My mother is alive, my kids and grandkids are healthy and
close by, yet Mother’s Day leaves me with a void. It’s the obligatory Hallmark
celebration honoring the women who have bred this great nation. Social media is
a Taser with constant sparks of people sharing photos and wonderful thoughts of
their mothers, living or dead, who are held in a place of honor for doing no
wrong. They have raised children who sing praises to the Madonna of the family.
I, on the other hand, have never been a good liar and singing
my mother’s praises has turned into an effort much like coughing up a hairball.
I avoid responding to comments she makes. “I was a good mother, wasn’t I?” or “You never wanted for anything, did you?”
Instead, I laugh and say, “I never said you weren’t” or “You made sure we were
fed and clothed.”
Of course, there is more under the questions and answers. We
dare not dig too deep. Even catching the question on a stressful day leaves me
answering in sarcastic, bitter tones, to which mom recognizes and sets the
guilt trip in motion. “There’s no need in being snippy. You used to love me. Am
I really that bad?”
Mom had a less than stellar upbringing herself. I understand where the roots of
her parenting foundation began. I recognize her insecurities, her intentions,
and her facades. It’s her inability to recognize her faults and seek
self-improvement that are an unending frustration for me.
As children, my sister and I dealt with a woman that could
be unreasonable and un-nurturing. Our
efforts to seek approval, such as cleaning the house, were met with, “You
missed a spot,” or ladened with a huge sigh followed by, “I was going to strip
the floor and wax it, but now that you have polished it, I guess I’ll have to
wait and do it next week.”
She smoked incessantly, lied about quitting, and so I have
very little sympathy for her chronic COPD. Her alcoholism was another assault
to my formative teen years. My father was a type-A workaholic who suffered his
first heart attack at the young age of 46.
I was 15, and even then I recognized the stress it put on Mom. Still,
she dramatized and distorted facts. I
heard what doctors said, but when mom retold the stories, there was always an
extra dollop of “pity me.”
As she got older, she began to somewhat mellow. We had real
conversations and enjoyed doing things together. We took a painting class, went
on day trips, and she was a rock for me when my marriage faltered.
Then her mother died, and Mom assumed full responsibility
for my grandfather’s care. Initially he was still able to drive, but she, along
with my dad, would drive the 30 minutes to visit at least every other day,
clean, do his laundry, and ensure he had meals that could be microwaved. When he fell and broke his hip, he
reluctantly moved in with Mom and Dad.
Dad’s health was failing as well, and he was going blind.
Mom was overwhelmed, but she also loaded a lot of burden on
herself. She insisted that everything be
done better than average. When my grandfather broke his other hip, his health
deteriorated, and he was confined to bed. Hospice was called in, and the nurses
remarked about the excellent care my mother gave my grandfather. Mom wanted his
approval. For the first time in her life, he told her, “I love you.”
Within a month after his death, Mom had a stroke – an
unfortunate by-product of caregiving when the caregiver forgets herself. She was left with weakness in one side, but
more so, I noticed her bravado disappear. She lost the balance in her
personality that had come about in her retirement years. Dad passed away six
months later, but fortunately he had instigated their move to a retirement
community. Mom was mad that he left her there alone, but she was friends with
her neighbors. Still, instead of diving
in and associating with others, Mom isolated herself and began being defensive
of herself and critical of others – a pattern I recognized from her years when
I was a child. She had other ailments
and ultimately moved into the skilled care facility, kicking and screaming
every step of the way.
She is kind to the majority of the staff and physicians,
though she is more outspoken and frank now. She won’t follow orders, and will
try to walk from her bed to the bathroom, taking some nasty spills. Sometimes
she tells staff; sometimes she doesn’t.
She is savvy enough to navigate the internet, but has no
self-control in ordering any little trinket she thinks is cute. She’s gone on
costume jewelry binges, and now is trying to make her own beaded jewelry. She’s
half blind and has lost fine finger dexterity in both hands, with little
functional use of her left hand – not a good combination for beading.
She creates a lot of her own problems. She has called me at
home, insisting I should drive the 30-45 minutes to her room to see why she has
no sound from her computer. I equally insisted I could not and would not. When we checked the next day, she had muted
the sound without realizing. This is
only one of the types of instances that occur weekly at a minimum.
I have discussed her over-spending and the wasteful deluge
of packages. I have asked, begged, reasoned and threatened every way I know
how. When I tell her that it may be time
to remove the computer or her credit card, she threatens to call the police,
even though I have medical and financial power of attorney.
It’s a battle, and I have my own life with daily struggles.
My only hope is that I have seen how she is, and make every effort to not be
that way to my children. I’ve learned
coping skills, and I tell my kids I love them – often. I also encourage
talking. If there’s a problem, let’s deal with it.
I love my mom because of our blood relationship. I
continually send positive energy her way and am sad she has never found a way
to be happy with herself or her surroundings. Even though it’s Mother’s Day, I
find it hard to celebrate and am envious of those that revel in the shadow of
their family matriarch. I can thank my
mother for giving me strength in questioning myself and learning how to
overcome obstacles that we are given. Perhaps that is her gift to me, her
sacrifice in this life to help me move forward in my own.
Happy Mother’s Day,
Mom.
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