Jason
As my dad mentioned, and as these sorts of situations tend to do, we’ve been reminiscing a lot, and I’ve been thinking a lot. Being in the thick of grief gives you a new perspective.
The loss highlights the unseen, opposite side of so many situations. Like the negative of a photograph. Looking back I’ve come the realize aspects of my mom that I didn’t see before. In reality, they were always staring me in the face, but because she was there and so bright, I didn’t notice them. I looked right through them. But now in the darkness, they’ve become visible.
I wanted to share some of the things I’ve since realized about my mom that I wish I had realized before.
Yes, she overcame many challenges, and, based on her life, you’d think her face would be a constant portrait of struggle, but that’s not what I saw. When I look back, I only see her smile. I think this was because, above all, she couldn’t accept her family experiencing one ounce of suffering, especially not because of her. So she hid the struggle and made everything look easy. I wish I had realized this before.
In our family, she was such a facilitator. Her only goals were to bring us together and make us happy. She did this by showering us with love, never coercion or guilt. Later in life, anytime one of us would visit, she’d make it a special event. She had the house all done up. She’d make treats and dote on us like we’d been gone for years. She was so focused on everyone else, it was easy, especially for us Roos bros, to slip into our own comfort zone and, in many ways, regress into childhood where we could be fully taken care of by our Mommy. How lucky are we to have such a home, and for every day to be a special event? I wish I had realized this before.
But not only was she a facilitator, but because of our personalities and volume levels, I think she often ended up in a sort of supporting role. I don’t mean to downplay her involvement in our family or imply that we treated her poorly, but the Roos Bros can be loud, and so can the Roos sisters, and the Roos grandkids for that matter. Whether it’s incessant Birdcage references or inappropriate jokes, or just arguing on top of each other, every one of us finds a way to try and pull the spotlight, but not my mom. My mom was always the quiet one, her joy came from allowing us the space to be ourselves and let loose, or even wreck up the place, she just reveled in our presence. I wish I had realized this before.
We always saw her as strong, and she was. Stronger than most. But what was less obvious was that strength was not actually her superpower. I think her superpower was being a multiplier. She could take in the strength from those around her and deliver it back tenfold. Giving us all the confidence and foundation to build our own lives filled with happiness.
One perfect example of this was when she recently came back from the hospital. She was in so much pain and, because of the heavy meds, was often not able to be fully present. At one point we were trying to make her comfortable by leaning her up and I ended up pulling her up with a hug motion. I could hear the pain in her and, even though I was holding her, it felt like she was so far away. So I started crying into her shoulder. But then, with her stubborn strength, she fought through the pain and sedation, and she came back for a moment, and said “Oh honey, don’t worry.” And she rubbed my back and held me tighter, consoling me. Although in that moment it broke me, I now have the presence of mind to recognize the incredible strength she gave back to me, that I can now use to carry forward. I wish I had realized this before.
I’ve started to realize she was a pretty good doctor. I mean, I knew she was a good doctor before, she literally reached inside people and pulled other people out of them, but I didn’t really know. Seeing the hundreds of heartfelt messages and stories from colleagues and patients has given me a glimpse into that side of her, but I don’t think it was something we could have really known without being a patient. And I tried being her patient. So many times I’d complain about a problem with my back, leg, or ankle, and she’d always say, “If you don’t have a vagina, I can’t help you.” It became a running joke, but now it makes me sad, confused, and a little angry, that so many other people I don’t even know, got to experience this side of my mom, got to have this piece of her I never will. I think the only way for me to understand it is to understand that she excelled at everything. As incredible as she was as a mother, she was capable of that same greatness as a doctor. I wish I realized this before.
Even though I didn’t realize a lot of these things, I still thought she was pretty perfect. In fact, I think she only had one flaw, being too good of a mother, if that’s possible. It may sounds cliche, but because of her, I’ve never had to experience serious hardship or heartache, and now I am completely unprepared to deal with this situation and I have no clue of how to live without her. I wish I realized this before.
These things I’ve realized have become so crystal clear now—the fact that she was so much to me and my family, and we’ll never be able to recreate that.
Her love was too big to be fully experienced or even understood by one person. It takes a whole family, friends, colleagues, and hundreds of patients, to start to fathom the contours of everything she was.
With this new perspective, this new experience, I now see both sides more clearly, the light and the dark. I recognize the amazing aspects and that makes the hurt even greater. It’s a terrible feedback loop. But I guess that’s what happens when you have someone so radiant, the loss amplifies their absence, creating unending darkness that emphasizes how brilliant their presence was.
It’s not a new concept, it’s been said before that you don’t realize what you have until it’s gone. But it’s completely different, reading that line on a page, rather than feeling it in your heart.
I wish I had realized these things while she was still here because I think then, I might have taken the time to reflect and tell her what I know now. Deep down, I know she already knew how I felt, even if I didn’t. But she certainly deserved to hear it and I would love for nothing more than to be able to say these things to her now.
Instead, my heart is broken and these feelings are spilling out of it. Each one brings me back to a moment with her and brings me great sorrow. I can’t wait until the time when they just make me happy, allowing me to sit in the memory of her for just a moment, in ignorant bliss.
But for now, I’ll have to live with the pieces of this broken heart, one that will never fully heal, and try to move forward. It seems impossible, but if she taught me one thing, it’s that love endures. With the love she created, she gave, she taught, she multiplied, my family and I will, over time, grow that love and heal our hearts.
Mommy, even though I’m not a person of faith, I know we’ll be together again—a love like this cannot be contained. Thank you for everything you did that I was aware of, and thank you for everything I never have or maybe never will realize. Thank you for being my mommy. I love you.
