When she walked through the front door with our Dad on a
cool spring evening, Ginny was an un-welcomed stranger. I had only met her once, just weeks
before. Timidly following behind was
Leah, her 15 year old daughter, just one
year older than I. Her plain features
resembled her mother, who had privately said, “I do” to my Dad a few days
earlier. Ginny had arrived to assume the
role of mother to four step-children.
Six months earlier, our 37-year-old mother had died after a brain
hemorrhage had left her in a semi-vegetative state. Our father had loved her deeply and was by
her side every one of the 735 days she waned in the terminal wing of our local
county hospital. My two brothers,
sister and I were still grieving the loss of our sweet and beautiful mother,
when suddenly we became a revamped family of five teenagers, ages 13 to 17.
The differences between our mother and Ginny were noticeable
from the start. Mom loved children and
wanted a house full of them, but had been unable to conceive after their youngest,
Michael, was born. She had nurtured us,
listened, hugged, encouraged, and lived by a profound faith. She cared deeply for her family and friends.
Adding to that, she was also beautiful – thick dark brown wavy shoulder-length hair
and soft green eyes. Ginny, on the other
hand, chose to have only one child in her previous marriage, seemed uninterested
in getting to know us on a deep level, lacked the affection we craved, and did
not share our family’s faith at the time. What did my Dad see in her?
So, why do I weep today?
Our first Christmas as a blended family was bittersweet. We had all gathered around the brightly
decorated tree to open gifts on Christmas Eve. Nostalgia filled the room with sweet reminiscing
as we shared stories of past holidays.
Someone spoke of how they missed Mom’s laugh. We wished out loud to hear her voice, her
laughter just one more time.
At that, Dad suddenly rose and left the room. Our parents
had made an amateur audio recording with some friends a couple of years earlier.
Remembering that vinyl record, Dad went
to retrieve it, returning with it in his hand; a grin on his handsome 38 year
old face. As the LP spun on the old
Motorola turntable, our precious mother’s voice and laugh rang sweetly through the
house. Joy and sadness mingled as tears
flowed freely from the Irish eyes of four teenagers.
Leah observed the scene with quiet respect and curiosity. Ginny, unable to endure the raw display of
emotion and grief for the woman she sought to replace, raced from the room,
climbing the dozen steps to their bedroom.
Casting herself onto her bed, she wept, but not for us. She had unwittingly become an intruder in our
grief, an outsider. I had no real sympathy
for Ginny’s pain. Get over it. It’s not about
you. You should have thought about us
before pursuing our father in the midst of his heartache - and ours. She was nothing more to us than our father’s
new wife, and would never replace our once vivacious, now dead Mama.
So, why do I weep today?
Two years after they married, Ginny asked our Dad if they
could move out of the home we grew up in so she could have a place free from
haunted memories of her husband’s late wife.
Although I loved our neighborhood, I was surprised at how excited I was
to move. It was an opportunity for a
fresh start, to become someone new. Different. Better.
Mom’s death occurred just eleven days into my starting
freshman year in a public high school. I
carried my grief quietly that year. Kept
to myself. It didn’t help that I was
painfully shy around strangers. Some of
the students assumed I was “stuck up.” They
didn’t know, or didn’t understand that lamenting can cause the need to isolate
and insulate oneself from others. Nor did they know how frightened I was of
them.
It was a difficult adjustment going to a public high
school. I had come from a safe and
orderly parochial school the previous eight years. My high school was in a rough neighborhood
where angry stares and colorful language were commonplace. The only safety I felt was when I was with my
sister, Maureen, two years older than I.
She would put a protective arm around me as we walked to and from
school. On one difficult day, she stood between
me and a rather large, odious girl who was ready to punch me after choir
practice for watching her sing. My sweet
sister had become my surrogate mom long before Ginny came along. Sadly, Maureen moved out of our home before I
finished my Sophomore year. The
following summer’s move to a new school would afford me a chance to redesign
myself. Ginny, in her effort to walk away from the neighborhood and home where
Mom was remembered, provided a blessing in disguise for me. My step-mom had unwittingly done me a favor.
So why do I weep today?
The move to a lovely home and to a high school where I could
focus on my education and find new friends had blossomed hope in my broken
heart. At the time of our move, my
eldest brother, Larry, had been in the Air Force for a while, living in Texas. Maureen have moved out within a year of our
Dad’s remarriage. Michael, Leah and I were the only kids who moved with our
parents. It was truly a fresh start for
all of us. I especially enjoyed having my
own room for the first time, which brought the privacy and restful space that
all teens long for.
Leah only lived with us in that new home for a year before
she moved out with her boyfriend. The
youngest, Michael, thrived in sports, while I blossomed with new friends. We were all adjusting well …
and healing.
So,why do I weep today?
Ginny, realizing I had not learned to cook, offered to teach
me one afternoon each week. She insisted
that if I wanted to learn to be as good a cook as she , I had to come straight
home after school. No dawdling at the
mall, where most of my friends hung out.
On the day of the 4th lesson, I had arrived home 10 minutes
later than expected. She was a stickler
for having dinner on the table when Dad got home from work at 5:30pm. On that
day, my tardiness meant dinner would not be ready until 5:40pm. No more lessons
for Sandy.
So why do I weep today?
Jump ahead two years.
Following graduation I moved into an apartment with Maureen. I loved the independence. It was, however, short-lived. I married at age 20. Michael followed by getting married later
that year at 19. Dad and Ginny were
finally empty nesters and could focus fully on one another. Their marriage seemed to thrive. Grandchildren soon came along, but their idea
of grand-parenting wasn’t what we had hoped it would be. Because Mom loved children, we bemoaned the
loss of her as a grandmother for our kids.
We were sad that, if she had been alive, our children would have enjoyed
her love and care more than Ginny seemed to. There was never a time that any of
our children spent the night at their grandparents’ home. At holiday gatherings they gave love and
attention to their growing breed, but it didn’t feel like enough to us. Because each of us had in-laws who loved
having the little ones around, we surmised that had to be enough. We learned to accept that our parents were not
“kid-friendly.”
So why do I weep today?
Over the years, Dad and Ginny began to invest more of their
hearts into the grand-children, making an effort to connect. However, Dad’s health prevented him from tossing
a softball with the boys or reading to the girls one of the many stories he had
written and published.
As Dad’s health began to deteriorate, I realized how blessed
he was to have Ginny in his life. When
he was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, she learned how to prepare foods that
would help him. He depended on her, as
he weakened, to do many of the things he couldn’t. She never complained, but seemed to enjoy making
his life easier.
As the years passed, Ginny was no longer hurt or resentful
when conversations turned to discussions of Mom, whose photograph always donned
their fireplace mantle. Dad spoke openly
of his love for our mother and how he missed her. He never hid the pain of losing her, nor did
Ginny resent it any longer. She would
sometimes even smile as Dad and I talked of when I was a girl, laughed at our
childish antics, or when we teared-up talking about our many visits to her
hospital bedside where she had lingered helplessly.
When my father passed, we all grieved for him. But there was a sense of release, I believe,
for Ginny. Although she would often say
how she missed her beloved husband, forty years of caregiving were over. Following his passing, she sold their home in
California and moved to Nevada to live in an apartment near Leah. It was then, as we often talked on the phone,
that something changed in my heart. Old
resentments and misunderstandings disappeared, and were replaced by admiration
and love for all she had done for Dad, and for us.
By age 88, her daughter, instead of offering to care for her
mother, found a board and care home and moved Ginny into it. It grieved my
brothers and me, who offered to take her in.
But Ginny did not want to be away from Leah.
So, why do I weep today?
I weep because today she passed away, 3 days short of her 94th
birthday.
I weep because in her final years she was alone and
abandoned by her only child.
I weep also for joy that my second mother had a relationship
with God and died peacefully.
And… I weep and smile at the thought that maybe, just maybe my
father and mother together greeted her with open arms as she entered heaven. I wouldn’t be surprised, if Mom gave her a
hug and thanked her for caring for her devoted husband and her four children whom
she was unable to finish raising.
I weep today, but not for long. One day I will see them all again, and if
there is weeping, it will be for the joy of being reunited with my Dad and two
Moms once again.
