To Mom: The eulogy you didn't want
Why did she do this? Verbal tic? Tourette Syndrome? Was she trying (as I suspected during my teen years) to embarrass me so profoundly that I’d move away? Perhaps she was hinting at some constant dissatisfaction that burbled beneath her surface. Or, maybe she was playing against type, since you wouldn’t expect crass language from such a beauty.
My mother had long legs, green eyes and a pixie haircut. She pulled off the look like she’d invented it. Always sparkling earrings. Always nice fingernails. A lifelong resident of the South, she never succumbed to sequined sweatshirts. She was just, for as a long as I can remember, quietly class and grace.
Unless she was telling someone to bite her.
When I was little, I figured she was a fairy — because she was so pretty and because she made my clothes herself (sometimes magically, overnight). Once she conjured a tiny replica of Princess Diana’s wedding dress. It was yards and yards of fabric, so heavy I tottered during Easter hymns.
When I was a teenager, we clashed about once a week. She said I was moody. I said I was, like, totally p.o.’ed. “Muh-THER,” I would call her, and she hated it so much. I’m wondering now if that’s when Bite Me was born.
Then and later and on her very last day, I thought of her first as Mother, Mom, Mama. The one who sent envelopes of cash when I was broke. The one who asked questions like, “So that’s the way you’re doing your hair now?”
(Me: “Mother, please.” Her: “Heather, bite me.”)
But sometimes an artifact will cast an unexpected light, and I’ll remember that she wasn’t just for me.
A college scrapbook — and there she is in a toga, one slender arm thrown casually around a grateful frat boy.
A memory of her standing at the front of a classroom, lecturing her students and lit from within.
A photo of her grinning at my sister’s graduation — the supportive and skilled parent of a child with Asperger’s at a time when no one (including my mom) had heard of Asperger’s.
Love notes written on yellow post-its, to and from my dad.
Frantic to-do lists, also on post-its, from the summer of 2000. My dad was killed in a farming accident. My mom was left with crops in the field in the middle of a rainless July. On one of her lists, among words like “John Deere” and “appointment,” she’d written the reminder, “Breathe deeply.”
My mother died at her home on Sept. 30, her 61st birthday. Just two days before, we’d been in Paris together, drinking coffee from hilariously tiny cups.
My family and I were on sabbatical in Sweden, and my mom said she couldn’t go six months without seeing her grandchildren. That’s why she planned her very first trip overseas. But, as her departure date grew nearer, she sounded less and less sure. Once, when we were talking on the phone, she used the word “nervous.”
“Mother,” I said, trying to be practical. “You don’t have to make the trip.”
“But I do,” she said, asking me to understand. “See? This is my chance.”
When she landed safely in London, she acted very cool, like an entire ocean was no big deal. Then we celebrated in many pubs, because we both love beer. We saw some important towers (of London and Eiffel), and she bought the grandkids every souvenir they asked for.
On the last day, we said goodbye in our little Paris apartment. She wrapped her arms around me and kissed me twice on the neck, and I could feel her sniffing my hair. I realized she was loving me the same way I love my children — fiercely, with a sincere hope that they won’t grow up and go away.
The last time I saw her, I was stepping into a taxi, and she was waving to me from a fourth-floor window.
She didn’t want anything that might be maudlin — no buttoned-down memorial, no terrible graveside anything. She didn’t even want a eulogy. But see? Here I’ve written one anyway. So Mama, wherever you’re resting now: Bite me.
Heather Heath Chapman lives in Ann Arbor with her husband and two children. You may reach her at heatherchapman1@me.com.
Comments
macilme
Mon, Jan 17, 2011 : 12:33 a.m.
Thank you for this wonderful eulogy to your mom, and for sharing such sweet memories of her. My two favorite words are "bite me". I've been saying them for 20 years--and I don't think I'll ever stop.
Hannah Lee
Sat, Jan 15, 2011 : 12:08 a.m.
Heather, your mother was a special lady and you portrayed her beautifully. I remember a recent birthday when each of the high school girls (who continued to celebrate birthdays after 40 years) gave her a birthday card that said "bite me". At first she was amused, but after 3 cards she was doubtful that it wasn't planned by the "girls". After 5 cards...she was prepared to "bite"! We miss her, too, and her unique humor. Thank you for writing this eulogy...I consider it a gift.
Ann Arbor mom
Fri, Jan 14, 2011 : 12:40 p.m.
What a moving, beautiful essay about your mom. She was a lucky lady to have you as her daughter.
Mary Catherine Smith
Fri, Jan 14, 2011 : 12:16 p.m.
Beautiful words...thanks for sharing your memories of your mom with us. She sounds like she was an amazing soul.
robyn
Fri, Jan 14, 2011 : 11:35 a.m.
I'm glad you spent that time with her - that she needed to see you and the kids. How unknowingly blessed you were. I lost my Mom quite a few years ago - like your Mom she was one of those women that had a natural class that just couldn't be faked or imitated. But she was also so 'earth bound' and accessible. When I was a teenager I would have absolutley cringed if people said 'You're like your mother." - Now, it is the greatest compliment I can receive. I'm sure your Mom is taking a lot of pleasure in your eulogy - she probably even got a laugh out of your final words.
Sarah Smallwood
Fri, Jan 14, 2011 : 11:17 a.m.
Wonderful story. Thank you so much for sharing. It sounds a lot like my family--a eulogy that's more about the person than the end, even if that person said weird things. Especially, actually. I wouldn't have it any other way, and I'm glad someone else does, too.
David Briegel
Fri, Jan 14, 2011 : 10:28 a.m.
Good one Heather. Good one! I agree with all the comments. Laughing with tears!
rrt911
Fri, Jan 14, 2011 : 10:19 a.m.
Loved your story. Sometimes life works well and a daughter or son get that much needed break in their twenties, then grow to know their parent adult to adult. When acceptance happens, I think you let go of all those things that bothered you growing up and you just embrace your parent for who they are. At least that what I hope happens with me and my kids....
Jen
Fri, Jan 14, 2011 : 9:40 a.m.
A powerfully moving piece that also mixes in wit - thank you so much for this. I, too, was teary by the end.
Tina
Fri, Jan 14, 2011 : 9:23 a.m.
I find myself echoing several of the others'. I finally signed up to comment and was left wishing for more. Heather, I love your writing style. You've painted such beautiful pictures with your words. Thank you for sharing.
Top Cat
Fri, Jan 14, 2011 : 8:50 a.m.
Thank you Heather, you made my day!
Tammy Mayrend
Fri, Jan 14, 2011 : 8:47 a.m.
Very sweet Heather - I even got a little teary at the end.
Sherry Knight
Fri, Jan 14, 2011 : 8:28 a.m.
Beautiful story, Heather. You were fortunate to have each other and to share such an incredible relationship. Thanks for sharing. My thoughts are with you and your family.
winterblue
Fri, Jan 14, 2011 : 8:12 a.m.
After reading this I found myself finally setting up an account with annarbor.com just so I could comment on your beautiful and wonderful eulogy. You are a superb writer and I always enjoy reading your columns. As you described the pictures and post-it notes I could picture them in my mind even though I never new your mother. Thank you so much for sharing.
Katherine
Fri, Jan 14, 2011 : 8:02 a.m.
Thank you so much, Heather, for sharing such beautiful snapshot stories of you, your mom, and your relationship. I, too, was left with a longing to hear more. Sending you warm wishes for peace amidst the grief of losing a loved one...
Emma Jackson
Fri, Jan 14, 2011 : 7:50 a.m.
Heather, what a wonderful tribute to your mother. I finished reading wanting more, wishing I'd known her.