Family History and Complicated Feelings

    I never would have guessed the degree to which my relationship with my mom would continue to grow after she was gone.  I constantly understand new things about her - things I don't think I ever would have understood while she was still alive.  I needed some distance.  It's ironic and a bit sad, but also likely common and inevitable.

    I avoid books and films about World War II.  My family history and my mom's identity are all wrapped up in the war, and I'm not ready to go there yet.  There are feelings that for now I still need to put in a box; feelings about Germany; family; history; family history; German history.  It all feels complicated and overpowering and frightening.

    While I've gained understanding of my mom these past 4 1/2 years, I haven't thought that deeply about her mom, my Oma.  I think about her often and fondly, and I cherish the memories of bringing Nick to see her.  But I don't spend a lot of time trying to figure out who she was beyond being my grandmother, or analyzing her actions and her life.  Possibly I need this time to "be" with my mom, or maybe those thoughts are also in that box.

    Tonight, though, I was hit with all sorts of emotion.  I'm reading a novel about a private detective in 1930s London, and the main character is in the midst of figuring out who a young man is - a young man who was a soldier in the First World War.  Various characters describe the horrors of the war and the personal aftermath for the boys (they were just boys!) who fought.  Suddenly it was as though I could see my 20-year-old grandmother and her beloved fiancee; what he must have felt in the fighter plane; how it must have been hearing the news of his death; how those feelings could have led her to fall in love with - or at least form an attachment to - his best friend.  That series of events created our family.

    As I write, I realize that part of what makes it hard to confront family history is that it's my mom who used to discuss it and analyze it.  She made sense of everything and answered my questions.  I've absorbed so much of my mom over these years; maybe I'm afraid of absorbing these complicated things.  Or maybe I'm afraid that I just can't figure it all out on my own.  How do you come to terms with so many things without the person who made sense of them for you?

Identity

Since my mom died, I have struggled a lot with identity.  I've always had identity issues.  I've always tried to figure out who I am and where I fit in.  With the loss of my mother, these identity issues were intensified.  Suddenly the words daughter and granddaughter (my mom and grandmother died within 35 days of each other) meant something different than they had before.  Suddenly I felt like I needed to be something different than I was before.

How I felt was like a kite whose string has been broken.  My mom anchored me in so many ways.  She guided me (usually more than I wanted her to).  She was a Grandmother in every sense of the word to my kids.  She was a tie to family history.  She was someone I could fall back on.  She was loving and hands-on with the kids.  Meanwhile my grandmother was someone with whom I'd always been extremely close, who had good advice about my kids, who shared with me many of her own joys and sorrows about life, and parenting, and growing old.  She also shaped the German side of me; because I had her, I felt truly German.  These two women shaped who I am and how I live my life.  Their presence was always there.

I guess the key is to figuring out how to still be all the things I was before without them here anymore.

We are well into Year 2 of Life Without Omi.  There has been a palpable change in the nature of my grieving since the anniversary of her death, as I sensed there would be.  Now that I have a little distance I've been thinking a lot about that first year, and especially the first few days/weeks/months.

For the first few weeks, it was as if I was living in a haze.  Her loss was there with every breath I took and word I uttered.  I started watching TV as I fell asleep to anesthetize my mind.  I woke up every morning feeling like I'd just had a load of bricks dropped on me.  My first thought every morning was, "She's gone.  Oh my God, she is gone."

Everything felt hard.  Taking care of our daily lives felt hard.  For the first two weeks I had a lot to occupy my mind: phone calls to make, funeral planning to be done, the obituary to write, my eulogy to work on, plans to make with out-of-town friends coming to her memorial service.  I was deeply present for all of this, but at the same time I felt like I was floating.

I also felt very alone, especially after the memorial service.  I had a few close friends who really took care of me, but overall I felt very alone and isolated.  In fact, isolation was one of my main themes that first year.  Brian happened to be in the busiest few months of his entire career between teaching, coaching, and a grad school class that had double the workload of any other class.  Plus he runs the homework center and sits on the school improvement team, which meets frequently.  My dad left for a two-month-long trip, which I actually felt was very good for him to do.  But it left me feeling extremely alone and isolated.

In part because of the isolation, I felt extremely angry.  At the time I felt extremely resentful of anyone who did not seem to care or reach out to me in the way I felt should have been proper.  My mom happened to be one of those people who insist on going above and beyond to help others, so I felt especially hurt and angry that not too many people did the same for me.  At the same time I felt grateful to the friends I had who rallied around me and showed me support, helped with the kids, and grieved with me.  These friends will always have a special place in my heart; I will always be grateful to them for keeping me from sinking too deeply into my grief.

Looking back, I don't know if I would have been less angry if I had felt less isolated.  Anger is a stage of grieving; I just didn't see the forest for the trees.  I believed my anger was the result of specific situations; I didn't realize it was because of my mom's death, as crazy as that sounds.  In fact, I felt very shocked that I accepted it so quickly.  I didn't try to bargain; there was never a second when I didn't believe it was true; I didn't blame the doctor who possibly (probably?) made the mistake that killed my mom.  So I didn't think I was angry about her loss, just sad.  I think that's a protective mechanism.  To have felt that anger directly about her death would have put me over the edge, so instead I took it out on other people and situations.  The only truth I know is that grief is a complex, living thing, and the only way through is time.

Eulogy

When I was 14, my mom took me on a mother-daughter train trip through Switzerland.  We spent one week hiking in the mountains, exploring gorges and glaciers, and most importantly talking and laughing.  I have thought about this trip often through the years because my mom had given it great significance.  She viewed it as a stepping stone to adulthood, and would frequently recommend a similar bonding trip to other women with daughters whom she met through the years.  Looking back at the trip, I remember beginning to understand and appreciate my mom.  I began to understand what lay behind my mother’s unwavering self-discipline, and she showed me how adventurous and funny she really was.  The combination of discipline and adventure really defined her life.

My mom grew up during a difficult and complicated period for her homeland, and this experience of living her earliest years in wartime never left her.  Her mother, my Oma, lived her entire life as though the war had just recently ended, and that’s how my mom was raised, and me too, in part.  From the time she was a little girl she was extremely disciplined with her household chores and education.  She never needed reminding, as her daughter someday would, to take these things seriously.

It was my mom’s disciplined ambition that enabled her to go to work for the city government in Königswinter at age 16, working long days and studying at night while many of her peers were following American pop culture and going to parties.  It was her discipline and enthusiasm for learning that got her a position in Bonn with the German foreign ministry, which led to an assignment in Sofia, Bulgaria.  But it was her sense of adventure that made my 21-year-old mother pack up her possessions into a blue Volkswagen Käfer and head through the Balkan Mountains to see where life would take her.  I still remember all the stories about this adventurous drive; her fears and hopes, her feeling of freedom at doing something on her own, and also her trepidation about leaving her family with whom she was so close.  Later, when I myself was in my early 20s, my grandmother pulled out the letters and we read them together.  For the first time I got a real sense of who my mother had been, and how she felt when she was my age.  In one of the letters, my mom described meeting a handsome young professor:  “Last night I went to a ball at the American embassy and fell in love.”  At that moment my grandmother could see that my mother’s dreams of living abroad permanently would come true.  And while my grandmother shed tears each time she read the letter, she knew my mom had found happiness.

Growing up, there were certainly times when I resisted my mom’s strict discipline.  It was not the same strictness that friends had maybe experienced, but rather one that came out of a different era and a place that no longer existed.  Of course as I’ve grown older I’ve seen the value in her discipline.  While it could be a constraint at times, it added to the richness of her life.  My mom filled her life with things that mattered.  She frequently said she couldn’t understand when people talked of boredom – the world is too full of things to do and things that matter.  And my mother certainly did things.  Whether it was something big, like advocating for arts funding or gay rights, or something small like writing a card, working in the garden, or eating a quiet meal and reflecting on her week, everything she did mattered in some way.  This came through in her mothering, and her grandparenting.  She made everything seem important, and she was an active participant in everything she did and every place she went.  Whether it was playing together, going to the Museum of Science and Industry, or walking around our neighborhood, she made Nicholas feel like everything they did was important. 

My mother felt most at home in nature.  She would frequently tell us on our weekly Sunday hikes in Brown County that she felt closer to God in the woods than in church.  She grew up in one of the most beautiful spots in the world, yet she was able to find beauty wherever she was.  Each time she arrived in Munster, she would greet me with a description of the landscape, sky, weather.  No matter if it was a glorious October day or a dreary January one, she would find something that had inspired her about the landscape on the drive from Bloomington.  Like my Oma, she believed every day was a gift – something to find beauty and value in.  She liked to talk about taking me for bike rides as a little girl and narrating everything she saw: the sound of the birds, the way the clouds looked, how the wind felt.  She continued this with Nicholas, walking to Schoop’s with him even if it was cold and drizzling, telling him about the world as they walked.  She genuinely could not understand why people would act surprised:  “Ja, I have a coat!  Nicholas has a coat!  We’ll have a great time!”  I remember one night when my mom was visiting, Brian and I went out for dinner.  We returned a couple hours after dark to find my mom and Nick sitting on the front porch, Nick asleep in my mom’s arms.  It turns out they had gotten locked out of the house, and my mom didn’t want to call me and cut our date short.  She happily described walking around the house, letting Nick play in the yard a little while, and then settling on the chair with him wrapped up in her coat while she told him stories until he fell asleep.  When I asked Nicholas if he remembered this, he told me about it in vivid detail.  She had truly turned it into an adventure for Nick, and remembered it as a special moment with him.

I believe the happiest chapter of her life is when she became a grandmother.  She often lamented that being a girl I had a special relationship with my father, and being a boy her brother had a special relationship with her mother.  But when Nicholas was born, she felt an immediate, deep connection with him; she finally had her special relationship.  Her sun rose and set with Nicholas, and he loved his Omi Helga in return.  He loved hearing her sing and tell stories, and every visit began with my mom dancing around the room with Nick, making him laugh.  She could sit for hours with him at the train table, listening to him tell stories, building layouts together.  Nicholas is perhaps the only child in North America who has public art for his train table – miniature statues bought at museum shops by my mom, perfectly scaled for the train table.  And how Nick looked forward to trips to Bloomington, which meant long walks, and interesting activities, and hours spent by the creek throwing rocks.  You might be surprised to know that my mom was a talented rock-skipper.  All the while she taught him about nature – about the plant and animal life in and around the creek, the flowers, the trees.  Nick took it all in with rapt attention, telling me later about the murky water or climbing onto the rocks with Omi to look at the crawdads skittering around.  Together they would watch the deer come out at dusk and then come inside, where Omi Helga, shaky hands notwithstanding, would build lego creations to Nick’s specifications until past bedtime.

My mother was strong and energetic, disciplined and adventurous, full of life and passion.  It seems unfathomable that someone living life so fully could be taken from it so suddenly.  But it is also these defining qualities that give me solace.  I find peace in knowing that my mother truly lived each and every day.  Like her mother, she believed every day was a gift, and it was her responsibility to make the most of it.  I feel her loss terribly, especially from the lives of her beloved grandchildren.  But in thinking about my mother, I realize that my entire life she has been passing down these values to me, and I know what she would have passed down to Nicholas and Alexandra.  At times I will make different choices than my mom would have, but always her underlying love and guidance will be there, informing our decisions and guiding us as Brian and I raise our children and go through life.

My mom once wrote quoted Albert Schweitzer: “The only thing of importance, when we depart, will be the traces of love [and compassion] we have left behind.”  Your presence here shows how much love and compassion my mother had.  Thank you for coming today to celebrate my mother’s life.

"Gone"

One of the most difficult things for me this year has been the question of how my mom could simply be Gone.  What does "Gone" mean?  Did my mom simply cease to exist, or is her spirit somewhere, and if so -- where?  I wish I had a defined spiritual belief about what happens after death, but I do not.  Since childhood, despite CCD and weekly Mass, I have questioned religious beliefs about the afterlife and realized that we can't know and don't know what happens when we die.  I suppose this is the most common question after a loved one dies, and that is why spiritual beliefs were developed to begin with.  It's just that those "answers" don't satisfy my skeptical, science-oriented mind, but I long to have answers.

My mom was larger than life.  It sounds cliché and like something one would say out of grief, but it was true even when she was alive.  She had a great intensity and boundless energy.  She knew so much about so many things - art; nature; culture; gardening and cooking and housekeeping; history of all kinds - world history, American history, German history, family history; she was compassionate and active in local politics; she was creative and giving; she was critical, with high expectations for herself and everyone around her.  She was so much.  So much, in fact, that she carried an energy into a room that was palpable.

She was cremated, and her urn is not very big.  Those ashes contain my mom's body, but what about her spirit?  Her energy?  Her knowledge?  Her compassion?  Her intense love?  Where are those things?

If you are hoping to find answers in this post, you will not.  I hope that by asking the questions over and over, some answers will slowly form.  I have some clues.  There are some things I know, some things I believe, and some things I hope.  Those truths and beliefs have helped me figure out a little bit about what "Gone" means.

Here is what I know.  My mom gave of herself to a wide circle of people.  Her memorial service was a testament to this; the church was overflowing, and there were people sobbing who were completely unknown to me.  As Mother Linda+ said in her Burial Office, my mom was not shy about telling people what she felt they needed to hear, be it advice or information or critique.  (And when she gave advice, it was less of a suggestion and more of a directive.)  So I know that the part of my mom that was knowledge has been passed along.  She parceled it out to those she encountered, and so her knowledge now resides with people living far and wide.  Happily, a lot of that knowledge was written down in essays about art, a family history that includes sections of German history, and personal letters.  And somehow, despite years of trying to close my ears to her, I gained a lot of her knowledge as well.

I know that some of the qualities that made my mom are still present because of people remembering them.  Her accent is ingrained in many of my friends' minds, and most likely in her friends' as well.  Her generosity touched certain people especially strongly, and their lives were forever impacted by it.  She spread her spirit around, and pieces of her exist in all those she touched.

Here is what I believe.  My mother was deeply spiritual, and her spiritualism centered itself on nature.  Her religious beliefs involved questioning and searching, but she felt a deep, spiritual connection with nature.  She felt at peace in the woods; she collected stones from hikes and held onto them like talismans; she felt a genuine sense of wonder about every detail of the natural world.  To her, bad weather just meant more clothing; it did not mean staying inside or not going to the beach or not going on a hike.  In fact, she marveled at bad weather.  She said things like, "I savored glorious moments in freezing temperatures and bright sunshine."  She loved telling me details of the "terrific thunderstorm" or "horrendous rain" (two of her favorite terms) as much as she loved describing the "breathtaking sky" or "gorgeous light".  For me, my mom is a part of the world around us.  I believe that the way the wind blows through the trees is an echo of my mom's spirit.  Poet Franz Wright wrote, "Soon I'll be part of all that I now merely see."  I believe that my mom longed to be a part of the world around her - not simply to see it or be treading upon it (I have felt this same way at various times in my life) - and now she is a part of the world.  I believe her spirit has joined with the spirit of the universe.  

What I hope.  Oh, I hope so many things.  Hoping is different than wishing; you can wish for the impossible, but hope exists only within the boundaries of possibility.  I can wish that Omi Helga could see Nick and Alex grow up and be a part of their lives, but my hopes have to be formed within the reality of her being gone.  Still, I find myself hoping for a lot.  I hope that Nicholas doesn't forget my mom.  More than specific memories, I hope he remembers the feeling of her, and the things she taught him about how to live life.  I hope that I can give my kids some of what she would have given them.  I hope that I continue to see signs of my mom's influence and presence.  I hope I can absorb some of her spirit and let her light shine through me.  I hope I can take some of her best qualities and make them my own.  I hope that I have a lightning bolt of clarity about the afterlife.

So, Gone.  "Gone" means physically not present.  "Gone" means an energy that is now part of the universe because its body is turned to ash.  "Gone" is being remembered but not being with us.  "Gone" is ... is ... so hard to comprehend.  "Gone" is not being here and at the same time being here, because she is still with us even though physically she is not.  "Gone."  Maybe someday I'll have a better answer.

One thing that began happening before my mom had even died, but was in the hospital in a coma, was that I began seeing not just who she was in the present, but also who she had been throughout my life and even before.  I was flooded by memories from all different parts of my life as well as stories she had told me about all the  parts of her life.

It was like I immediately began absorbing the person she was.  She was no longer just my mom; the whole of her came clearly into focus.  All the things I knew but didn't process because of our relationship or life 

Apfelkuchen (aka Apple Crumb Cake)

I just put my mom's "famous" Apfelkuchen (apple cake) in the oven, and as I was preparing it I reflected a lot about my mom, especially her baking.  I wanted to share my thoughts with you - I hope you don't mind!

I feel so lucky that my mom spent time typing out all her signature recipes.  She was well-known for her baking and cooking, and baking the Apfelkuchen flooded me with memories of eating her special goodies at holidays, birthdays, when we had visitors, at other people's houses, when someone was sick (she always baked extras for us), and basically anytime at the drop of a hat.  The Apfelkuchen was actually her grandmother's recipe, and so I have the added joy of knowing that I'm passing something on to my children that my mother, her mother, and her mother's mother all did.

But of course there's also a sad side.  Obviously my greatest sadness is knowing my mother will never bake for me again.  But there's more.  I wish I could call her tomorrow and ask how she did the streusel topping and how she sliced & arranged the apples.  I wish she could stand beside me in the kitchen again and teach me how to do it - and this time I'd actually listen.  And then there's the fact that all my friends went crazy for my mom's apple cake, her cheese bread, her Alexander torte, while I took them for granted and was sometimes slightly annoyed that she always baked the same things.  As a kid I was embarrassed about bringing Alexander torte on my birthday when my friends all brought cookies or cupcakes.  (At least I later learned to embrace and feel proud of the cultural differences later on.  Just not in 4th grade.)  Mostly I wish I were baking the cake for my mom, to eat it with her.

And of course the apple cake is a metaphor for everything about loss - the blessings I feel about what my mom gave me as well as the regrets I have.  We all have complicated relationships with our moms.  We all wish our moms could be a little different, a little more perfect.  It's easy to focus on the imperfections.  But this is a reminder that sometimes there's no "tomorrow".  The thing you plan on saying eventually ("thank you" or "I get it now" or "you were right" or "you are a great mom/dad/brother/sister") - it's best to say it now, because otherwise the time won't come.  My mom drove me crazy a lot, and that's just how it was, and there were times I cherished her and times I didn't.  I wish I had savored our time together a little more.  If you still have your mom, I'm acting as that little bee buzzing around you reminding you to savor your time with your parents, even when they drive you crazy.  It's fine to think about the ways they drive you crazy, but afterwards make yourself list the things about them that you cherish.  I almost guarantee it will be a long list.

And then come on over for some Apfelkuchen.  :)