Helen Ramstad-Lane, My Mother
This is hard to write. Hell, it is hard for me to even think about. This is often my struggle on March 16th. The pain of this day is a hot lump in my throat. I must swallow around it all day. It makes every breath and every swallow painful. The pain is palpable. It emanates out of me. The thing about grief over many years is, it never really goes away but you get better at handling it. It doesn’t usually blindside me like a punch in the gut anymore. I know how feel it, acknowledge it, and let it wash away. But on this day, it’s different. On this day, it’s a constant gut punch. On this day, I am reminded over and over again that I am not and will never be over my mother’s death.
My mom used to tell me that if she had started earlier, she would have had five children. But she didn’t, so she only had me. She and my dad met when she was 33. They had the most romantic courtship ever, which is a story for another time, that ended with them being married only three months after meeting. That marriage lasted over 30 years, only ending with her death. They adored each other. They taught me that soul mates were out there and completely attainable. It was my dad’s second marriage, and with his age he gained the clarity of what he needed in a relationship, Helen. My mom had been engaged previously but he died so, she was understandably cautious in her romantic life. But when they met, there was no need for caution, they were for each other and it was so obvious to them. After they married, they took a wonderful five years to be just them and then decided that it was finally time for me to enter the picture.
She was 39 when I was born. Before her time in waiting to be a mother. But all of that waiting let her become who she wanted to be. She carried many scars from her own parent’s marriage and made sure that she left those behind at the door of her own. She had no desire to perpetuate the hurt that her own mother had subjected, whether consciously or unconsciously, her to. She made sure that she was going to bring her one precious baby into a family that was whole and ready. And it was. I never felt a day that wasn’t full of love. To be fair, they were strict and expected much of me, but I never doubted the love they had for me.
The story of my birth was famously told in the house. I was due on Valentine’s Day, but that day came and went without so much as a wiggle from me so, the household was on high alert for the days following. Then, on the evening of the 19th, mom was standing on the porch step when her water broke in a flood. She just stood there for a moment knowing that it was finally time and then called out to my dad. He broke into a state of pure panic, tearing around the house trying to grab random things that the thought might have been necessary for labor and completely ignoring the hospital go bag that she had carefully packed weeks before. She stood there reveling in the knowledge that she would finally meet her baby and watching him in his flurry. She finally took pity on him and pointed out the bag which he grabbed and hurried her off to the hospital.
They arrived to the hospital with due haste and he whisked her up to Labor and Delivery. But once they go settled her labor began to stall and even stop completely. The decision was made to start her on Pitocin (yikes!) to push this very stubborn baby to make her way into the world. True to its intent, the Pitocin made it happen and things were cooking along quite nicely. So nicely, in fact, the doctors made the decision to turn off the Pitocin and let her labor progress without aid. This lovely little choice turned the tide so that instead of being born on 2/19 and an Aquarius, I was born at 1:31 in the morning of 2/20. And became a zero-degree Pisces. Meaning, to me and my mother-in-law, that I chose to be born under that sign. That it was essential to who I am to be a Pisces. (More on astrology later).
Like I said before, my mom would have had a whole brood of kiddos if she could have. But since they started later, she ended up being a mom of an only child. All the love that she had to be poured into many children ended up in a pure, focused beam upon me. There was never a moment when I didn’t feel wholly and totally enveloped in her love. I look at pictures of us when I was little, and I can still feel her joy and care as she held me. She was so happy to have a daughter she could adore and who adored her right back. She was a woman who was born to be a mother.
Life with her was beautiful and completely magical. She made every holiday special. I would wake up on Valentine’s Day to pink heart shaped waffles, roses, pink, and roses everywhere, and always a card telling me how loved and treasured her little girl was. And then St. Patrick’s Day, and Easter, and everyone following. She never missed one. And as I grew up, I became her assistant in the magic. She taught me how to make everything beautiful. She taught me that the little details made the biggest difference. I learned how to decorate to perfection. I learned how to properly throw a dinner party. And I learned that everything must be garnished with parsley.
She was the most engaging and skillfully social person I have ever known. As a dedicated and confirmed introvert, the way she could relate to anyone in the room was a mystical power. I would watch her join a group and before the hour was over, she had learned about what each person’s soul moving goal was. And it wasn’t that she just knew about the people, she cared. She cared about each person she met in a way that was not superficial or flighty but the most dedicated and real. She adopted all my closest friends as her own. She absolutely adored my co-writer Aria and our third, Tizzy. The stories they can tell about her love for them.
My heart breaks over the loss of her, it is in constant cracking. And most for my sweet children. This is not to say that they are at all deprived of grandmother affection. Their Gamma is literally the most wonderful ever. She is definitely all of my children’s favorite person. But I grieve the loss of my mother for them. She would have completely adored them. Without reservation. She would have spoiled them beyond reason. Honestly, I probably would have gotten frustrated by the amount of time she would have wanted to spend with them. She adored her grand niece and nephew, and I can see how that would have translated into her own grandchildren. I wish they could have known her enveloping hugs. The softness and the warmth that made you feel like you were completely safe and totally home. I wish they could have known her in the kitchen, making delicious things. That she could have taught them how to make Krumkake (A Norwegian Christmas cookie) the way she did me. How you roll the piping hot waffle like cookie into a cone and then eat it as it crumbles in your hands. I wish they could have known the wonder that was Christmas in her house. Her voice when she read to them. The smell of a perfume she stopped wearing long ago but somehow still clung to her sweetly. Her handmaking all of their Halloween costumes. Her joy in their laughter, her comfort in their tears, and her love of their pure existence. They should have had that. And I should have been able to share them with her.
Helen Annette Ramstad-Lane died on March 16th, 2010, after battling pancreatic cancer for a year and a half. She was absolutely dedicated to beating it and there was never a question that that wouldn’t be the outcome. Unfortunately, that was not the outcome. She was graceful and beautiful to the very end. Savoring the apple juice ice chips that were her last form of sustenance, trying to connect with each person whose life she had changed, thanking us repeatedly for caring for her and making her as comfortable as we could. In those last moments, when the death rattle came, I was the only one sitting by her bedside. I rushed to my dad and we both were there, holding her hand. I wasn’t ready. I don’t think I would have ever been ready. Twice, I begged her not to go and, despite being unconscious, she tried so hard to come back to me. Then I knew that I had to let her go, that even if I wasn’t ready, she was. So, I stopped begging and gave her permission. I told her that I would be ok, that I would miss her every day of my life but that she had taught me everything she knew. That she had made me ready to take on the world and I would do just that. And then she left. She died that night and my world changed. I will always feel her loss and be so grateful every moment I had with her.
