“Dying is the opposite of leaving…I am more here than I ever was before.” – Andrea Gibson
My daughter, Maggie, and I got matching bumblebee tattoos. Mine is on the inside of my left arm, Maggie’s is on her shoulder. These tattoos are in honor of my mother, Donna Pieniazek, and we got them on July 27th, 2023 (What would have been Donna’s 70th birthday).\
How I want to feel her. More here than she ever was before. Beside me, watching me, listening to me, laughing with me, and crying with me. Yet I don’t.
My grief has been incredibly complex. Of all the complexities, the most interesting was my complete denial of an afterlife. Although I have never believed in hell or purgatory, as I do not believe in a God that does not deeply love all humans, I have always been open to the idea of an afterlife. Not the pearly gate judgement of St. Peter, but something beautiful. Simple. Beyond the limits of our imagination. I have spoken aloud to my grandfather, imagined meeting my grandmother, and prayed through my friends and ancestors. The idea of an afterlife has brought me great peace in the past without questioning its existence.
The minute my mom died, that belief vanished along with her. Poof! I don’t know why, but it happened instantaneously, and I was desperate for it to return. I have read books, listened to podcasts, had intimate conversations with priests, searched, begged, and even cried for proof. I long to know that she is there. That she can still see me, love me, and comfort me. But the truth is that I don’t. When others reach out to tell me that they have felt her, I struggle to believe them, yet I am envious of them at the same time.
Out of desperation, I have worked on this with my therapist. I have said things like, why can’t I believe? I will never know if I am wrong (because I won’t know until I am dead), but I will feel great comfort knowing she is still there, even if my eyes can not see her. With great compassion, my therapist told me ways to start, things a bit simpler than believing, and assured me that through these small actions, I may get back to a place of faith. One suggestion was to incorporate my mom into my daily life. Through small, intentional acts, I may have the power to make her feel real again.
I was in the process (slowly) of working on this when my daughter Maggie approached me. She would be turning 18 soon and was hoping to get a tattoo for her birthday. Oof. Just the distraction that I needed. How do I parent this nonsense? A tattoo? Seems like a slippery slope. What’s next? Cocaine? A Harley? (I want to tell you that I am kidding…But I am not. At the time, it took enormous self-control to keep a poker face and be the mom who was glad that her daughter wanted to include her and tell her everything. And I know there is nothing wrong with a Harley…but motorcycles are so dangerous!)
It gets better (worse?).. Maggie wanted not only to get a tattoo, but she also wanted me to get one with her: matching tattoos.
On the surface, this is honestly all of my greatest dreams realized. That my child wants a PERMANENT, forever reminder of me on her body seems like I have hit the mother/daughter relationship lottery.
I took some time to think about it. I was terrified of the pain (panic attack level terror – which I now know was exaggerated in my mind as it didn’t really hurt). Of Maggie regretting it someday (or having it removed – that would break my heart!). But I also loved how deeply personal it was. The core memory factor. How undeniably badass this would make me.
As I dug deeper, I realized the connection to incorporating my mom into my daily life. A small picture that I would see every morning as I washed my hair and every night as I brushed my teeth. A picture that wouldn’t mean much to the rest of the world, but would mean the world to me. A story held between me and Maggie…and maybe even my mom, too. I was in.
(Side note: I am under no false understanding that my mom would have been thrilled about tattoos in her honor. Remember my initial reaction? That was genetic. My mom had to pull over when I told her that I had my first beer. One beer, side of the road, crying. I don’t picture her beaming with her loved ones in maybe heaven over this tribute. That said, I don’t picture her being angry either. Maybe, if she is out there somewhere, it causes her to grin just a bit, knowing that we are thinking about her.)
Maggie wanted to get a bee—a small, black-inked, cute bumblebee. She remembered that her grandmother used to have a bee theme in her classroom, year after year, finding new ways to use bees as nametags, door decorations, and bulletin board themes. We started texting bee pictures back and forth, further bonding over our upcoming adventure.
So we did it. On my mom’s 70th birthday, July 27th, 2023, just two years after my mom had died, my beautiful 18-year-old daughter and I sat, one at a time, and got our sweet bumblebee tattoos together. This mark will forever connect me to my mother, Maggie to her grandmother, and us to each other.
Today, this tattoo reminds me that my mom is here—more than ever before. Even though I am still uncertain of an afterlife, I think of her presence in me. The advice I give my children is the advice she once gave me. The motivation to presume goodwill when it isn’t always natural. The pull to bake cookies on the first crisp fall afternoon, and my love for reading. She is here. She is right here. I hope these tattoos will do the same for my daughter one day. That she will see her bumblebee in the mirror years after I have gone, and it will remind her that she has generations of women cheering for her, and that I, too, am right there, more than I ever was before.
Donna Marie Pieniazek
July 27, 1953 – April 2, 2021
Being Resilient A.F. means I have the fortitude to sit with the hardest of emotions, whether mine or those of a loved one. It means serving others with a grounded presence, holding space for their pain, and responding with grace, compassion, love, and a dash of kick ass.
My advice for anyone going through a similar challenge is to find your people. Find them as quickly as possible and share the tears, the joy, the frustrations, and the exhaustion. Lean in, offering them what you wish you had and taking in what they are able to give to you.
Are you ready to share your story of RESILIENCE? You can do that HERE.