Peg Conway - The Art of Reassembly: A Memoir of Early Mother Loss and Aftergrief

The Art of Reassembly

Copyright 2021, Peg Conway

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Published 2021

Printed in the United States of America

Print ISBN: 978-1-64742-215-8

E-ISBN: 978-1-64742-216-5

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021910757

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For Mary Lee Wimberg Morse
March 20, 1933November 5, 1970

In loving memory

The Aftergrief is where we learn to live with a central paradox of bereavement: that a loss can recede in time yet remain so exquisitely present.

Hope Edelman

T he unraveling began after we finished dinner at a Thai place in Lincoln Park. Our young adult son, his girlfriend, and another friendall Chicago residentshad joined my husband and me for a drink at our hotels rooftop bar before riding together to the restaurant. After our feast of sushi, stir-fry, and bottles of wine, I expected more chatting outside during the wait for separate transportation, a relaxed goodbye that would manage tectonic shifts beneath the surface. Two weeks earlier, Michael had informed us that he and Madeline would be moving in together this summer when their current leases expire. Though a minor geographic change, symbolically it widened the distance from our home in Cincinnati.

Instead, following dinner, I had barely left the restaurant when a random cab appeared at the curb. Madeline turned to Michael and said, Should we just take this? In the next instant, they hugged us in thanks and piled in the back seat. Michael waved and said, See you tomorrow! as the cab pulled away. Suddenly void of their youthful vibrancy, the neighborhood became sinister.

Just as abruptly, my switch flipped. My body taut, I launched a tirade about their hasty exit. Leaving us alone on the street corner!

They probably thought our Uber was on the way, Joe said, his face angled to his phone as he tapped out a ride request.

Perhaps, a tiny corner of my brain suggested, they treated us as they would their friends, assuming competence to summon our own ride after dining out in a big city. Pacing the sidewalk, I couldnt listen to that rational voice, not yet. Finally, our driver did a U-turn to pull up in front of us. Back in our room soon after, still I huffed and puffed, until suddenly the frenzy deflated like a balloon. I did not want negativity to define the evening or ruin the next day, the final one of our trip before returning home.

During our afternoon with Michael, Joe and I had attended a middle school boys basketball game at a YMCA where he and his friend coached. The impetus for our weekend trip was to witness this part of his life, where the pounding of the basketballs on the gym floor, the loud whine of the horn, the piercing tweet of the referees whistle, all of it had mirrored Michaels grade school playing days. Madeline had joined us in the row of metal folding chairs by the sidelines partway through the first half, and we chatted easily for the rest of the game. Though down by fifteen at the half, Michaels guys had gone on to win by four in overtime, a major accomplishment for them. On the way out, we had struck up a conversation with the parents on our left.

Who is your child on the team? they had queried.

Our responseThe coach!had evoked chuckles all around, but for me the levity had landed heavily, like a weight on my chest. I enjoyed watching basketball when Michael was involved. It was something we had shared during his growing up. Now it wasnt the same. He was out of college, working, living his own life. Joe and I were truly just spectators. Naturally, things evolved as Michael became an adult. In theory, I hoped that he would find someone to share his life, but this juncture had arrived sooner and in a different manner than expected. It was normal, but I struggled.

Ooohh, I whimpered aloud now in the hotel room, recognizing at last the familiar emotional flashover that occurred whenever circumstances pressed on an old wound. Whether it was being the last to leave a social gathering or watching a beloved child flourish independently, the reaction was the same, always a reverberation of early mother loss. An outburst was triggered, followed by self-recrimination, and then trembling vulnerability as the acute phase ebbed. Joe glanced over from the closet where he was hanging up his coat, eyebrows raised, questioning.

Will you please hold me? I said in a near whisper.

As he hugged me close, wordlessly, our physical contact broke the spell. Hot tears spilled down my cheeks. My breathing slowed. My muscles loosened. I returned to the present, knitted back into relationships, embracing a kinder self-understanding. Its okay. Its always part of you. Just let it be there. Youre okay. Breathe.

S weat prickled my neck and back as I entered the cafeteria line with my second-grade class on that September day. In vain, I lifted a tray from the stack and scanned the faces behind the counter. My voice pitch rose in tandem with my anxiety when I asked the person who dished up my plate, Wheres my mom? I thought she was coming today.

She shook her head, though her expression was kind as she replied, She didnt show up. Shes not here.

I had been clinging to my moms expected presence on lunch volunteer duty as a life raft of normality, but now it floated away from my grasp. I ate my meatloaf and mashed potatoes without tasting them, tingling with dread, while attempting to keep up with the chatter of my classmates. That afternoon when I arrived home, I learned that my mom had fainted in the kitchen and, upon discovering her there, my little brother Tim, age five, immediately set out to find me at school. We lived more than two miles away, most of it a major four-lane thoroughfare. Not far off our street as Tim walked up this busy road, barefoot, a police car stopped. Tim explained his mission, and the police officer drove him home, where Mom had come to and was sitting at the kitchen table.

I wonder now how much time had elapsed and what was crossing her mind. Did she realize Tim was gone? She was taken to the hospital, and it was determined shed had a seizure, diagnosed as epilepsy. But my mom was a nurse and knew that was ridiculous, my aunt told me many years later. Mom had asked her younger sister to fetch her medical books and figured out for herself that the breast cancer, diagnosed two years earlier, was spreading to her brain. Her illness occurred several years before chemotherapy was used to treat the disease.