"Mother-in-law"
What a terribly inadequate word.
The term mother-in-law is one I’ve never liked.
It’s clunky and legalistic, for starters, with all the warmth of a filing cabinet. The term came from the 14th century. The Oxford English Dictionary gives a little insight into its purpose:
A phrase appended to names of relationship, as father, mother, brother, sister, son, etc., to indicate that the relationship is not by nature, but in the eye of the Canon Law, with reference to the degrees of affinity within which marriage is prohibited. These forms can be traced back to the 14th century. Formerly -in-law was also used to designate those relationships which are now expressed by step-, e.g. son-in-law = step-son, father-in-law = step-father; this, though still locally or vulgarly current, is now generally considered a misuse.
The term also calls to mind so many terrible comedians and sitcoms from the past (actually, continuing to the present). Sexist. Misogynistic. Crass and belligerent. The stock character of the mother-in-law has been around for centuries, busting the chops of poor shlubs who just want to be left alone. If you can bear it, think Ethel Merman in It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World, who was a big enough harridan for the ENTIRE cast.
In Chicago, we have the term mother-in-law apartment, which is a garden apartment under another house. There is also the mother-in-law sandwich, which is a factory-processed corn tamale in a hot dog bun, covered with chili (not recommended for anyone over 50 with digestive issues).
I’ve never liked the term because I was blessed with a mother-in-law who loved my wife, my family and me more than I ever thought possible. She believed in my writing more than I ever did. She believed in the artistic ambitions and personal potential of all her grandchildren. She was married to her partner in all things, Dave, for 65 years, and was a confidant and counselor to many people in their marriages, by word and by example. She was a solid (my nephew says indomitable) presence in so many lives. Her love was strong, informed, open-eyed and absolute.
Lorrie passed away on May 31 from breast cancer. She was 85, and was planning on a cruise (yet another one!) that would’ve taken her and my father-in-law from Japan to the Aleutians and down to Seattle. First diagnosis was on March 11. It was so swift that the loss still seems unreal.
My in-laws both lived to travel, Lorrie most of all. They’ve been to all 6 continents and more locales than I can count, some multiple times. They used to do mission work in Romania, restoring an old monastery for a rehab center, mixing concrete and hauling rocks. They were almost running out of new places to visit, but they still wanted to keep going.
Lorrie and Dave loved the symphony and the opera, and their love of it pulled my wife and me in. For the past 30 years, we’ve attended the Lyric Opera of Chicago together, preceded by a quick dinner and a Sapphire martini across the street. They volunteered with Friends of the Opera (FOTO) in Grand Rapids, Mich., and even housed the traveling artists, who would tell other artists to choose Dave and Lorrie as hosts because they served the best food and liquor. They’ve seen opera in Venice and Vienna and Bayreuth, but felt no need to go to see the Metropolitan Opera more than they already had.
I liked to bring Lorrie to other casual events, too, indulging her inner redneck. Monster truck rallies. Demolition derbies. For Christmas last year, I gave her tickets to a Grand Rapids Griffins hockey game and we all had a blast. I had been hoping to make that a yearly tradition.
Lorrie had a strong Christian faith that was welcoming to all. (She in fact was the one who years ago said I might like the Presbyterian church, because it was democratic and women served in high offices. Lies and I wouldn’t have gotten married without a shared faith, so the onus was on me to figure it out.) When her test results grew bad enough (and quickly), showing her “old lady pains” were more serious, Lorrie chose hospice.
“I’ve lived a wonderful life,” she said to Dave, “and I know where I’m going.”
In France, the mother-in-law is called belle-mere, which means “beautiful mother.” Wouldn’t that be a nice phrase to start using?
I called Lorrie Mom, almost from the beginning. It was as natural as a summer day on the lake.
I’m going to miss her terribly. I already do.
(Get your health checked, folks. Now.)
A brave choice that someone who was in my life could have benefited from. May her memory be a blessing.
So right, Jim. Perfect. Thank you