Becoming a Mama without a Mama
By: Lyndie Bishop Were

My Mama was my best friend. Truly. She was a brilliant mix of cheerleader and tough-love warrior. She would crane her neck in such a distinct way while watching me perform on stage, clap the loudest if my name was called, and tell me to quit crying on the phone and call her back later when she could understand me.

She was a force. Her flaming red hair, incredibly expressive eyes, and electric smile that would light up a room were some of her most memorable features. If she was happy with me, I received all her praise; if she was upset with me, I got a look that stayed with me the rest of the day.

I’ll never forget trying out for cheerleader. My middle school had four cheerleader spots for a new 7th grade team. When I told my Mama I wanted to try out, she had her reservations - mostly centered on her concern about injury. The day of try-outs would end with the coach calling out the names of the four new cheerleaders in a room full of all the girls who had tried out. Mama knew this would be how it worked, so she coached me on my facial expression for when I didn’t get selected. Seriously. She had me practice my “game face” in my full- length mirror in my room. She told me I could cry when I got to the car, but I could not cry in the room. For years after, I thought this meant she didn’t have faith in me, but now I know she was preparing me for real life – when the odds are against me and there is a big chance things won’t go my way. I ended up making 7th grade cheerleader, and since I hadn’t prepared my “You made the team” face, I was in true shock. When I got to the car to tell her, she greeted me with a silver necklace with a megaphone charm. I asked her what she would have done if I hadn’t made it. She said she would have taken me to get ice cream and encouraged me to try out next year for the 8th grade squad.

While I was dating Eric (my now husband), Mama knew he was “the one, the real deal”. But I didn’t pick up on that. Luckily, her poker face turned out to be as good as the one she’d taught me to have for cheerleading try- outs, so I wasn’t tipped off in the slightest when she already knew when he would propose.

Mama was thrilled at the thought of grandchildren. She had convinced herself – and me – that I was going to have a girl, just like she had. She literally told my father I was a girl when she told him they were pregnant. During her pregnancy, nurses told her there was a chance I could be a boy based on my heartbeat; however, she refused to believe that was even a possibility. She only bought girl clothes and painted my nursery pink. Stubborn is an understatement (and a trait I inherited honestly).

She would often reference “Baby Girl Were” when we talked about my having a baby someday. She bought several books and saved several of my outfits for her future granddaughter to wear. I would continuously remind her that although she stubbornly willed me to be a girl, it doesn’t work that way. The tables had turned, and I was setting the stage for preparing her game face for “We’re having a boy,” in case that’s what happened.

My precious Mama passed away on December 31, 2016.

Eric and I found out we were expecting nine months later on September 24, 2017. From the day we found out we were pregnant until the day of the gender reveal, I was convinced I was having a girl. I’d convinced Eric, my dad and my best friends that we were having “Baby Girl Were” just like Mama predicted. I remembered the countless conversations when she was so adamant I would have a girl that I would have to remind her, “We could have a boy, Mama, and I know you’ll love him too”. The confetti cannons shot a storm of blue in our backyard as we revealed a baby boy to be born the following May 2018. I believe, whether she knew it or not, she was teaching me another lesson. It’s so like her to continue the long-standing theme of managing expectations that keeps resonating, even after she died.

Connecting with Laurie Taylor and the Grief & Loss Center truly changed my life. Finding a group of people around my age who had lost a mom, dad or sibling was exactly the support I needed. The group allowed me to express all the things that truly suck after losing someone while life was growing inside me. I am forever grateful for the safe space the Young Adult Grief Group continuously provides.

With my pregnancy came the painstaking reminder that my Mama wouldn’t get to hear her handpicked grandmama name - Kay Kay. Grandmother names are a big deal in my family, so we made sure hers was as iconic as her mom’s - Boochie. I obsessed over all the moments that would feel a little less exciting without her – most notably her reaction to my call to tell her I was pregnant, planning my child’s nursery, my baby shower, and of course, her presence at the hospital the day our baby boy was born.

The story of my birth was quite epic, and heaven knows Mama retold it to me every single year on my own birthday. Knowing I wouldn’t have her fierce tenacity leading up to and during delivery terrified me. I needed her specific mixture of cheerleader and tough love warrior as I prepared to embark on the miraculous event that would change my life, just as having me changed hers.

As Laurie and I discussed in our grief support sessions, I made a plan for facing a really tough grief milestone – giving birth soon after loss. When delivery time arrived, I asked my husband to pull the nurses aside and explain that the mom who would be with us in the delivery room was his mom because my mom had died. I did not want to be asked about “the grandmothers”. During a very emotional day for me, I didn’t want to have to pause and explain that my Mama was dead while I was focusing on becoming a Mama myself. The nurses were absolute angels. They knew exactly how to approach me. After Henry was born, one precious nurse told me “Your Mama would be so proud.” It was perfect timing for such a thoughtful gesture as I quietly mourned her absence.

The hymn “Because He Lives” played while I pushed, in tribute to my Mama and grandmother Boochie. It was played at both of their funerals. So that song became my intimate way of bringing them along for the ride. I often sing it through tears whenever my heart aches for my Mama’s presence.

While I simply cannot imagine any storyline other than the one where I became a boy mom, I still hold a secret hope that one day we will have “Baby Girl Were.” We will give her the middle name my Mama spoke to me. Until then, I’ll continue practicing my “game face” for when life doesn’t go as expected.

Since Henry’s birth and becoming a Mama without a Mama, Laurie has connected several other pregnant clients with me. It is an honor to reach out, heart to heart, with another mom-to-be who is anticipating giving birth while mourning a significant loss. Thanks to the Grief & Loss Center, I have the privilege of belonging to a tribe of “get its” (as Laurie calls us). We are committed to walking alongside each other, while navigating our own unique grief journey. Gratefully, surrounded with my grief companions, I don’t ever have to plaster on a “game face”. I can be myself, feel totally accepted and openly share my story.

And as a new Mama, I forever hold my Mama in my heart.