Aug. 18th, 2025 07:27 am
Daj mi buzi
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k2daisyI miss my mom's affection.
She was a physically demonstrative person. She hugged and kissed and would smooth my hair and kiss my forehead. She was like that to all of us, curving her hand around our chins or cheeks to give us a kiss, Dad included. Molly too. Now, when I cup Molly's chin, she melts into it, her eyes and bones going soft and sad.
My cousin commented after she died, that like her mother, Mom kissed us "on the mouth", but it wasn't something the rest of her family did. I never really thought about the distinction; both Mom and Dad always kissed us on the lips. But I guess different families kiss in different ways. I think it came from Babchi (our grandmother); I remember her kissing me on the lips all the time. It's just the way our family does it. Or used to do it.
And I miss it a lot.
I have so many pictures of my Dad and I smooching, of my Mom going in for a weepy hug with me. She had this way, when she saw you for the first time in a while, where her facial expression would change, her smile growing soft and warm and big, like you made her heart feel better just from the sight of you. She bestowed that warm, welcoming smile on everyone in her life, not just us. I bet it's why her friends miss her as much as we do.
That last month I was living with Mom, we were extra-affectionate. As a kid, when she got home from work, she was always so exhausted. At night she would plop down on the ground in front of us on the couch (mostly me, but often Kate), and we would rub her scalp or shoulders. She loved the scalp rub so much, her neck lolling with a big sigh. When she got sick, she suffered from bad edema in her legs, so we rubbed her feet at night. My dad did it first, of course, but when it was just us after he died, I took on the nightly task. She appreciated it just as much as she did when it was her scalp. We would sit on the couch together, her feet on a pillow on my lap. Molly had to come sit on the big ottoman in front of us because there wasn't room for her on couch (and she did not like that). Mom and I would talk while I rubbed and tried to move some of the excess fluid out of her toes and ankles. Plans or stories or just anything. It was a nice quiet moment for us.
We hugged a lot, too. She had taken to saying an old Polish phrase she had never used before; I think it was a long-forgotten memory from her mother or grandmother. "Daj mi buzi," she would say as she stopped while passing me in her rollerator in the house.
Doh-meh-boo-gji. I said I didn't know what it meant. "Give me a kiss," she said. I smiled and gave her one. When the boys arrived (her grandsons), she added a tap to her lips when she said it so they knew what she wanted. They got it.
For months after they died, I couldn't really mourn them as my parents because I could not stop reliving the moments of their deaths. One of the memories that would kick off a reliving jag was saying goodnight to Mom the first night she was in hospice. After a long day of the ER and observation and then the ambulance trip to the hospice, she was completely worn out but the drugs were finally kicking in so she could rest. I leaned over to say goodnight, giving her a kiss on the lips, and her arm haphazardly came up to my head. I could feel the back of her hand pressing the back of my head. She was trying to give me a hug, the only way she could now. It's the last time she was able to touch me; after that she was mostly unconscious so the physical affection was only from me to her. This was her last hug for me.
At least now, when I think about that moment -- and still have that tactile memory against the back of my head -- the memories that flood back are all of the other affectionate moments of our lives. Which is still incredibly sad and brings on floods of tears, but it's much less painful than reliving her death. Daj mi buzi, Mom.
She was a physically demonstrative person. She hugged and kissed and would smooth my hair and kiss my forehead. She was like that to all of us, curving her hand around our chins or cheeks to give us a kiss, Dad included. Molly too. Now, when I cup Molly's chin, she melts into it, her eyes and bones going soft and sad.
My cousin commented after she died, that like her mother, Mom kissed us "on the mouth", but it wasn't something the rest of her family did. I never really thought about the distinction; both Mom and Dad always kissed us on the lips. But I guess different families kiss in different ways. I think it came from Babchi (our grandmother); I remember her kissing me on the lips all the time. It's just the way our family does it. Or used to do it.
And I miss it a lot.
I have so many pictures of my Dad and I smooching, of my Mom going in for a weepy hug with me. She had this way, when she saw you for the first time in a while, where her facial expression would change, her smile growing soft and warm and big, like you made her heart feel better just from the sight of you. She bestowed that warm, welcoming smile on everyone in her life, not just us. I bet it's why her friends miss her as much as we do.
That last month I was living with Mom, we were extra-affectionate. As a kid, when she got home from work, she was always so exhausted. At night she would plop down on the ground in front of us on the couch (mostly me, but often Kate), and we would rub her scalp or shoulders. She loved the scalp rub so much, her neck lolling with a big sigh. When she got sick, she suffered from bad edema in her legs, so we rubbed her feet at night. My dad did it first, of course, but when it was just us after he died, I took on the nightly task. She appreciated it just as much as she did when it was her scalp. We would sit on the couch together, her feet on a pillow on my lap. Molly had to come sit on the big ottoman in front of us because there wasn't room for her on couch (and she did not like that). Mom and I would talk while I rubbed and tried to move some of the excess fluid out of her toes and ankles. Plans or stories or just anything. It was a nice quiet moment for us.
We hugged a lot, too. She had taken to saying an old Polish phrase she had never used before; I think it was a long-forgotten memory from her mother or grandmother. "Daj mi buzi," she would say as she stopped while passing me in her rollerator in the house.
Doh-meh-boo-gji. I said I didn't know what it meant. "Give me a kiss," she said. I smiled and gave her one. When the boys arrived (her grandsons), she added a tap to her lips when she said it so they knew what she wanted. They got it.
For months after they died, I couldn't really mourn them as my parents because I could not stop reliving the moments of their deaths. One of the memories that would kick off a reliving jag was saying goodnight to Mom the first night she was in hospice. After a long day of the ER and observation and then the ambulance trip to the hospice, she was completely worn out but the drugs were finally kicking in so she could rest. I leaned over to say goodnight, giving her a kiss on the lips, and her arm haphazardly came up to my head. I could feel the back of her hand pressing the back of my head. She was trying to give me a hug, the only way she could now. It's the last time she was able to touch me; after that she was mostly unconscious so the physical affection was only from me to her. This was her last hug for me.
At least now, when I think about that moment -- and still have that tactile memory against the back of my head -- the memories that flood back are all of the other affectionate moments of our lives. Which is still incredibly sad and brings on floods of tears, but it's much less painful than reliving her death. Daj mi buzi, Mom.