A Mothers’ Day message from a childless mother

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Janice Cooper of Yarmouth served as the state representative for Yarmouth, and Chebeague and Long Islands in the Maine House of Representatives from 2012 to 2020. Previously, she was a practicing attorney, in private practice, and for the U.S. Congress in Washington, D.C., and Portland.

When my daughter was young, my friend would introduce me to other children as someone who had a child. This was her short-hand way of reassuring the child that I would understand them and act appropriately. I thought that made sense.

Then, my only child, Becky, died suddenly in an accident at the age of 23. Was I still a “mother”? If so, for what purposes? Government and employment forms rarely ask about dead children. English has no word for my status, like widow or orphan. I don’t know if any language is more expansive or sympathetic.

Nevertheless, I continue to think of myself as a mother, for my thoughts dwell on her, always. I carried her body in mine; I bore her. I dried her tears. I laughed with her. After spending more than two decades rearing her, I hold a special place in my heart not just for her but for all children, from the very young to young adults. After Becky died, another friend warned me to avoid movies that depicted the death of a child.

I believe I was a good mother. She told me so. I prided myself for this accomplishment, more than anything else I had done. I was attentive to her moods and tried to minimize her traumas. I was not smothering. I urged her to take risks, and she grew up brave and confident. When she was young, I took jobs that allowed me to be home when she got out of school, when she would most likely want to talk to me. I dreamed up imaginative parties for her birthdays and the neighborhood. Although she could be emotionally volatile, I usually figured out how to reassure her.

Even now, years later, I think I know how to act with kids. The way I speak to them is sensitive to their age. I avoid condescending baby talk and also words they would not yet understand. I speak honestly to teens as equals.

My years with Becky taught me much, but to the rest of the world I am an oddity. Of course, I am not the only person to suffer this loss. Vast areas of the world are filled with grieving parents. Because I am different in America, however, I avoid bringing up the subject of her death. On the other hand, I refuse to eliminate mentioning her when I am reminded of one of her funny or outrageous escapades. In that sense, she lives on, although I pray my companion will not ask the next question: What is she doing now? If I know the person only slightly, I lie or change the subject. I am not prepared to go deep.

When the subject of her death does arise, people stumble for the right words. Death is always a conversation stopper, but one of a kind; the death of one’s child is a parent’s worst nightmare. That kind of loss is too awful to contemplate. Or discuss.

In the nearly dozen years since Becky died, I have come to terms with my loss. At some level, I am always sad, even when I am enjoying myself. It is the undercurrent to my life. I can find joy in wonderful friendships and in the things Becky, too, loved, like a beautiful sunset, children, music and laughter.

In one way, however, I am different from people with children, at least when their relationships are good. I do not want to live a particularly long life. I do not have to live long enough to enjoy my grandchildren. Some days, I feel like I have had enough. That may not be unique to childless mothers, but I think it is more common. For now, I try to live life fully, as she would want.