The Last Violet: Mourning My Mother

The relationship with our mothers is one of the most important relationships in our lives. It often hovers between connection and conflict. It can drive us nuts, but we can’t ignore it.

“It can be difficult to deal with our mothers when they are alive,” says Lois Hjelmstad. “But what happens when they die and we can no longer talk with them, confront them, or repair a less than perfect relationship?”

Hjelmstad continues, “Ambivalence is manageable as long as we own and acknowledge it. It is only then that we can decide how best to deal with it. Resolution is something we can strive for before death disrupts the relationship. However, if that hasn’t happened, one can still reflect, and over time, find closure.”

A perceptive and poignant story, The Last Violet: Mourning My Mother, chronicles Hjelmstad’s passage from reproach to inner peace, but it also helps others begin their inner contemplation and journey. It may allow you to feel safe in going back and reflecting on your own life and relationships.

 

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Get a signed copy by ordering directly. Contact me at lois.hjelmstad@gmail.com.

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Read excerpts from this honest, heart-warming book.
See the Table of Contents.
Read early praise for The Last Violet.

Excerpts from The Last Violet: Mourning My Mother

Please note that this is copyrighted material and may not be copied, except for your own use.

Sunday Morning, Long Ago

The stained glass window
caught the rays of sun
flashing glints of red, yellow, blue
The form of Jesus
praying by a rock
dominated the picture
His face looked sad—
I nestled close to my mother,
sorrow played across her face, too
She looked neither left nor right
except to frown slightly
when I moved or made a rustle
I felt a chill and slid closer—
burrowing my face into her furry collar,
searching for warmth, safety, love
The gentle fragrance of her body
reached out to comfort me
The sadness of her smile
left me searching

On My Childhood

I think about that Sunday morning so long ago. Why did her face look sad? What chilled my four-year-old heart? Why do my childhood recollections of my mother overwhelm me with a sense of sadness and disapproval, a feeling of my not quite measuring up to the standard she set for me, her firstborn? Our relationship always hovered between connection and conflict.

One thing I remember clearly about my childhood is a pervading sense of shame—-“Shame on you” for playing when I was supposed to be napping, for spilling my milk, for scuffing my black patent leather shoes, for hollering out the front door, asking an entire neighborhood what f—u—c—k meant. (I always have liked words.)

One day, when I was seven or eight, I was walking to school with my father, playing with words, making rhymes. For some reason, I was rhyming words that ended in “it”—”bit, fit, hit, kit, lit, pit, shit—.” I stopped cold. Daddy said, with a small smile, “You didn’t mean for that to slip out, did you?” Thank God for the small smile.

 

That slip would have horrified Mother, much as the inquiry regarding the letters “f—u—c—k” did. “Where did you learn such language? Surely you know better. Why are you yelling out the door, anyway?”
My brother, my sister, and I were taught early on how we were expected to behave, and we learned to dread the “shame on you” when we didn’t remember . . .

We also learned that we must be careful with Mother. She was easily upset. Often it seemed as if we were walking on eggshells . . .

I will never know why Mother seemed so vulnerable to me, but one of my sons commented when we talked of her, “Children have a deep sensibility about emotional fragility, although it is on an inexpressible and inaccessible level.”

And perhaps my daughter summed it up well, “I think the whole family sensed at some level that your mother was fragile-she required special care and feeding—just like her violets.”

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Journal Entries

December 29—Les and I pick up Mom and Dad at 5:15 a.m. and take them to the hospital. We sit and wait until noon for her biopsy. We won’t know the results until tomorrow, but the doctors seem somewhat encouraged.

December 30—Mom’s diagnosis is metastatic adenocarcinoma. The doctors don’t know where it originated. While Jan, Nick, and I debate how, when, and if to tell Mother that she has cancer, her doctor calls to tell her the tumor is malignant. Les and I stop by to see Mom and Dad. He is devastated. She is uncharacteristically cheerful. I’m numb.

Is she in denial, or doesn’t she care if she dies?

December 31—Dad says he isn’t going to say anything to anyone yet, because “although it is assumed to be cancer, we don’t really know much.” Mother has a CT scan. The doctor tells Nick [who is also a physician] that the primary site is her lung and it could well be terminal in less than two years.

Ambivalence

How can I hate her—

frail, delicate woman
beautiful of face and spirit
giver of my life
giving to others
facing painful death
without complaint

How can I love her—

frightening me with her dying
turning my life upside down
seeming not to know or care
how much she is hurting me

I’ll Hold Your Hand Until You Sleep

I’ll hold your hand until you sleep
you who have often held mine

I’ll sit by your bed
until your last breath is drawn
holding my breath each time
as I wait for you
to breathe once more
frantically wishing for it to be over
fervently wishing to keep you forever

I’ll hold your hand
until you sleep
and soothe your brow

until it turns to stone…
until it turns to stone

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Table of Contents

The Sadness of Her Smile
How Can I Love Her?
I Go into the Kitchen and Weep
A Loaf of Bread, A Cup of Wine
As If We Could Forget
I’ll Hold Your Hand Until You Sleep
Motherless Child
Someone, Please Call Security
Where Can I Find Her?
Beyond Regret
Epilogue

Appendix
The Needs of the Dying Patient
On Choosing Hospice
Hospice and Cancer Organizations
Index

 

Early Praise for The Last Violet

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