First Last Mother's Day
By Stephanie Daubek
@stephaniemakesstuff
“Take your time. I’ll be right over here,” my husband said. He was standing several feet away, kindly and cautiously giving me space. We were newlyweds, having been married just three months, and navigating this delicate territory was still new to us both.
As I scanned the selection, my mom, just a few miles away, was lying in a rented hospital bed. She’d been battling metastatic colon cancer for the past nine months. She had just been released from the ICU and into the care of hospice, and I knew our time together was limited. Standing in the floral section of a local big-box store, I was paralyzed by a recurring thought: This is the last Mother’s Day gift you’ll ever pick out for your mom.
Frozen in place, my eyes took in the selection of potted plants and bouquets. All the colors and fragrances felt overwhelming as my mind raced. Is this one pretty enough? Will she remember it? Is this too small? Is this too much? Which flower was her favorite? She must’ve had a favorite, but I can’t remember. This is the last Mother’s Day gift you’ll ever pick out for your mom. Don’t screw it up.
Growing up, Mother’s Day was always joyous. My mom was incredibly kind and selfless, so celebrating her was easy. She loved the handmade cards and gifts my brother and I would make. As we got older, the homemade cards remained. The handmade gifts were now upgraded to new pairs of pajamas and carrot cake with cream cheese frosting made from scratch, her favorite.
For years, I’d run to the store to buy flowers and cake ingredients the night before, so she could wake up to find a bouquet of flowers and a perfectly frosted cake on her countertop Mother’s Day morning. It became a favorite tradition for us both. This year, I hadn’t made my annual ingredient run. After months in the hospital and an inability to digest food normally, I knew my mom wouldn’t be able to enjoy the cake. But flowers? We still had flowers.
Those calla lilies are pretty.
When I married my husband, I became a stepmom to his children, two daughters and a son. We married in February, and though my mom’s cancer was already advanced, she was there to share in the beautiful day. As the months progressed and I settled into married life, it became clear that my first Mother’s Day would be my mom’s last.
I stared at the shelf labels, carefully reading the names of the different perennials.
When I was young and naive, I consumed copious amounts of romantic comedies. As I watched, I would think to myself, Someday, I’ll meet the right guy, and we’ll fall in love and get married and have some babies, and it’ll be totally amazing! I never once thought, Someday, I’ll meet the right guy who happens to be a single dad, and we’ll fall in love and get married while my mom is terminally ill and I will have to navigate the intricate dynamics of grief and co-parenting at the same time! Sadly, that Nora Ephron movie never existed. If only my eyes could have been cinematically opened to the complicated reality that would one day be my life. Truly, none of us can ever prepare for how, or when, our love story will unfold.
My eyes roamed to the potted plants.
Falling in love with my husband was, at times, just like a romantic comedy. It was easy, and so much fun. We went on countless adventures and couldn’t get enough of each other. I couldn’t wait to marry him. I remember how excited and hopeful I felt, standing across the aisle from him and his children at our wedding months earlier, becoming a wife and a parent in one beautiful blur of a day. My mom had gotten a break from her chemotherapy treatments before our wedding. She felt and looked amazing and was beaming the entire day. Here was this answered prayer—both hers and mine—a loving husband and beautiful children, coming to fruition.
Pansies? Did she like those? Or maybe daffodils were her favorite?
I know no new parent is free from anxiety. While I never experienced the panic of bringing home a newborn from the hospital, I can tell you that I imagine becoming a stepmom wasn’t far off. It felt like the emotional equivalent of being shoved into the deep end of a pool without knowing how to swim.
My parents had been married for 40 years, and the only information I had about stepparents was complaining classmates and Disney movies, neither of which were encouraging. Anything I knew about mothering, I knew from my mom, and that didn’t help with the “step” part. Was loving and parenting my stepkids going to be different from how my mom loved and parented my brother and me?
While I’d spent time with my stepkids before marrying their dad, the emotional connection wasn’t seamless. The love was there—on my end. My love for them was instant. But their love for me? I had to earn it, and that took time.
Ooh, tulips. Those are pretty.
I didn’t know if I’d be celebrated that first year, the way regular moms are. Would I get a card or some flowers? Was that allowed? I didn’t want to steal the spotlight away from their birth mom. After all, it’s her day. She grew and birthed these three incredible little people. Who am I to ask for love and accolades on the day we celebrate mothers? I didn’t feel like I’d earned the distinction yet.
“I think I’ll get these,” I said, picking up a medium-sized pot of forget-me-nots. My husband looked at the flowers, smiled, and nodded in agreement. “Perfect. She’ll love them.” I walked to the checkout lane with his hand in mine, our fingers interlaced, the forget-me-nots tucked under my arm. Tears welled in my eyes as I punched my PIN into the credit-card machine.
I walked into my parents’ house on Mother’s Day morning, wearing the necklace my stepkids had given me for Mother’s Day. It had a sterling silver heart pendant with the word “Mom” etched above a pink tourmaline, which just happened to be my mom’s birthstone. I placed the flowers on a table near the hospital bed, amidst bottles of medication and equipment, hoping my mom would notice them later. She was asleep, her breath slow and steady. I sat in the chair next to the bed, tucking one leg under the other, and reaching over, held her hand in mine. As I sat, my thoughts wandered. I wished I could ask her the millions of parenting questions I knew were sure to surface in the years to come. I broke free of my thoughts and focused on our intertwined hands. Hers was worn and wrinkled with time and years of hard work, but still dainty and beautiful. I held it tightly in mine and said a prayer of gratitude, acknowledging how blessed I was to have had this sweet woman as my mom here on earth. She taught me everything she knew for 32 years of my life, equipping me with every ounce of love I’d need to be a mother.
A few hours later, she woke up and spotted the forget-me-nots. Her eyes twinkled as she looked over at me. He was right. She loved them.
Guest essay written by Stephanie Daubek. Stephanie works in elementary education and lives in Indiana with her husband, three step-kids, and two dogs. At home, you can usually find her in the kitchen or the craft room. Making baked goods for others is her strongest love language. Scrapbooking, card making, and sending happy mail are her fave. You can connect with her on Instagram and on her blog.