My first Mother's Day without Mom

The problem with pain is that our instinct, as humans, is to try and get out of it. I have also noticed that during periods of intense emotional pain, physical pain may be preferable. I never understood those who "cut" themselves until losing my mother (I haven't done it, but I understand it).

Mom died unexpectedly on August 22 of last year. I have no idea if an "expected" death would have been any easier. Part of me says no, that it was better for me to have been able to speak to Mom the morning of August 22 and think I would talk to her again at 8 p.m. GMT as we had planned. Instead, she passed away at 1:34 CT.

Last Mother's Day, Mom sent me an email thanking me for the Turner painting and mask I had sent her. For some reason she spelled mask masque. I think she was trying to show me, who was studying in London, that she was very continental. I had noticed that some of her ways had loosened up a bit in later years, being more "creative" with spellings, sayings, boundaries. She had always teased me as being a "church lady" type but in her later years, her jokes resonated more soundly. "You need to fart!" (ha, see, I can barely even write it.) If she and my brother thought I had farted, they would laugh uproariously. My brother, thus, nicknamed me Smelly, something I have never shared publicly.

Mom was 5'8" when she passed away, at least according to her driver license. This was her height throughout her adult life, as I topped her at nearly 5'10". I have shrunk to 5'8" so I am not quite sure how this happened, except nature was obviously trying to put me in my rightful place. I never deserved to be taller, greater, stronger or anything "er" compared to my lovely mother.

Mom taught fifth grade and some other grades for maybe fifty years. She retired very late, in her seventies, at a point when I was starting to worry about her. She had a long commute from her condo in Sausalito clear out to Hercules. She kept a stuffed animal on the arm rest to rest her arm, as she had suffered carpal tunnel syndrome decades earlier when working as a legal secretary. She listened to classical music or show tunes when she drove. She also loved Prairie Home Companion. Years later, when she had moved back to her home state of Texas we were delighted to hear Jim Parsons' radio show. On that drive from Alice to Corpus Mom and I smiled, delighting in the slight lilt of his Houston accent and friendly demeanor. We always stopped in Robstown for a bathroom break and inevitably, I would end up with some free snacks. Mom would have bought me anything I'd wanted on those bathroom breaks, be it cowboy hat cup or huge pecan patty. I usually got a large coffee with a few sweet hazelnut creamers. Sometimes a tuna sandwich if I was hungry. Mom would be out pumping our gas because yours truly apparently didn't realize a seventysomething lady shouldn't be doing it herself. Mom just didn't seem Old.

Mom had been a Baylor alum and was proud of this in the way I am now proud of being a King's College alum. But sadly, while I would see Mom graduate with her master's years later, from SF State, she would die a few months before I would collect my degree in London. Education was important to us, to my grandmother, to my grandfather who died when Mom was just 25. Pop had been studying to earn his PhD in History. My Uncle John became number one at West Point, then a nuclear physicist in Livermore, California. He married a nuclear physicist. Uncle John told me about a decade ago when I interviewed him by phone: "It's not what you almost did that is important in life." That spurred me on during the seemingly countless deferrals on my education, when I couldn't take up my place at King's. When I finally was going to do it, I made the decision with a clarity I had never felt. I woke up on the morning of September 17, 2017 in bed with my mom. How fitting. It would be the last morning I would ever see her. I remember telling her, "I am definitely going to King's, Mom. I am going to London." I will never forget her face. She froze and looked a bit worried. I thought it was because we both knew the finances were tricky. I look back now and see something else.

Today I grieve not only for myself but for my brother David and my uncle, as well as my cousins, all of whom loved this remarkable lady - an artist, a poet, a teacher. You graced our lives and now you grace my memories and dreams. I am thankful for the latter. Thank goodness humans were designed to remember. You have left your traces on my soul as indelibly as a baby's cry on that cold table at birth. Thank you for birthing me 57 years ago. I not only won't forget you, but I will make sure the entire world knows who Kathleen Leonard nee Kammerdiener was. Love, Peach.