I found out I was pregnant with my second child the day after I spread my mom’s ashes.
Remothering by Mandy Jankus
Losing my mother, Diana, as the world shut down due to the pandemic, made it feel even more isolating. My husband and son were stuck in Seattle as I lay draped over her hospital bed in our small living room in northwest Indiana. The bed was angled between a leather-blue La-Z-Boy recliner and the old, muted-light-green sofa that she spent months falling asleep on. The white brick that surrounded the fireplace was a bright spot, a nod to the ways she tried to modernize the house throughout the years. Fires burning constantly throughout her illness served as a source of warmth for her always-cold body and as comforting reminders of healthy times. As an only child and her main caretaker for these 10 months, I was navigating anticipatory grief while trying to make decisions that may briefly extend life or lead to impending death. When she took her last breath, I lay on top of her, weeping for just one more moment with her in body, one more breath, one more opportunity to tell her I love her.
3 months later, when I returned to Seattle, I honored her, giving her a proper resting place. It was in Cannon Beach, Oregon, a place where I watched her inhale the salty sea air with her whole body, where we ran towards the ocean at night, interlocking arms in the only light of the stars. A place where she walked hand in hand with her grandson, her favorite person. This ritual was an important step in my process of grieving, giving me a semblance of closure.
I walked with my mother’s ashes as the sun was setting over the Pacific Ocean, Haystack Rock in the background. The thick plastic bag cradled her body in its new form into the cups of my quivering hands. The sea washed gently and carried her to her final resting place. This ritual was all she would have, the pandemic stealing a proper goodbye from her as a mother, wife, grandmother, aunt, sister, and friend. I took her to the place where I watched her soul breathe at ease before the cancer ravaged her lungs and stole her breath.
As my hands entered the bag of ashes, I felt coarse chunks of what I knew could be her bones, remnants of her living body. I let the water wash over my feet as I stood with her for a moment, silently assuring her that the sea would set her free. The dusty ashes left my hands and scattered into the sea foam, the lapping water easing them over my feet and farther into the sea with each wave. I watched as the water encompassed her, saying good-bye one last time to my best friend.
On the drive back to Seattle, my chest felt heavy and tight. I tried to cope with the anxiety, telling myself it was natural to feel this way after such a monumental moment. I woke up the next morning with even more intense pressure on my chest, struggling to catch my breath. I wrestled with the panic and nausea until I demanded my husband take me to the emergency room, certain I was having a cardiac event. I watched my husband and son in the car as I was wheeled into the hospital from the parking garage, writhing with uncertainty. Inside the hospital, I adamantly insisted that my heart should be checked, making sure every person I talked to knew that my mom had a heart attack when she was only 42. Was this a heart attack, or had my heart actually broken? I answered the slew of questions as they hooked up the EKG pads to various parts of my body. While that was happening, a nurse drew blood, and once the pads were removed, I was handed a small plastic cup to urinate in. Next, they took an X-ray of my chest, checking for an enlarged heart. I wondered silently if they would be able to see the cracks and holes I felt each day since my mom died.
I lay alone in the tiny emergency room as the nurses left to check the results of the various tests I had done. I heard shuffling outside the sliding door and hushed whispers. “Does she know she’s pregnant?” I heard a nurse say. My stomach dropped into my feet, and I was paralyzed with terror. I told them I wasn’t pregnant; they couldn’t be talking about me.
In the early months when my mom first got sick, I had severe gynecological issues leading to multiple tests that resulted in a stress diagnosis. It was common, she said, for my hormones to fluctuate radically due to what I was dealing with. We had been intimate only once in almost a year.
They had to be referring to a patient in the next room. I took the pill; there was no way I could be pregnant. The door slid softly open, and two female nurses entered as they glanced at each other. “Ms. Jankus, are you aware that you’re pregnant?” Time stood still, and before I knew it, a guttural cry was escaping my mouth, “I need my mom,” I screamed at the top of my lungs, tears choking my words. The nurse who delivered the news sprang for my phone resting on the tray table, “You can call her, sweetheart, that’s ok.” I squinted my eyes shut, trying to escape as the next scream came out, “She’s dead”, I wailed.
I called my husband, who had taken our son to the park, “Andy, I’m pregnant,” I sobbed. In the most calm and reassuring tone, he simply said, “Babe, this is your mom.” He paused. “Two butterflies are flying over me right now. It’s going to be ok.” I didn’t believe him at the time, but I was struck by the change in his disposition from this morning, when we both agreed there was no way we could have another child.
My mom, I thought. I had just taken her to her resting place. How could she work so quickly? She begged us to have another baby, “a girl”, she said. She lived to be a grandmother once my son was born, as promised, she would retire and move from the Midwest to Seattle if we had another child. A calm washed over me as I imagined my mom’s ashes going to work in the universe, creating a miracle that only she could see the vision for. I lay in the bed, whimpering as I imagined a new life growing in my body, one that my mom would never get to hold. I didn’t think I had the strength to bring a child into a world without my mom; it felt impossible.
I had my daughter, Zoey Diana, on March 15, 2021, and from the moment I saw her for the first time, I knew that my mom had already met her. Her right arm had what’s known as an “angel kiss” on it, a bright red dot of broken blood vessels that would eventually disappear. My mom’s way of telling us she knew Zoey. Her eyes were the same vibrant, sparkly blue as my mom’s, the deep wisdom of my mother already obvious. The lesson in this miracle was recognizing that we had the choice, the beautiful opportunity to allow my children a new way to know and stay close to my mom, continuing bonds. Zoey, her own beautiful, unique person, is the living embodiment of my mom and her memory, providing a gateway to my own resiliency.
When you lose your mother, you are pushed into the choice to live motherless and/or to learn to mother yourself. Both things can be true: motherlessness was not a choice, but learning to continue growing is. Through embracing Zoey Diana and her life, I learned that my mother’s lessons, wisdom, and spirit live within me always. I learned that mothering myself is proof of embodying being resilient, a.f. Choosing to honor your person even when they are gone is resilient in a culture that puts a timeline on grief and how we should do it. Having the courage to open to new ways of loving those who are gone is resilient a.f. Sharing their stories and keeping their memory alive is resilient a.f.
Resilience looks like talking openly to my children about grief and breaking a familial cycle of hushed emotions and shoving down difficult conversations. Resilience is bringing her into our lives in a new way, having her pictures and ashes visible, bringing them to the table, and using them when we want to talk to her. Resilience is sharing the stories of our rambunctious laughter and cooking her favorite recipes together. Resilience is helping my children understand that some days I really miss my mom, and because grief has no timeline or endpoint, it’s ok to cry and feel sad. My mother is no longer earthside; she now lives within me, my children, and in the world through her legacy.
I realized that if I were going to mother this child, I would have to learn how to re-mother myself as a motherless daughter.
Parenting through grief is a difficult experience that allows us to examine what we need in our grief journey. If we open up fully to our emotional experiences, we also have the opportunity to create ongoing bonds with our loved ones and bring them back into our world in new ways.
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