'cause I don' wear pull-ups anymore 'cept when I go night-night."
"Oh, wow," Papa enthused. "That's wonderful, my sweet boy." Papa stood up and told Dada, "My grandchildren are wonderful boys. We are so blessed."
"That's true," Dada agreed as Al and I screamed loudly.
"Winry!" We both screamed, the camera following us as we sprinted over. We hugged her at the same time, fighting for her attention as Granny pulled a wagon full of food and presents behind her.
"Hey, Hohenheim," Granny greeted, Aunt Sarah and Uncle Urey behind her. "Sorry we're late. These two ended up getting home late from the hospital."
"What are you boys doing?" Dada asks, walking into the living room.
"Watching home movies," I answer. "We're both missing Mom and are sad we don't remember her that well." Dada sighs and sits down, looking at the screen.
"This is a good one," he tells us. "This is one of the last times all these people are together. Mom got super sick following Al's birthday, Urey and Sarah had their accident the following summer, and Papa's dementia got worse soon after this." I nod. That's super depressing. But, Dad's right. I can sorta remember that right after Al's party, Mom got really sick. The cancer spread, I think, and the chemo suddenly got harder for her to tolerate. Then, the summer Mom died, Aunt Sarah and Uncle Urey got in a plane accident. They were flying to do medical work somewhere (I can't remember where) and it was a small plane and it went down. Everyone on board died, Winry's parents included. As for Papa, well, I can't remember him very well to be honest. I can vaguely remember that before she started to abuse us, we were still driving up to see him pretty frequently and that he would talk distantly or confuse us with someone else. The more I think about it, the more I realize that our whole lives have been one big stress event which really blows.
"Yeah," I say softly. "But, I think Al's feeling better 'cause he remembers more about Mom than he thought." Dada smiles his warm dad smile at Al, the one that makes the skin around his eyes all crinkly and Al smiles back.
"Tell me about Mom, Al," Dad encourages.
"Well," Al begins, "She was gentle and kind. She sang to me and Brother when we were scared of sad and sang a lot of Beatles songs. She... she called you "Dear" and only called you that. I used to sit on her lap when I was sleepy so she'd pet my hair. When she was on chemo, she'd wear wigs sometimes but preferred scarves. Mom had a good sense of style, something Ed sadly didn't inherit." I glare at him, but I'm smiling.
"You smart ass," I laugh. "See? You remember a lot about Mom."
"One time," Dada begins and I pause the tape. I'd much rather listen to Dada tell us a story than watch a movie. "Mom decided she wanted to try to have a vegetable garden in the back yard. Now, Mom never was very good at keeping plants alive, but her mother is, so she figured it was in her blood somewhere. We made a little bed of soil surrounded by short fencing and Mom got planting. She planted carrots, snap peas, bell peppers, and tomatoes. You boys helped a lot. Al particularly liked planting. You weren't so interested in it, Ed. You just liked being outside and playing in the dirt. You are three and Al was two, still in diapers. He'd come outside with just a diaper on, waddling around in the grass and pat the dirt to encourage the plants to grow." Dada pauses, a distant look on his face.
"I remember," I breathe. "It was the summer before I started preschool. I wanted to make mud in the garden, but you and Mom wouldn't let me. I planted some seeds in but decided to run around the yard. Mom chased me and picked me up and tickled me." Dad nods.
"Basically, anytime you came outside to help Mom with the garden, it would end like that," Dad says. "Not that Mom minded. She loved playing with you boys."
"What happened to the garden?" Al asks.
"Oh, well, as the summer went on the garden began to sprout, much to our surprise," Dada tells us. "You boys were thrilled, of course, especially Al. He just loved to help Mom water the plants. Mom was so happy that they were growing, but no vegetables appeared to be growing. During a round of chemo, we were about to go visit her and I couldn't find Al anywhere. I was panicking because anytime you cannot find your toddler, you assume the worst. I was running around the house and saw Al toddling down the stairs to the back yard. I followed him and saw red, small tomatoes on the steps. I asked him what he was doing and he told me the plants grew fruits. Turned out, the tomato plant had produced some tomatoes and Al was trying to bring them to Mom."
"Did you put them in a paper bag?" I ask.
"That's right," Dad confirms. "We brought the tomatoes up to the hospital and showed them to Mom. She was so happy, she cried. She had never, ever kept a plant alive, let alone got one to produce anything. None of the other plants wound up producing anything, but that didn't matter to Mom. She was so proud of those tomatoes and Al was, too."
"Maybe we should try to plant again," Al says. "I think it would make Mom happy. Her favorite flower were tulips. We could plant those and some tomatoes." Dada smiles at him.
"We still have that spot," he says. "It's spottily covered with grass but we could get some soil if that's something you'd like to do." Al nods.
"I'd like that," Al replies. "That's something Mom and I did together and even if I can't remember, doing it now will make me feel close to her."
"I think that's what's most important," I tell him. "It's not about how many little details or events you can remember about her. I think what's important is to find something that reminds you of Mom or makes you feel close to her and just cherishing what you do remember."
"I agree," Dada affirms, making my blood feel sticky. "But I feel there's one other thing that's even more important than any of that." My brow furrows.
"What's that?" I ask.
"The most important thing is to remember that Mom loved you boys," Dada says. "She loved you both so, so much. Never forget that."
"That's the one thing I always remember about her," Al says, tears in his eyes. He sniffles and wipes his eyes, Dada turning toward the TV.
"Goodness," he sighs, "you boys were so cute when you were little." He pats Al's back, Al managing to wipe the tears away. "Shall we finish the movie?" Al nods.
"Yeah," he croaks. "And then maybe tomorrow we can go to Mom's favorite restaurant?" I grin, Dada nodding.
"I think we can make that happen," Dada replies, his arm around Al. We all cuddle up together on the couch and start watching the movie again. This is my safest place. All smushed on the couch with people I love. And since we're watching something with Mom in it, that only makes me feel safer.
My mom was an amazing person. She was everything you could want in a mom. She was kind, gentle, understanding, and she loved us. She kept us clean, comforted us when we were upset, sang to us, cooked the best food, and loved on us as much as any one person can love someone. I miss her. I miss her a lot sometimes. There are days that I see her everywhere; the trees, the flowers, the food I eat, something I smell and that makes me miss her so much that my chest hurt. But thing is, it's not like she was never here. She was here. She was here and she fought for her life all while loving us more than she loved anyone else. I wish my mom was still alive but at least I was lucky enough to have her. We all were. Everyone starts to sing happy birthday to Al on the tape and I blink away tears. Mom has such a loving face on and I can feel her love for Al and me radiating from the tape. I wish I could tell her right now how much I love her. I wish I knew that she knew that I loved her as much as she loved me. But since I can't tell her, I'll think it. I'll think it so hard and even though she's not here anymore, she'll feel it. We all still feel my love and I gotta believe that she can somehow still feel my mine. I'm gonna think about how much I love her and pray that she'll know how much I love her.
I love you, Mom.
