Mother’s Day is Hard For Me

The other day, my husband and I took our two small dogs for a walk at a nature preserve that’s a few miles from our house. We’ve gotten into the habit of taking this walk most evenings at around 5 or 6 pm. It’s a lovely quiet trail that’s often empty around dinnertime.

Clementine, our 1-year-old puppy, is reactive. She barks loudly and enthusiastically at dogs and people. She’s very sweet and just wants to say hello, but it’s disruptive and a little embarrassing because she can be loud. The trail is perfect for her since it allows us to gently correct the reactivity without too much overstimulation.

We’ve also discovered that Clementine uses her bad leg on this trail. When she was around three or four months old, she was diagnosed with a catastrophic hip issue called Legg-Calvé-Perthes disease that caused the head of her femur (the “ball” part of her hip) to die due to lack of blood supply. She had a procedure in March called a femoral head ostectomy (FHO) to correct the issue. It has a great prognosis.

She’s healed beautifully and no longer seems to be in pain. But since she never learned to walk normally, her muscle atrophied. She holds her leg up or hops like a bunny. On this trail, we notice she (sometimes) uses her bad leg, walking normally on the uneven surface and some of the little wooden bridges sprinkled throughout the trail.

We’ve been going there a lot lately, as part of Clementine’s therapy. This is how we happened to meet Kathy, an elderly woman with kind eyes. She approached us as we were corralling the dogs out of the car and onto the trail, trying to get Clementine to stop barking. I let Clementine say hello as Kathy came closer. She smiled at the dogs, then turned to me and said, “Can I walk with you?”

Kathy explained that she doesn’t like to walk alone. She mentioned her husband and that he wasn’t able to join her, but also that he worried about her when she went for her walks.

I guess my husband and I don’t look too threatening. We’re in our 50s, with two dogs that look like stuffed animals. We were walking at a snail’s pace when Kathy approached us. I explained the issue with Clementine’s hip, hoping to dissuade her from tagging along. “I’m afraid we’re not going to move very fast,” I said.

Kathy assured me that she was happy to go at whatever pace we wanted and so we started down the trail, the five of us, and I swallowed my impatience. I’d been looking forward to the solitude of the trail at this hour and to some time with my husband outside of the house. We both work from home and tend to get stuck in our respective routines.

It soon became clear that Kathy needed more than the safety of the group. She needed companionship. As we settled into our walk, I got to know her a bit.

She lived on the steep road where the trailhead was. It had taken her and her husband a while to find the perfect house. She was a public school art teacher for more than 30 years. I told her I was learning to paint with watercolor and her face lit up. “I used to teach watercolor,” she said. “Remember, you have to start with a wash.” This was such an ambiguously random bit of guidance that I had to suppress a grin.

“Yes, I do that,” I said.

My husband and I spent about 45 minutes with Kathy. Clementine’s leg can get a bit shaky if she pushes too hard, so we try to keep it short. As we approached the trailhead, we talked about our kids. I learned that Kathy has a daughter and granddaughter, and that her granddaughter is about to get married.

“Congratulations,” I said.

We also discovered that Kathy’s granddaughter and my daughters had attended the same local private school. It’s a tiny progressive school that spans pre-k through 8th grade. “I think my younger daughter graduated around 2016,” I said, surprised at how hard it was to remember the date. Emily actually graduated from that school in 2018, a year after losing her sister.

“How old are your kids now?” Kathy asked. “How many kids do you have?”

I paused. I took a deep breath. I avoided looking at my husband.

“I have two daughters,” I said. “My daughter Emily just turned 22. Ana would’ve turned 25 this month, but she died from cancer when she was 15.”

I waited a beat as my words sank in. I watched Kathy’s face run through what’s become a familiar litany of emotions — shock, horror, pity, and something like discomfort. “I’m so sorry,” she said.

“It’s okay. She died nine years ago.” But, of course, it’s not okay.

I don’t get to tell strangers about Ana much anymore. I used to tell everyone that she died. Now, I hold the information close except in the essays I write. It was an unexpected surprise to meet someone new and to walk with them. I hope to do more of that.

Kathy is around the same age as my mother, perhaps a few years older. I hope that if my mother ever finds herself alone on a trail and asks to tag along on someone’s walk, that she isn’t turned away.

We are all someone’s daughter. And, if we’re lucky, we’re also someone’s mother. Sharing the walk with Kathy was a powerful reminder that there’s real solace in human connection.

This is especially true if you’ve lost a child. I struggle with holidays, birthdays, and other named days — events that were once all about my kids. Mother’s Day, in particular, is hard for me. I send my mother flowers, but prefer to spend the day at home, planting marigolds in my garden, and taking a long walk on a favorite trail.

This year, I might take the dogs and my husband to walk on Clementine’s healing trail again. If Kathy happens to be there, all the better. She’s more than welcome to join us on our walk. Maybe Mother’s Day is hard for her too.