Love, Mom
A Mother's Journey From Loss to Hope
by
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June 2, 1995
My Sweet Samantha,
I’m dying. I’m sure of it. This week has been endless and it’s only Wednesday. Over Memorial Day we went to the cemetery to pick out a marker. A marker! Oh my God. I should be picking out your dresses. Will I ever be able to stand Wednesdays again?
Love, Mom
I was having a challenging day; the strain of returning to the cemetery pulled me pretty low. It’s never a smart thing to get into the car and drive while you’re feeling distraught. Fortunately, nothing bad happened. Not this time. While Bobby took his afternoon nap, I got in my car and on a whim, I headed west toward the beach. As I glided down West Channel Road and could see the ocean before me, I veered north down Pacific Coast Highway, away from home. The waves hitting the shore had a hypnotic rhythm, soothing as a lullaby. I turned the radio off and rolled down the windows. The wind stirred up loose tissues from the dash and they blew around the car like a snow flurry. My car surged forward as I goosed the accelerator and if the stoplight at Topanga and Pacific Coast Highway hadn’t flashed red, I could’ve glided up north to the Ventura County line or beyond. To say I wasn’t grounded would’ve been gross understatement. The vacant parking lot opened its arms to me and I embraced it.
Topanga State Beach is a surfer’s beach; the shoreline is too rocky and exposed to be very inviting to anyone else. A thick layer of fog drooped over the beach like a canopy and I was drawn to it. Along the edge of Pacific Coast Highway, beat-up cars with perfectly waxed boards were perched on the surf racks. I seemed to be the only idiot paying for parking. I longed to pull the heavy fog over me like a blanket.
The view from the top of the concrete stairs allowed me to scan the shoreline. I saw no traces of young moms with children, no young lovers making out on their towels. In the distance were about two-dozen surfers with the singular purpose of reading and riding the right ones. I headed down the stairs and brushed arms with a suntanned beauty with an angled jaw and the signature defined shoulders from daily paddling. “Excuse me,” I muttered. He passed me, remote and silent, behind his Maui Jim sunglasses.
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About the Book
Loss is universal. Each of our responses to it is unique. After Cynthia Baseman delivered a stillborn daughter in 1995, she embarked on a journey of healing and a search to find happiness and meaning in life again. Writing letters to her daughter and drawing strength from the natural world became the basis of her recovery and a tool to manage the strain on her marriage. In Love, Mom she shares what happened to her and offers hope to those that find themselves grieving for a loved one.
About the Author
Cynthia Baseman is the author of two works of non-fiction, "Love, Mom: A Mother's Journey from Loss to Hope" and "The Santa Barbara Trailriders." Her memoir has been excerpted in a woman's health anthology due for release January 2012, entitled "Voices of the Women's Health Movement." Cynthia is a mom blogger and can be found at http:www.bhmom.com/. She is an educational advocate and works with high school students to find their voice and to improve their writing. Baseman also supports the students of USC through the Libraries at the University of Southern California. Previously, Baseman wrote and developed movies for television for ABC, NBC and TNT. She is a graduate of the University of Southern California. Baseman lives with her husband, two sons and two dogs.