Paperwork: I wonder about those early years of hidden tears

Mothers cry alone.

That sad thought crawled into me months ago ... as I was thinking about my mom.

I grabbed a slip of paper and wrote that line down. I knew I would write about it when the time was right. Which is now.

Mom’s been gone three years. I can’t buy her the box of Turtles she loved for Mother’s Day. I can’t hug her tiny, frail frame.

And I can’t ask her the questions that are begging for her attention now. Questions I should have asked long ago.

I find myself wondering about all the choices and decisions she and my dad had to make to take care of me and my sister.

Most of my questions start with, “How did you _______?” You can fill in the blank. She did so much that as I age, I wonder how she managed. But, of course, that’s what mothers do.

I grew up expecting her to be there. Which meant I knew there’d be food on the table, clothes to wear and Band-Aids in hand with soothing words.

Problem-solver. Protector. One guarantee that someone loved me.

As I grew older with my own family, I still counted on her being there. She didn’t have to do anything. I just needed to know she was there.

I’m reminded of this passage from the book, “Tuesdays With Morrie,” by Mitch Albom:

“The truth is, when our mothers held us, rocked us, stroked our heads – none of us ever got enough of that. We all yearn in some way to return to those days when we were completely taken care of – unconditional love, unconditional attention. Most of us didn’t get enough.”

Oh, yes, I appreciated all she did, but I didn’t delve deeper into how she did it. I was pretty busy worrying about myself. Because kids, as adorable and precious as they can be, are basically selfish.

Mom was the person who got to hear my whining and crying. I’m trying now to remember the times I saw her cry.

I think that’s what made me realize she hid her sorrows for a long time from me and my sister. What stands out are obvious moments that bring tears.

Funerals, losing people she loved. And the tears that come when you realize you are surrounded by love, like the time we surprised her and Dad on their anniversary.

But I think she kept many personal pains tucked away. Although I do have one lasting memory that is at the heart of what I am trying to say now.

As a teen, my high school years, we lived in a small house. The kitchen and my bedroom shared a wall. I slept against that wall.

On school days, I would wake to hear Mom in the kitchen making breakfast. I followed her movements with each familiar sound.

When she and Dad were alone in the kitchen talking, I could press my ear to the wall and hear most of it. Some of it I did not want to hear.

What I wish I had not heard, yet still can, came through the wall one night as I lay sleepless in bed. It was late and my dad had not come home yet. This bothered me a lot.

I would stand at my bedroom window and look down toward the main road that Dad would be on before turning into our neighborhood. There was a patch of light that let me see passing cars and I watched closely for his truck to slip by.

If I saw his truck, I would think, “Everything will be OK now.”

This had happened before. He’d stop after work for a few beers and then come home late feeling good.

His cold supper was on the table. Mom nearby. Also cold.

Through the wall, I could hear angry words. Words that kids, even teenagers, don’t really understand and are not supposed to hear.

Fortunately, that period in time was a blip. The family survived. Mom and Dad stayed together some 67 years.

But I won’t forget the fear I felt ... that my world was collapsing. Somehow, I felt I was no longer safe.

Perhaps that’s because it seemed Mom was not safe. I heard her through the wall. She was alone in the kitchen, sitting at the table with a cold supper plate. Waiting. And sobbing.

I cannot forget her deep weeping. And so, I now know ... mothers cry alone.

I believe whatever choices she made in those days, she made them for me and my sister.

And now I want to know more about the choices both Mom and Dad made.

So please do not misunderstand. This is not a bad dad, good mom story. I also miss my dad terribly and when Mom passed, she made one thing clear.

“I’m ready to go and be with Dad again.”

I have no doubt my parents had plenty of fights and struggles. And I expect both sacrificed personal dreams ... for each other ... and for their children and family.

I am left wondering how difficult that was at times. And if they shared it with anyone because they hid the details of their pain from us for years.

Perhaps it’s because most dads think they are not allowed to cry.

And many moms wait until the house is quiet. And they cry alone.

• Lonny Cain is the retired managing editor of The Times in Ottawa and was a reporter for the Herald-News in the 1970s. Email him at lonnyjcain@gmail.com or mail to The Times, 110 W. Jefferson St., Ottawa, IL 61350.