The Ritual   by Diane Caldwell   On February 17, 1997, my mother passed away. She left clear instructions for what was to be done upon her death. She was to be cremated. There was to be no funeral or service where, as she confided in me, "people could talk about what I did and didn't do in my life." There were several things for which I was ineffably grateful upon my mother's death. One was that she was spared the agony of a slow, painful death. Another was that I had visited her the month before she passed away. Before that final visit I looked back over my life with her. I looked at the pain that seemed to linger like a festering boil. I wanted to exorcise the boil, but that was my want and not my mother's. I had talked to my mother about having closure and resolving what was yet unresolved between us. Her reply was cold and biting: "Diane, that's the last thing I want to think about." I was looking for an act of contrition on my mother's part. If she could have said the words, "I'm sorry I was a bad mother and couldn't meet your needs," I could have taken her in my arms and forgiven her everything, but my mother repeatedly stated she thought she was a good mother. My mother was dying. I had lived for a long time with the unacknowledged fantasy that in death she would at long last open up to me, but, after my mother's terse response to my offer of closure I began to see that she would no doubt die as she had lived. With this revelation came immense grief: I realized that I would never get what I had always hoped to some day get from my mother. On the other side of grief came clarity. This was an opportunity for me to give to her what she had never been able to give to me. Instead of going to get my needs met, I could give a dying woman the things she most wanted. If my mother was hanging on by her fingertips, and what was most important to her was having her fingernails painted, I would paint her nails. When I arrived in Florida, one glance at my mother's shriveled, emaciated body told me that she had absolutely nothing to give. Our roles were reversed. She was the big-eyed, vulnerable child. I was the parent. In that visit I was able to do and say the things I had never before been able to do or say. I was able to give my mother the love and approval I had longed for from her. I exonerated her for the pain she had unknowingly caused me. I praised her for the courage and graciousness she embraced throughout her life, and I knew, as we held one another and cried, that this was our last goodbye. When Aunt Fanny called to tell me the news of my mother's death, and we wept together, three thousand miles apart, I felt the desire to gather my family together. That longing was quickly dissipated. All it took was one hour with my cousins Harvey and Marlene, who were kind enough to pick me up at the train station. "Why'd you get off at this stop?" cousin Harvey demanded. "I thought it was closest to my mom's." "Naaoooa," the long nasal "o" of a northeast Philadelphian scolded me, "Naaoooa, you should have gotten off at Boca," Harvey lectured me. "What's it matter?" Marlene yelled at Harvey. "What's it matter?" shouted Harvey, "It's closer to our house!" "Saaoooa, this is closer to her mom's, the other is closer to us -- same difference." "You don't know what you're talking about." As I stood there, Harvey and Marlene continued to yell at one another, first over the relative proximity of train stations, then over whether or not my suitcase would fit into the trunk of the car. They, of course, argued all the way to my mom's condo about the best way to get there and when they last had last seen her. I opened the door of my mom's condo with trembling fortitude. This would be the first time I’d set foot in my mother's home without her being there. She wasn't coming back, either. Harvey and Marlene sat down, and Harvey began to purvey the objects on the coffee table with agitated purpose. "Where's the candy?" Harvey demanded, "Your mother always kept candy out for guests." Somehow Harvey seemed unable to grasp the concept that death forever alters the deceased's sense of social obligation. "Yeah, your mother always had candy out," Marlene backed up her husband. "I found it!" a validated Harvey cried out as he opened a green tin on the far edge of the glass-top table, unearthing a payload of Hershey's Kisses. "Saaoooa, what are you doing with the car?" Harvey interrogated me as he chomped with satisfaction on the chocolate. "I'm going to sell it." "You can't sell it! Your mother told me she expected you to keep it." Harvey's voice rose several decibels. "When's the funeral?" asked Marlene. "My mother doesn't want a funeral." "Well," giggled Marlene, "when my cousin's mom died, it was in the will that she wanted to be cremated, but my cousin figured, ‘What the hell. She's dead, she'll never know the difference.' So she just buried her." When I closed and bolted the door behind them, I knew I could not invite any of my relatives to my mother's home for any kind of a gathering. My relatives simply had missed out on the "honoring" gene. The next ten days and nights consisted of sorting through the remnants of my mother's life: tossing bills, letters, memorabilia, pictures, recipes, and warranties into double-strength trash bags and setting them out respectively for the garbage truck or the Goodwill. Up until eleven o'clock the night before I was leaving, I was still sorting, cleaning, and paying bills. I boarded the plane with my mind actively checking off my inventory. Several days after arriving home I awoke in a panic, repeating in horror, "There was never a service for my mother." I spent the next day teary-eyed and vulnerable. Every time I tried to plan some solo farewell to my mom, I felt physically sick. "What do you need, Diane?" I asked myself. "Witnesses," I heard myself answer. "I don't want to do this alone." The ritual then began to form itself in my mind. I'm not sure of what becomes of us when we die. I often refer to the "soul," but it seems more metaphor than tangible to me. As to where this "soul" goes when one dies, I mostly think it's all over when the heart stops beating. However, there's this little part of me that wonders, "Maybe there is some dimension of higher existence, some universal, light-filled cosmic something-or-other at death. It seemed downright mean-spirited -- as well as a great big cosmic no-no -- for someone to die without some sort of honoring. I knew the job was mine. I was going to create a ritual of my very own making -- a ritual that fulfilled my needs of closure and honoring of my mother. I was simultaneously thrilled and terrified. What if I did it wrong? After all I was raised to be a good girl and do things perfectly. What if my mother didn't like it? I invited three women friends who had also lost their mothers. I felt relieved. I felt foolish. Many times during the week I wanted to cancel. By the time of this service my mother would be three weeks dead. It seemed too late, too odd, too antiestablishment to suit my mother, too New Age for me, too demanding of my friends’ time, too hard, too scary. The day arrived. The house sparkled. Mom would have approved. Fresh flowers graced the table; candles were ready to light. A poppy seed loaf presided on a china plate. A lemon, cut in four slices, formed beads of tart juice. Sour cream-and-onion-flavored potato chips napped in a glass bowl. I was nervous and anxious. My friends sat down in the living room. Could I really take the time I needed to do what I wanted to do? Mother taught me not to ask for anything. Good girls sat quietly, were seen and not heard. Mother also taught me to never show feelings in public. Tears filled my eyes. I blurted out that I wanted to share pictures of my mom and talk about her life. My friends looked at me with empathy. We gathered around the coffee table as I tried to piece together a woman's life -- my mother's life -- the life of a woman I had hated for forty-some years of my life, but now respected. I wanted, more than anything, to do my mother's tale the justice it deserved. I would tell the good. I would tell the difficult. I thought I felt her smile when my friends agreed she had one damn fine set of legs. It was a picture of her sitting on a stoop outside a friend's house. The wind was blowing, and mother's skirt blew up. My mother was smiling, and in her eyes there was light and fire: the light of promise and dreams. My mother had her entire life before her. She was going to be a lady. There would be no more poorly fitting hand-me-downs. She was a working girl now, with a job as a bookkeeper and a future. The tales I told of my mother were an opening for my friends to reflect on their own mothers. We spoke of our legacy in a line of women in our families. We spoke of the strengths of our inheritances, the graces, and the wonderful quirks. I lit the candles, poured red wine, and toasted my mother. We bit into the poppy seed cake and shared our stories of the sweetness of our mother's lives, our own lives, and the seeds planted. Our stories turned to the bitterness of life, and I passed around the lemons and we bit into them with gusto, embracing the sour. Inevitably, sexuality became the topic and the salty chips got passed around. We shared our stories of initiation and experiences. The ritual had become a poultice, pulling the truths of our lives to the surface, our relationships with our mothers transforming and imbuing us with strength and dignity. My friends left, and I sat watching the flames of the candles. Something had changed for me. In honoring my mother's struggles, I had given myself permission to struggle. In sharing her journey, I had legitimized aspects of my mother's world that I had previously shunned. I could now achieve the happiness and fulfillment she had always wanted for me. The next day I received phone calls from the other women present that evening, thanking me and telling me they hoped I had gotten as much out of it as they did. I had. Diane Caldwell MA, CMHC, CDC is in private practice in Seattle, seeing individuals, couples, and families for such issues as depression, chemical dependency, and abuse. On October 25th, Diane facilitates her "Coming Alive" experiential workshop utilizing movement and sound to help people break through blocks and realize their full creative nature and spontaneity. For information on therapy or workshops, call (206) 860-5209.