A Mother's Connection

A Story by Jennifer Hart

Comedy has been set aside today, in leu of a bit more feeling.

I was going to start this with the statement “I lost my mother when I was 23 months old.” But the fact is I didn’t lose her, I didn’t drop her somewhere without knowing, only to later have to search to find her. I didn’t misplace her or forget where she had been set. So, I didn’t lose my mother, she died. Meningitis had caused her death at the age of 28. Although she was gone, I was taught, by the relatives from her side of the family, what kind of woman she was. I was told about her bubbly personality and her infectious laughter. It was severely impressed upon me to know and feel that I, her only child, was a beacon of light and the love of her life. I was constantly reminded by all who knew her and who later met me, that I was an exact replica of this woman who had made a difference in the lives of all she touched. I grew up with the feeling that I had known her my whole life and it seemed as if she was only away on a long vacation, surely to return one day. I know now, both from the tales I’ve been told and my own experience, the bond between mother and child, no matter how long the physicality is shared, is something that can withstand lifetimes.

I was once asked, by my Communications professor, to write an essay about something that had a major impact on my life. After a quick thought, I knew I would write about the birth of my first child. It was in this experience that I gained the greatest connection between myself and the mother I once had.

Before my red-headed, blue-eyed, freckle faced little boy arrived, I truly had no sense of attachment to anything. I had seemed to float through my childhood in a family that I didn’t quite fit into. Maybe a consequence of my upbringing, I always felt a sense of wandering, like a gypsy with no certain place to be.

At 22, I found myself in a relationship and pregnant, and for the first time in my life I felt love, real and true. Had I known how this child would turn out, sarcastic, antagonistic, and a bit of a s**t, I would have been a little more leery of the impending consequence of my sexual indiscretions. I wouldn’t change them, of course. I would, however, had a better idea of how not to be crazy. But that is a whole other tale. For now, I will pretend that he is a sweet little angel that causes no problems and no grey hair.

At a later point, I may have to rant and rave about my feelings on the birthing process of the modern world. I feel strongly about the lack of personal touch, on the doctor’s conveyor belt to motherhood, which is given today. I am all for sitting our butts right in a warm tub of water and pushing those little suckers out.

But, back to the point at hand. With this pregnancy I found myself talking to something, be it spirit or memory, and that something was my mother. Now, the fact that I truly felt and heard specific responses from this entity does not make me crazy. But I did, I felt her there. I felt the connection to my unborn child that I knew she had felt for me. And in those months of the pregnancy it seemed as those my mother and I were one in the same.

On December 11, 1999 my water broke and I went into full fledge labor very quickly. I had planned on going to the store, buying wine and cheese for the celebration that would follow the birth. I had meant to bathe, style my hair, and apply a bit of make-up. I like to be ready for pictures, and this was no exception. I imagine God was laughing at my plan the whole time. Within an hour of the beginning, I was on all fours, in the elevator of the hospital, hurrying to get to the birthing suite which was to be the place of his arrival. Elijah Gauge arrived at 4:30 pm, only 12 hours after the whole thing started. I was completely and utterly in love like I had never been before.

A few hours later I received a call from my maternal grandmother. Of course she was in tears, isn’t everyone after such a feat of nature is performed? But this was different. As she gathered her breath and composure, she filled me in on the amazing significance of this day. My mother, who had long ago passed, was born on this very same date, save the year. Her firstborn had given birth to another firstborn on the same day she had entered this world. In that moment I knew that bigger things had ahold of me, things I could never truly comprehend. I finally felt a part of something so big it had no boundaries. I knew that all the times I had heard my mother’s voice and felt a wisp of spirit pass through me, we were being allowed to live as one. Mother to child. And in this I knew that she, my mother, had never been lost. She was right where God had left her. She was in my soul. And with the arrival of that that little boy who would turn into the freckle faced man, souls were intertwined. From her to me, and me to him, the mother’s connection would carry on.