Happy Mother's Day: May your memories bring you peace

In 2000, my mother was living in Palm Desert, California. I took a road trip to visit her. When I reached her house, she wasn't home, so it was off to the local grocery store to kill some time. When I arrived, I found her shopping in one of those drivable carts. After I was finished laughing, I walked up to her and helped her pick out groceries for the weekend.

We left the store and headed to her house—kind of. I was in my rental car, she was in her tiny Dodge convertible with the “Mitzvah” license plates. I waited to make sure she got off okay. After a couple of minutes, I noticed she wasn't moving. I looked over and saw three other cars, driven by senior citizens. They also weren't moving.

I had a choice. I could walk over and direct traffic or leave. I left!

I drove to her home and she showed up twenty minutes later. The grocery store was less than a five-minute drive from her house.

My mother died a few years later. You can see the date in the photo of the gravestone. In a few weeks, she will have been gone for twenty-one years. Even after two decades, I still feel her loss.

On September 21, 1990, my daughter Amy was born. The next day we took her home. Almost immediately after walking in the door, the phone rings. It’s my Mom. She said she would be coming over the next day to meet her new granddaughter. I told her we were very tired, stressed and busy; asking her if she could wait a few days. She told me to shut the fuck up (not the first or last time) and hung up. She showed up the next day. She grabbed Amy and didn't let go. It established a bond that lasted for both of them until her death.

Grief ain't easy. No matter how long someone has been gone, the feeling of loss doesn't go away. Time does help, but when you think you're over it, something reminds you of your missing loved one and you get to begin the process over again. Grief isn't linear. Far from it.

In March of 2003, I went to visit my mom, who was now living in San Diego. It was her birthday and I wanted to spend what we knew would be her last one. She had been diagnosed with terminal lung cancer a few months earlier.

She asked if my brother and I could take her to an appointment with her oncologist. I said sure—and then she let me know her doctor was in Santa Monica—three hours away if there wasn't any traffic. The trade-off is we would get sushi afterward.

We get to the doctor and he asks if she has any questions. Oh yeah, she has questions!

“Can I still smoke?” “Do I need to go into hospice?”

Yeah, mom, but before we check you into hospice, let’s stop for Sushi and maybe pick up some corned beef from the local deli.

Everything at the appointment turned out okay. The doctor gave her some options to give her more quality time. Back to San Diego, we go.

A few weeks later, I get a call from my mother. “I’ve decided not to do what the doctor told us. It's not going to help and I want to get this over.”

My response was, “Okay. I get it. But next time you want to ignore a doctor can you find one that is fucking closer than an eight fucking hours round-trip?”

And then I hung up the phone.

The next day I got a call from her. The first words were “But, the sushi was great.”

Oh btw…I hate sushi!

Today is another Mother’s Day. Because she’s not here, the only thing I can do is focus on memories like the ones above. A good thing is there are many more of them. I probably should have told you about the day she tried to explain how Steve & Edie were better than Led Zeppelin.

On this day, the memories make me smile and bring me some peace. If you're missing your mother today, I hope the memories do the same for you—but I understand if they don’t. It’s complicated.

Happy Mother’s Day, mom. I'm thinking of you today and always.