In Memory of my Mother.

In memory of my mother… for Mother’s Day




This isn’t something I thought I would be writing any time soon. A year ago, had you told me I would be in a position to write this blog, I never would have believed you. But it is my hope that by sharing this I can accomplish two things: provide a voice of understanding for those enduring similar circumstances, and provide a sense of peace and healing for myself. My mother died. Seeing those words still doesn’t make it seem real. It hasn’t sunk in yet. I still feel like she is alive somewhere and that if I call her number she will answer the phone. It seems like there is too much left to do for her to be gone. She never met my daughter. She will never see my niece graduate high school or pitch in college. She never made peace with her children- and we were never able to make peace with her. So she has unfinished business. But when your time comes, it comes… unfinished business or not.



My mother had 4 children- 2 boys and 2 girls. She had 4 grandchildren and one great-grandchild. Ella Kate and Addison will have no clear memory of their grandmother and great-grandmother. And that is the greatest tragedy in all of this. None of us ever had all of momma during her time on this earth. My heart is sad to say that a lifelong battle with mental illness prevented any of us from every having all of her. It was a long, hard-fought battle. But when something so powerful consumes you, it is a very difficult battle to win. My mother fought hard, but the adversary was too strong. Mental illness is “taboo” in our society. People do not talk about it, but when they do they make jokes about it. It is no laughing matter. No one jokes about cancer, diabetes, heart disease, or any other physical ailment. So why is it okay to joke about mental illness? Why is it funny? And why does no one talk about it? Why are people too embarrassed to admit that it is a part of their lives? It is an illness just like any other illness. It requires treatment, medication, and attention. But people are too ashamed. And it continues to linger on with little support or attention. And what is so bad about it is that, when untreated, mental illness progresses just like any other disease- it gets worse, it leads to other complications, and it can take your life. And, unlike other illnesses where you know you have to go to the doctor and take your medication, mental illness tricks its victims into thinking they are healed. So they stop their treatments or they self-medicate. This is the cruelest part of mental illness.



My mother suffered with Bipolar disorder. For a long time, she experienced the typical manic phases. Towards the end, she was overtaken by the lows. And because of this, my family had very strained relationships with her. Sometimes it made us have to love her from a distance. It isn’t that we didn’t understand that she was sick and that this was the nature of her disease; we did understand, which is why we made the difficult decision at times to love her at a distance. We had done this in the past. And when the storms blew over, we always came around and became a family again until the next storm rose. Only this time, mother was taken before the inevitable reunion took place. And we are left with the guilt and unanswered questions. Trust me, if you have never had a loved one with bipolar, you have NO IDEA how horrible this disorder is. It robs you of a fulfilling life with a person you love. It forces you to watch that person transform regularly into a person they are not. You have to distance yourself when you need them the most and you have to watch them suffer and struggle. You have to survive their manic phases and forgive them instantly for things you would typically find it impossible to forgive. You do it all in the name of love for that person and understanding for the pain they are experiencing. You have to remember who they are on the inside and know that the person you love is not the person you are witnessing at that time. It requires tremendous understanding…. And a LOT of love. I can tell you without an ounce of hesitation that my mother was fortunate to have had that love from her husband, her children, her grandchildren, and her friends. We ran the race with her. We suffered with her and we forgave the things that her illness did to us. We did all of that because we LOVED that woman with our hearts and souls and we knew the wonderful woman she that she was. And most of all, we did it because we knew- without a shadow of a doubt- that she loved us too. I hate bipolar disorder and I look forward to they day that there is a CURE. No person should suffer the way my mother suffered… and no family should endure what my family has endured. It makes you have to love your loved one in a very different way but in a very strong way as well. I hope my mother knew how much she really was loved and how deep our love for her went.



My heart aches at the thought of how much I will miss my mother. I will miss having a mother and I will miss knowing that there is a person on earth who loves me in the way that only a mother can love. Now that I am a mother myself, I understand how powerful that love is and how important it is. What sad irony it is that just when I have learned to appreciate the magnitude of a mother’s love that my own mother is taken from me. I can’t think about that right now. The pain is too fresh.



I would rather talk about the legacy my mother left behind. She would be proud of that. My mother was a strong woman. She would tell you that she had a “strong personality.” That was her nice way of saying that she would put you in your place in two seconds flat. My mother was a proud woman. My mother was a beautiful woman. Most of all, my mother was a brilliant woman. Had my mother been given the right opportunities in life, she could have been a neurosurgeon, an attorney, a politician… anything, really. But my mother was from a time and place where you get married young, start a family, and maintain a house. But my mother wanted more than that… she just didn’t have the resources to get beyond it. I think that was one of her biggest regrets in life. I think I would love being a full-time wife and mother… but my mother did not. Consequently, my mother pushed education on me with a hard, firm hand. I resented that quite a bit along the way. But as I sit here in my office writing this, I am unbelievably thankful for what she taught me. My law degree is hanging behind me. There is a sign in the yard with “Brandi L. Richardson, Attorney at Law” on it. Had it not been for my mother, neither of those things would exist. I can provide for my own little girl proudly and independently because of what my mother taught me. That is part of her legacy.



My sister is remarkable. She found the heart and determination to go back to school and earn her hygienist’s license. She is at a dental office today earning a great living and helping people because of what mom taught her. She is a foster parent, a devoted wife and mother, and a sister that I look at with so much pride and admiration. She is tough as nails. That is my mother’s legacy. Strength, pride, determination and the ability to survive… my mother left us this. My sister and I stood with my mother as she took her last breaths on this earth. Trust me, my friends, that is the hardest thing you can ever do. To sit there and watch helplessly as your mother leaves this world is something I do not wish on anyone. It is torturous. It hurts… but as a devoted daughter, you also know that you can NOT let your mother go through this alone. She would never have let us go through it alone. So we stood by her. And the strength she taught us to have is the only reason we were able to do it. My mother raised 2 survivors… and because she did, we were able to do the unimaginable. My mother would have been very proud of her girls, but I hope she knows it is because of her. We love our mother deeply and we always will. And I am proud of us. I didn’t think we could do it. But, Sherry… we did. And we did it together. You will never find a love and a bond like the love and bond that my sister and I share. It is deeper now because of what we walked through together. Our souls are tied together with a ribbon of steel. We are tougher than we realized. We are our mother’s legacy.



I say this not to sound arrogant, but to only say what I feel is the truth: my sister and I are great mothers. We learned from our mother the importance of working harder to make our daughters’ lives better than our lives and to hope that they do the same for their daughters.



My mother protected her children like a lioness protects her cubs. As mad as she may have been at us at any given time, you had still better not mess with us and let her find out about it. There are many teachers, principals, other children’s mothers, and even employers that felt my mother’s wrath when she felt one of her girls had been treated unfairly. That woman could unload a tirade of words that would bring the strongest man to their knees. And she wouldn’t think twice to do it to someone who wronged one of her girls. She loved us deeply. It is hard for me to accept that such a strong woman could really have her life taken so quickly in such a humbling manner. She died the total opposite of how she lived. I may never be able to accept that.



She took care of us when we were sick or hurting- even as adults. She was by my sister’s side when she had surgery and when she gave birth to Evie. She once drove three hours to tend to me when I had a kidney stone. She once drove two hours to bring me cold medicine and a humidifier when I had a sinus infection. She took care of us when we really needed her. And we always knew that she would. I am not sure who else we can count on to take care of us like that now.



I am happy that my sister and I were able to share some of the good memories of our mother with the nurses at the hospital. I am glad they were able to know the woman that she was… not just the patient laying so helplessly on the hospital bed.



You never saw my mother that her hair wasn’t done, her make-up wasn’t on, and she wasn’t wearing some sort of wild jewelry. Most of the time, her nails (fingers and toes) were done and her eyebrows were waxed. I remember that my mother once quit a job because they told her she would have to remove her Lee Press-On Nails. She was having none of that. You might not agree with her priorities, but she stood by them.



Every time I smell Obsession or Chanel #5, I will think of my mother. I will miss hugging her and carrying those scents with me afterwards.



My mother left a lot of good memories behind. I will always remember her singing “Chi-Baba Chi-Baba, My Bambino Go to Sleep” for me every night when I was little… and her waking me up every morning by saying, “I see a little flower blooming!” I found myself singing that same lullabye to Ella Kate when she was only a few days old without even thinking about it. I will remember her telling everyone that I was a “miracle baby” and telling the story of my difficult birth. She was very proud of that. I will remember her allowing me to eat Lucky Charms for any meal that I saw fit to do so.



I will miss hearing the rattle of her jewelry as she left a room. And I will remember how naked her hand looked with no rings on it on the day she passed. The pink acrylic nails were typical Sue… but still… without the rings you just knew something wasn’t right.



I will remember our vacations… our trips to Myrtle Beach, Daytona, Gatlinburg, and Washington DC. She and I had a great time in DC. It was just the two of us the first time we went. We toured every museum that I wanted to go to. We watched the changing of the guard. We ordered over-priced room service at the Grand Hyatt. It was my first airplane ride. She made me dress up for it. She so expertly navigated that city and taught me to do the same, that 17 years later I was able to expertly guide my co-workers through the airport, metro system, and streets without batting an eye. When my mother taught a lesson, she taught it well. (That is why I can balance a checkbook and do income taxes like a pro.) I remember riding the chair lift with her in Gatlinburg and her asking me if I wanted to spit on a car as we rode over the street. It was uncharacteristic of her… and a 10 year old me thought it was hilarious. We didn’t actually do it, by the way. I was laughing too hard.



My mother made the BEST Easter Baskets. The loot always spilled over the basket. And most of the time there were Jelly Belly jelly beans and Godiva chocolate in them. Two things I love to this day.



My mother also was a great cook- when she actually cooked! Her lasagna was legendary. And holidays will not be the same without her shoepeg corn and green bean casserole. Her homemade fudge and pound cakes were unreal.





I will remember the weekends where we spent a good amount of time watching old Designing Women reruns. Mom loved “Suzanne Sugarbaker.” She laughed at her all the time.



I will miss being able to call mom when things are bad and I just need someone to hear me out. I will miss being able to call her when I need someone to make a phone call that I myself do not want to make. My sister once had my mother call and quit a job for her that she had only had for a few hours. And momma, in true fashion, did it. And I will miss calling her to ask her for help when I realize that I am not the domestic goddess that I fancy myself to be. I remember how delighted she was this past summer when I called asking her advice on how to get breading to stick to pork chops. She was so proud to tell me to dip them in buttermilk first. And boy were those pork chops good! I will never know how she made her creamed potatoes now. And I will miss how good they were. She also made some good gravy. My heart hurts knowing that I will never have her good potatoes and gravy again. I will miss calling her for my personal “crises” of being lost while driving or having a flat tire. She knew how badly both of those things upset me.



Mom always saw me as a miniature adult. She taught me to order from a menu by the time I was 5 years old. But there were a few times when she was able to break through to her inner-child and play with me. I remember being at Rosa Linda’s Mexican Café once and her singing “Waddaly Acha” with me- hand motions and all. It thrilled me at the time… and makes me smile now.



I will miss coming home to find random QVC packages at my house. She watched QVC all day every day. And here and again she would see something on there, think of one of us, and send it to us. From casserole dishes to coffee pots to food storage containers to face cream to Christmas decorations… you never knew what you were going to find. But it was her way of showing us that she was thinking of us. And she took pride in sending it to us. And Heaven forbid she ever see a blemish on my face… because if she did, I could expect a box of Proactiv in the mail within the next 10 business days.



I will miss her ALWAYS, for years, trying to convince me to wear big jewelry, in spite of me telling her, for years, that it isn’t my style. She was always trying to put a bracelet or a necklace on me. I never thought I would miss that. Now I do. And I will miss her telling me that my hair isn’t quite blonde enough or big enough. Lord, did that woman LOVE big hair. And I will miss my make-up not being “dark” enough, even though one of my sister’s favorite stories is about how mom once showed up for Thanksgiving dinner with blush that “made her look like she got in a fight with Mary Kay.”



I also never thought I would miss how, at certain times, she would call 8-10 times a day, regardless of what time of day it was or what you might be doing at the time. It stings to know that never again will her name show up on my caller-id.



I will always remember how I hated when she gave me at-home perms… and I will always remember us sitting down and submitting bids for Jackie O’s estate auction, all the while knowing there was no chance we were going to actually win anything. We both loved Jackie O.



I will remember how, when I first read Teddy-Ruxspin books, she made me blueberry muffins and hot chocolate just like Teddy had.



From my mother, I will not take the lifelong pain of dealing with a horrible illness like bipolar disorder, but I will take the strength I earned by having dealt with it. My mother’s perfect make-up covered a strong face, but also a sad face and a scared face. It covered up the turmoil and pain my mother woke up to every single day of her life. It covered her shame when she realized what that illness had done to her. It hid years of stress and suffering and hurt, but it showed the kindness and gentility of the woman inside her. It hid her disappointments and frustrations. But that face was always impeccably beautiful- with or without make up. She didn’t have a single wrinkle. Her skin was flawless. She was a beauty. How sad that such beauty clothed a lot of heartache. I wish her life had been as beautiful as she always wanted it to be. I wish all of her dreams had come true.



From my mother I will take the positive. I will take the pride that she instilled in me and the desire to do better for myself… and to make life better for my own daughter. I will take the tremendous fortitude that she taught me. I will take her lioness-like spirit of loyalty and protection. I will take her humor. I will take the softness that only her closest confidantes saw. I will take the pride in my own daughter that she had in hers. I will take her tenacity in the face of adversity. I will take her love of animals, particularly dogs. And if you know me, you know that a passion for animals is something I have always taken pride in. I learned that from my mother. And maybe, just maybe, I will take her love of shopping.



My mother was an often misunderstood woman, because mental illness makes a person hard to understand. But for those of us who knew her… who knew the REAL Sue F. Richardson… we understood her very well. And because of that, we will never stop loving her or missing her. We will look at inanimate objects that remind us of her, and we will be heartbroken. We will remember the sound of her voice, and we will pause for a moment of sadness. We will wait for her phone calls that will never come… and may even pick up the phone to call her sometimes forgetting that she isn’t here to answer. We will move on because she would have moved on, but we will never get over this, because she was a woman you simply couldn’t get over. She was one in a million, and she was my mother.



Every year that I can, I participate in the Thad & Alice Eure Walk for Hope. It is a walk to support research for the treatment and cure of mental illness. Every year I have walked, I have done it in honor of my mother. This year, I will do it in her memory. It is in October in Raleigh, NC. I am hoping I can encourage a lot of people to join my team and raise money to support this research… and I hope we can honor my mother’s strong memory in doing so. I will walk in her memory even if I have to walk alone… but then again, I know she will be walking right beside me. But I hope that I can encourage many of my friends who read this to walk as well… now that you are equipped with the knowledge of how important this cause is. It is all I can do for her now.



Thank you for reading this. If you made it this far, you took a lot of time and listened to a lot of my rambling. And if you did that, then I know you must think a lot of me. And you have no idea how much it means to me.



So farewell, Momma Sue. Although I will see you again. I sure am going to miss you.