A Gay Man & His Mama
Learning to "turn into the skid" after the loss of his mother
by Randy Siegel

Mother was the taproot of our family tree. During her last few years, visiting her hospital room was a daily ritual for my two brothers and me. Through visits, doctor conferences, and updating family friends, my brothers and I grew closer. Looking back, I know this was Mother’s plan.

She knew she was our touchstone and worried we would drift apart after she died. Our lives were so different, and in many ways she was our only connection.

My mother died more than 10 years ago. Her death was a slow one. It often is with cancer.

Upon her death, our family appeared to fall apart. Two coming-outs, three divorces, and a mental breakdown followed, yet the brothers stayed together. Having two gay sons may have been a lot for her at first, but in time I know she would have come to accept the change. For above all else, she loved her boys.

Despite my love for her, I could not grieve her death. The pain of losing Mother was too intense. My feelings froze the day she died.

Friends with casseroles, flowers at the funeral, and the long limousine ride home followed. When I look back, all is little more than a blurry memory, a surreal dream faded over time.

At her service, a flood of emotions raged beneath the surface, yet I could not cry, really cry. I feared I might lose control. If I were not careful, I would sink so deep that I could never resurface. After the service I barricaded myself in her kitchen, unable to face the host of friends who came to pay their respects. I was afraid to see my own pain mirrored in their eyes.

Instead of facing my pain, I shut off my emotions and lost my emotional core. Blocking emotions in one area of my life meant blocking them all.

If loving someone meant losing him, I could not risk loving. I pledged I would never again feel like an abandoned child.

For 10 years, I was disconnected from people, even those I loved most. For 10 years, I was numb.

Today, the ice is melting and I am beginning to regain feeling. Seeing a lover share the challenges of a new career with his mother jolted my emotions from their sleep. His mother’s intense concern, sincere sympathy, and loving support made me long for my own mother. Never have I felt so alone.

I feel raw, vulnerable, and lonely. I spend more time by myself and tear up while watching the most benign television shows. My feelings flinch at the most innocent comments. I miss my mother so much my stomach aches.

Instead of masking the pain, I am leaning into it. I am turning the wheel into the skid.

"I came to explore the wreck," poet Adrienne Rich wrote. "I came to see the damage that was done and the treasure that prevailed."

By facing her death, I am free to see her life. Her memory is now with me always.

I laugh when I remember what an awful cook she was. I awoke each morning to the sound of toast being scraped and the smell of burning bacon. Regardless of being culinarily challenged, she insisted on fixing her boys a big breakfast.

I see the elegant Sunday suppers where she served Kentucky Fried Chicken out of sterling silver bowls. I see the silly flowered bathing cap she wore to the beach each summer. I hear the sound of her laughter, and I smell Chanel No. Five.

A special bond holds a gay son and his mama. Perhaps it is because we will never marry a woman who can replace our mother’s love.

For most gay men, our mothers are irreplaceable and losing them is one of the hardest things we face. For no matter how much we are loved by fathers, friends, families, spouses, or lovers, no one can replace a mother’s love.

As a child, I would chant "Mama! Mama! Mama! I want you!" when nightmares came. Within seconds she was there, and the bogeyman would disappear into the night.

Closing my eyes, I feel my mother’s loving arms around me, and I am at peace. For me, there’s still no safer place than in Mama’s arms.

Randy Siegel is a writer, trainer, and coach living in Asheville, North Carolina. He can be reached at RASWriter@aol.com.