Rules of Inheritance {BlogHer Book Club}

I approached this book, The Rules of Inheritance, by Claire Bidwell Smith, with trepidation. The author of this memoir was fourteen when her mother and father were both diagnosed with cancer; I was fourteen when my mother was diagnosed with cancer. And yet as I was reading this book, while I related to Claire’s grief (my mom died two years ago), I find myself relating more with Claire’s mother. I was diagnosed with cancer fifteen years ago, and as I was reading this book, I wondered what kind of mother I will be to my two young daughters if my cancer ever returns.

Claire writes her memoir in stages; the stages of grief.

Denial

Claire repeats over and over to herself, “My mother is dying. My mother is dead.” No matter how many times she thinks this, however, she really does not think her mother will die. When she is rushing to the hospital to see her mother one last time before she dies, Claire looks up a friend along the way. She decides to spend the night with the friend instead of continuing her journey to see her mother, and that night, her mom dies. Claire regrets this decision to this day.

Anger

Claire could have been the girl who goes to college in Vermont and has a hippie-like boyfriend with whom she drinks coffee and takes long walks in the woods. This girl disappears almost before she even exists. Her mother’s death interrupts this path for Claire, and instead she finds herself in New York City waiting tables and living with an alcoholic boyfriend who was rumored to have killed his own sister.

Bargaining

Claire finds herself totally alone in the world after her father dies. She look for her mom everywhere; from the depths of the ocean to an abortion clinic. She calls for her mom over and over, but her mom never answers.

Depression

Throughout ten years after her parents’ deaths, Claire experiences extreme bouts of depression; without her parents, she feels all alone in the world. Her grief cripples her, and stunts her growth.

Acceptance

It is only through allowing herself to feel her grief that Claire is able to accept the loss of her parents. She is able to forgive herself for not being crippled by grief any longer; to live her life as it should be lived.

At many points in this book, Claire wrote about her emotions in a way that screamed to me, “She gets it!” I have been struggling with a grief of my own since my mom died. Grief is indeed not linear; the stages of grief can be experienced in order, all mixed up, or at the same time. No one experiences grief in the same way. In writing this book in stages of grief rather than a chronological story of her grief, Claire writes about grief in a way that those also experiencing grief can completely relate to.

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Disclosure: I was compensated for this BlogHer Book Club review but all opinions expressed are my own. Join the discussion at BlogHer Book Club!

Voice Lessons

victorian girls with piano

The two of us huddle together under the grand piano while Frances plays and Mom sings. My little sister and I are coloring. We take the trip down to Champaign-Urbana every week for my mom’s voice lessons. On the weekends, we are with my mom up in the balcony as she sings solos at weddings and funerals and our first grade teacher accompanies her on the organ. It is the very balcony where, with my gangly arms and legs, I trip up some carpeted steps and cut my head open on the radiator. My mom holds my head in her lap staunching the bloody cut while my first grade teacher drives us to the emergency room, 35 miles away, in the same city where Mom takes voice lessons.

Then, for a few years, voice lessons are on hold. My little brother and other little sister have arrived, and there is no time for voice lessons. But the singing in church remains. Praising God with song always remains.

All four of us grow up. Mom begins taking voice lessons again, this time in Chicago.

I accompany my mom to auditions, to support her and calm her nerves.  Mom wears her grandmother’s confirmation ring on her thumb for good luck. Her other fingers are too slender to wear the golden band. She sings her signature piece from Handel’s Messiah over and over again:

 Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion; Shout, O daughter of Jerusalem: behold, thy King cometh unto thee.

One choir rejects her. But another one accepts her! She has the perfect voice for baroque music, and becomes a singer with Ars Musica Chicago. She has the opportunity to perform in the chorus of an opera, La púrpura de la rosa, and I am in the audience, shouting “Bravo!”

As the years go by, Mom becomes an elementary school music teacher, and leads her students in song. When she has retires from teaching, she helps my dad with chapel time at their church’s daycare, and teaches little preschool children how to praise God with song. Mom joyfully becomes a grandma. She rocks my babies and sings them to sleep.

And in that last year, even though the radiation to her skull steals not just her hair but her singing voice as well, she sings to my children in a whisper.

I am Jesus’ little lamb; Ever glad at heart I am. For my Shepherd gently guides me; Knows my needs and well provides me. Loves me every day the same; even calls me by my name.

Praising God with song always remains. I imagine she is still praising God with her singing.

 

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Written in memory of my mom, Loreeta Brammeier, Sept. 16, 1942-Nov. 23, 2009