Heartache

/ Jeff Cann

It’s a heartache
Nothing but a heartache
Hits you when it’s too late
Hits you when you’re down
— Lyrics from It’s a Heartache by Bonnie Tyler

In 1978, my family broke tradition. Instead of renting our standard fourplex apartment in the sleepy 132nd block of Ocean City, Maryland, we stayed in a beachfront apartment in a high-rise condo building somewhere in the forties. Someone must have given my parents great deal, or maybe even a free week. It’s the only reason I can think of that would cause my father to willingly give up his empty beach in the boondocks where he could cast a surf rod all day without hooking a kid floating on a raft.

The building had a generic beach name like the Sands or the Ocean Terrace or the Tide Pool. The exterior first floor lined the boardwalk and offered the same storefronts as the rest of the three-mile strip—t-shirt shop, cheap fried food, bar with a vertical sliding wall that could be lifted open for an outdoor feel, t-shirt shop, and so on. The building broadcast a local pop station onto the beach all day. As Bonnie Tyler’s It’s a Heartache blasted above the umbrellas for the thirty-eighth time that day, my mom blurted out, “I love this song. This is my favorite song.”

Prior to this, the only music my mother ever showed any interest in was what used to be called elevator music—bland, treacly orchestral renditions of familiar pop songs like the Beatles’ Penny Lane and the Carpenters’ Top of the World. It was designed to fade into the background and offend no one. This music played in fast food restaurants, grocery stores, and of course elevators. The Washington, DC radio dial included an easy listening station called WGAY. It was named in the fifties, before “gay” became a pejorative for, well, gays, and was then reclaimed by gay people as an identifier. WGAY played elevator music twenty-four-seven. Their advertising department termed it beautiful music.

When I say my mother liked elevator music, what I think I mean is she liked having music playing, but not music she ever needed to think about it. All it did was fill the room like an air freshener. Pleasant, but easy to overlook. It was the only music played in my parents’ cars. For my mom to express love of what I considered a pretty good pop song shocked me.

This trip, at age forty-three, was my mother’s last cancer-free vacation. Early the next year, she had a double mastectomy, and then five years of chemotherapy and radiation. In 1984, only forty-nine years old, she died. It’s a Heartache is the one and only song I associate with my mother.

My Monday night spin class transported me back to 1978. In a warm, humid exercise room, the facility A/C unable to compete with the daily temperatures reaching the high nineties, six or seven of us grinded our pedals in time with the music. Me, unlike everyone else, grew a small lake of sweat on the floor beneath my handlebars, my hyper-efficient cooling system running on overdrive. Near the end of a hard rocking mix including Thunderstruck, Sweet Child O’ Mine and Smells Like Teen Spirit, Debbie, the instructor, threw in It’s a Heartache. For the first time during that hour, I stopped focusing on form, leg speed and leverage and just thought about my mom.

A few weeks ago, Sophie sent me a text: Do you think I look like your mother? Because I do. I’m not sure what photo she was looking at, or why she would even have a photo with her in Montana of a woman who died eighteen years before she was born. I don’t really think Sophie looks much like my mom, except in the eyes; Sophie and I have similar and distinctive eyes. But I’m happy my daughter is thinking about my mother, thinking about her heritage and those who came before her. Because she died forty years ago, I rarely think about my mom anymore. I’m grateful she popped into my life this week.

More stories about my mother:

Numb | The Other Stuff

About Death | The Other Stuff

Pornography | The Other Stuff

Listen to It’s a Heartache by Bonnie Tyler

Photo by David Trinks on Unsplash

24 thoughts on “Heartache”

      • Yes, you are right Jeff, and I’m glad that you honoured your mum with this piece.
        I work with Aged people and perhaps should be inured to such things; I’m glad I am not.
        Now what I need is to find some of my bedrock’s grit.
        Thank you.
        DD

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  2. My mother died 48 years ago and I think about her a lot, though for maybe the two middle decades I did not. … A friend said of Muzak/ elevator music, as if it was a slogan, “Music for people who don’t really *like* music.”

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    • By our teenage years, my punk-leaning brothers and I railed mercilessly against the WGAY format. I toyed with the idea of using the term Muzac for this story, but I didn’t know if that was a widely known term. I’ll look into that before it’s reprinted in my weekly column.

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    • “You present it without sentimentality” Hmmm, a skill or a deficit? Yes, my mother’s slow death was one of the defining events of my life and probably was a large factor behind almost two decades of substance abuse. Thank you for your compliment. For much of my writing career, my M.O. was to power through a piece and post it immediately upon completion. Recently, I ‘ve been taking days to write such stories and I think the extra reflection and editing improves the content.

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      • Lack of sentimentality is definitely a plus in giving one’s writing a professional edge. And I agree with you about the value of reflection and editing. I think I work too long at a piece of writing (perfectionism tripping me up), but taking time and re-seeing an essay does make for more polished writing.

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  4. You answered a question I’ve often wondered. How long do those we’ve lost tug at our heartstrings? My father died in 1981. When I think of him now I don’t grieve, but sometimes I go a long time without him crossing my mind. Thx.

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    • For me, I think the grieving stopped around the time I had my kids. Not sure if that was related or just the proper amount of time passed. It was about 18 years. Losing parents young is rough.

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  5. it is such a heartache, Jeff.

    I lost my dad in ‘04, my mom in ‘15. It’s a different grief “flavor” now, but it still hurts.

    I have loved the stories of your folks D has told me. I wish I had known your lovely mother. 🩵

    xo

    lynne

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  6. wonderful story about the connection between your daughter and your mom. and it’s amazing what memories a song can help us recall. And Bonnie was certainly in the news this year because of the total eclipse. I’ve always considered some of the lyrics from that song as some of the best I’ve ever heard:

    “Once upon a time there was light in my life
    But now there’s only love in the dark
    Nothing I can say
    A total eclipse of the heart”

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  7. What a lovely story about your mother. I don’t think we ever get too old to remember our parents. Like you, I don’t think of mine often as both died long ago. But once in a while something, like a song, triggers a pleasant memory. I believe that no one ever really dies. They still live in our memories of them, especially those shared with others.

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  8. I get a certain “feeling “ about you and your mother from this even though you don’t use emotional words. I love that about your writing. It means more than the words on the page, an unseen unworded reflection. It gives me room to create my own story about her.

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  9. i love this post! not sure you remember, but i did a post about music and my mom (spinning wheel– blood, sweat and tears). your post made me think of my mom … and i thank you for that! ❤

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    • Yes, I remember you writing about your mom. I love it when my mom pops into my day. I need to do more to make that happen regularly. I live pretty far from her grave so visiting is a hassle, and when I’m in that area, I usually have a bunch of other plans. I think you’ve just convinced me to make a dedicated trip soon. Always happy to see you here. Maybe it’s almost time for you to do another 100 days?

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      • re: another 100 days– ahhh, not sure i’m ready. i’ve been having some health issues recently that have really been bumming me out. i keep thinking i’m getting better, and then WHAM!, i come down with something else that takes me a month to get over (but now i sound like i’m whining). maybe something at the beginning of 2025?– another new challenge for a new year.

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    • Very happy to see you here, Bruce. I’ve been browsing your blog. Most of the music reviewed is so far out of my area, it’s been hard to get into. I’m a little worried about your review of 1974. IMO that year is the absolute bottom of this rock music experiment we’ve been going through. I browsed a list of “best albums from 1974” and the only one I truly loved (or even like) was “I want to see the bright lights tonight.” Things will start to pick up in 1975 with the release of “Horses.” Regardless, I’ll try my best.

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