A Dinner Story

 

By John F. Tomczak

 

This story is not about a dinner. It is about a conversation that took place during a dinner party at my son’s home when I was sitting next to a woman whose mother had died recently. I had met the mother some years ago and remembered her as a very pleasant, but somewhat opinionated woman.

 

The talk turned to the illness of the mother, the treatment, when and where she had died in her ninety fourth year. I thought, my goodness, that was ripe old age but then I remembered my mother who died at ninety three out of sheer boredom because she had no friends left to argue politics.

 

Towards the end of the dinner the woman turned to me and said, “I have to talk to you about my mother. She is gone and I don’t know how to act like a bereaved person. My mother was a very smart and well informed person and for some reason we just didn’t get along. To make matters worse my dear husband got along with her just fine. So now she is gone and I don’t know how I should feel or act. I am sorry that she has died but really my life will now be a lot more peaceful. For the life of me, I can’t figure out what I am supposed to do."

 

"Should I look sad and tell endless stories of how I miss her and what a loving Mother she was, or should I just be myself and say nothing?

I have run into people who tell me I was so lucky to have such a wonderful mother and for so long. What are people trying to tell me?"

 

At just the right moment, my son appeared and freshened up our wine glasses, so I had a brief moment to think. My guess was that this woman had listened to how others had suggested how she should react to the death of her mother instead of grieving in her own way.

 

We talked about the care she had given her mother. We agreed that sometimes it was not easy to do and at times not appreciated, at least not in the way one would expect.

 

Finally I said, “Perhaps your friends, in talking about your mother, were just telling you they knew about the care she received from you. Every one of your friends around this table knew your mother. They know she was a bit trying at times but frankly she had spirit and we liked that. I don’t think anyone is actually trying to tell you how to act and in fact, if they did, you probably wouldn’t let any of them get away with it. I am going to remember you mother as a feisty very elderly lady who spoke her mind and sure, at times, she was a bit much but that was her. You are you, and how you grieve for your mother belongs to you. There is no right or wrong way to grieve and nobody has the right to tell you otherwise.”

 

The wine appeared once more and we all toasted her mother and then the stories and laughter started.