Nancy Berchtold Haobsh, my mother, was quite a character.  I am not exaggerating when I say she was the most talkative person I have ever met.  At the grocery store, walking down the street, or, hell, even in a locker room–seriously, everywhere!–she was remarkably unself-conscious about conversing with strangers.  She had a beautiful mission to connect with people, find out their stories, and then share hers.  My chatty mommy had the world’s most gorgeous smile, and was an unbelievable knockout, with light blue eyes, a model’s body (thanks to three decades of rigorous, daily swimming) and thick blonde hair.  During my childhood, she showered me with kisses, encouraged my writing talents and love of reading, tirelessly drove me from horseback riding to tennis to piano to gymnastics to French lessons to chorus to swimming, and would gaze at me and tell me I was gorgeous, special, intelligent, perfect.  (In short, a more supportive mother doesn’t exist.)  She understood the concept of freedom and let me fly alone to England and France before the age of 16, cheerfully bid me adieu as I set off for boarding school, and was thrilled when I got into a great college thousands of miles away.  While she hated to be parted from me–I had literally two babysitters in my life–she loved me enough to let me explore the world, play, learn and be challenged by life.  Of course, my mom was a human being and not a saint, so she had her moments: with such a passionate nature came a boiling temper, and when mama was mad, you sure as hell knew it!  What I remember, however, is the unbelievable amount of love that radiated off her: love for my brother, love for my father, love for our family dog and cat, love of writing (she was a beautiful, talented writer), love of nature, love of exercise, love of life.  I am honored and proud to be her daughter, and as 2008–what a strange year–draws to a close, I send kisses, love and adoration out into the universe for my mother, and thank her for all the lessons.  We miss you, mama!

My favorite photo of my mother Nancy, taken in New York City sometime in the late 70’s, when she was right around my age.  Special thanks to J. for bringing it back into my life.

Facebook has lost a little of its lustre for me, but I still heart it.  If you’re a similar addict, check out my new page for Confessions of a Beauty Addict and become a fan!  I’ll be adding my book signing event information to the page.  (By the way, for Twitterers, Bella is chronicling her adventures there: twitter.com/bellahunter)

I should have expected it would happen, but when the melancholy set in–took me over, left me drowning and gasping for comfort–I was stunned.  Knocked on my ass.  It’s only been a handful of hours since I’ve returned to my real life, and the week between Christmas and New Year is always a ghostly, fleeting time, so maybe I shouldn’t feel as weak as I do for letting the thoughts play on an endless loop of “Why didn’t you…?” and “Maybe I should…”  

It comes fast and loose once my head hits the pillow.  ”Why didn’t you spend more time with her?”  ”How could you not have realized she was that sick?”   “I miss her.  I miss daddy and P. even more.”  ”I hate LA, this fake, false, bright, plastic toy of a town.”  ”Maybe I should move back home to be with my family.”  ”Could I really be happy in Dallas?”

I recognize the depression cocooning me seductively, whispering promises of false peace.  How can I write–how can I care–about mascara and conditioner?  I open my website, stare at the screen.  Close it.  Visit Facebook, listlessly clicking for seconds before closing that, too.  I want to write, but the writer’s block…oh, yes, it is strong with this one.

D. and I went to see Marley and Me tonight, and on the drive home, she suggested I write something, anything, even if I didn’t feel like it.  It feels good to have the juices flowing ever so slightly.  Maybe tomorrow I can make further progress; clear this fog.  Intellectually, I recognize this feeling will not last forever.  I will laugh, play, love; I will have the desire and drive to write something that’s not utterly indulgent or self-pitying.  But for now, it’s baby steps.  One word, one day, at a time. 

I’m back in Dallas with family (and fighting the worst cold of my life!) but I wanted to send my love, thanks and appreciation to all of you for your warm wishes, phone calls, comments, emails and general support–not only these past few weeks, but these past few years in general.  I am so lucky to count you as my readers and wish you all, from the bottom of my heart, a very Happy Christmas, Hanukkah and Kwanzaa!  Let’s hope that 2009 is kind and gentle to us all.

Lots of love,
Nadine

It’s been a couple of days since my mother died, and I’m not dealing with it the way I imagined I would. When, if ever, I vaguely thought of her passing, I sort of assumed I’d be heartbroken, bereft, inconsolable. But, strangely, life goes on.  I miss her like mad, of course, but I’ll forget that she’s gone.  I’ll pull out my cell phone and think, “I should call mama to see how she’s doing” before remembering that’s not possible.  Luckily, however, I’m not broken–which I know would make her happy.  I laugh, I joke about the bizarre hours following her death with my brother, I cuddle with our family cat, I think idly of boys I have crushes on. Mostly, I remember that, while she left way too soon, there are still family members here with me now, and I don’t want to miss a thing with them–particularly my dad and my little brother.  I don’t want my life to pass as I cry self-indulgently about her being gone: in my mind, either she’s in a better place, or she’s chilling out for all eternity the same way she did before she came into the world–regardless, she’s not in pain and doesn’t need my tears.  I love talking about her, but in celebration of her life, not in mourning for her death.

Like everybody, I have my vices and failings–laziness and vodka spring to mind!–but I now feel a quiet desire to honor my mom’s memory by living the best life I can.  I’m still learning the parameters of it as I go, but it doesn’t necessarily include wealth or fame or success; nor does it include duty or sacrifice or family planning. I’m seeking depth, rather than breadth: I want to pare done what I do, but make it  good; worth my while.  I’m hoping I can remove the nonsense, take away the mindless diversions, while embracing the little things that make life beautiful.

Yesterday, my brother P. and I talked about going to Bali; “Let’s do it, rather than just talk about it,” we said.  My mother used to tell me that she and my father never needed to spoil me, because I spoiled myself–but the focus has sharpened and the mind feels clear.  I want to experience life, dive headfirst into it, love it.  And so far, I feel lucky, because I have, and am, and do.   I can be part of my mom’s legacy, and I hope with all my heart to make her proud.

Forgive me for working through this alongside you, but–naturally–at this moment, she’s at the center of everything I do.

My mother Nancy passed away at 10:36 pm last night.  I’m a jumble of emotions right now–devastated that I’ll never again hear her voice, so happy she’s out of pain, feeling guilty that I didn’t spent every possible second with her following the diagnosis, relieved that I spent what precious time I did talking to her and appreciating her–but I am mostly just numb.  My little brother was not in the room, so it was left for me to go back to the apartment while the other family remained with her body; I then told my 19 year old brother that his mother was gone.  Most of the tears I have already shed are for P., too young to have his mother taken from him, and for my mother Nancy herself, only 55 when she went, and with too many wonderful possibilities ahead of her.

In a strange way, I feel that everything that has happened to me in my life has led to this moment: toughening me in some ways, softening me in others, but mostly preparing me for the realization that life will surprise you, offering experiences both beautiful and terrible, though equally illuminating and important.  I’m trying to just accept the lessons and ride the wave of the unknown. We’ve just arrived to Dallas, and her funeral is tomorrow.  Luckily, the mood of the family (aside from one very weepy mother-in-law; my grandmother) is joyous and celebratory.  All things considered, Nancy went in a good way, and we love her like crazy.

My brain at rest seems to have a sense of humor, because I’ve had the Tom Petty song running through my head all day (alternating with “I Don’t Want to Miss a Thing” and “Moon River”).  My mother is unbelievably strong and tenacious, and every time we–and the doctor–think it might be her last few minutes, she surprises us with a renewed surge of energy.  The family has spent the past day and a half massaging her feet, praying over her head, reading to her and sharing funny memories.  I’ve lost grandparents and cousins, but this is the first real loss to touch me, and I find myself dealing with it strange ways.  Some moments, I pray for her to be taken immediately, right this very second, so that she might stop feeling pain. At other times, I just hope she’ll keep fighting and straining and surprise all the doctors by pulling out a miraculous recovery.  I cry when a cousin tells me a silly story, yet I am the only dry-eyed person in the room while everyone else erupts in a simultaneous storm of tears and loud prayers.  One thing is for certain: all the notions I had of death from glossy, beautifully-scored movies (Little Women springs to mind) are flat-out BS.  Staring nobly into space as the wind blows while the patient reassures the family that they’re happy to go, takes a soft gasp, and then quietly passes? That certainly isn’t the case here.  My mother is shriveled, sunken, literally flaking and crumbling to pieces, and absolutely determined to stick it out.  It’s not what I expected, but then, neither was losing her so soon.

Family ties are obviously important, but who among us hasn’t feuded–sometimes bitterly–with somebody we should love unconditionally?  My mother is the sunniest, most outgoing person I’ve ever known, and yet she somehow managed to estrange herself from both her sister and her step-sister.  The relatives have been pouring into the hospital room and clogging up our cell phone histories, but they’re all my dad’s family–his sister, his brother’s wife, his sister’s granddaughter…the list goes on.  My aunts?  Nowhere to be found, as per the usual.  Today, however, my mother’s sister found out about Mama Jolie’s condition through her daugther (who I Facebooked on Monday…another example of Facebook bringing loved ones together), and she called me in tears.  The years were erased, the impossible-to-remember-why-they-happened feuds suddenly disappeared, and all that mattered was that my aunt’s only sister was taking her last breaths.  I went back into the hospital room, put the phone up to Mama’s ear, and wiped away tears as my mother dazedly, disbelievingly whispered three times, “C.?  Is that really you?”  Later in the day, my mom’s step-sister D. called–the first time we’d connected in 16 years–and she spent 20 minutes telling me stories about my mother as a teenager.  My little brother P.’s 19th birthday was today, and I must have told him thirty-five times how much I love him.  I can’t help but see the good and the positive right now, feeling that every laugh, every I Love You is in honor of my mother and the invaluable lessons she has, and is still, teaching me.