I wrote this over 10 years ago. My mom would
have been 90 on the 13th;
I’ll be 60 on the 23rd.
I’m re-positng this in her honor:
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I’m sitting here, trying to pinpoint the moment in time our
relationship fossilized. When its’
rehashed comments and responses became so etched in each of our psyches that
they may never be erased. I write “may
never” because no matter what, there is always possibility. Even time and space can’t trample on
possibility, so long as we are open to changing that which we think is
unchangeable. At least that is what I
believe.
Blame is something the entire family embraced and
practiced well. Unfortunately, you were
the target of much of that blame. We all
perceived your dependency on others as weakness of character; your lack of what
the world sees as “accomplishments” as failure to achieve, seldom recognizing
your goodness as achievement of the highest order. We confused dependency with need, making it a
hateful four-letter word. Now, as I near
fifty, I see myself as having what I thought were your “weaker” qualities,
especially the “lack of” type that are only measured here on Earth. And being ill, I now need many of the things
you did, like help with finances and occasional assistance with my
mobility. And it’s worse all the time; I
need a caregiver part time. The fact
that I drive and worked most of my life didn’t release me from what I perceive
as failure.
Some say we are put here to accomplish things, making
ourselves into people that others can point to and say, “Oh, she’s a doctor, lawyer,
astronaut, teacher, musician.” What we
have trouble coping with is how little those things really mean. Still, being none of those things, I
sometimes think of myself as having all zeros on the scoreboard of life. I’ve been looking at the wrong scoreboard,
Mom.
I’ve been forgetting who you really were. Your sweetness, your loving kindness and your
astounding soul. You overflowed with
those qualities. Do I possess any of
them? If so, then why is it so
important for me to be seen in a way that I know deep inside means nothing in
the long run? Certainly, not everyone
has that need. There are entire
societies that know how to acknowledge and cherish the values I sometimes toss
aside.
You know, Mom, I left my birthplace in 1986 in part because
of my relationship with you. Your
dependency on the family drove me nuts.
And as much as I loved you, I was beginning to hate what I believed to
be your weaknesses. You didn’t
drive. You didn’t work outside the
home. You didn’t seem to have any hobbies. You volunteered, but not much. You were artistically talented, but didn’t
pursue it. I was so angry about so many
things.
And yet, when I wanted to move away and started crying at
the thought of how much work it would take to make that happen, you turned to
me and said, “I’ll miss you like crazy, but you have to go. Don’t be a big scardy cat like I have been
all my life. You can do it.” And you cried. And I cried.
Those words are forever etched in my psyche. It was the bravest
thing I ever heard you say, and in that moment I was so proud and thankful that
you were my mother. I still am.
But in a way, your response also scared me because now I
had no more excuses. It had been 11
years since I promised myself I would move, but you had been my stagnant
pretext. I got to blame you and your
dependency and be mad, instead of just taking the risk. And now the jig was up, so to speak. You threw the ball squarely in my court and I
had no one to blame, only a risk to take.
Our relationship got better after I left. But soon, you really started to get
sick. Little by little, you disappeared
on us. Sometimes I am terrified I will
get Alzheimer’s and have no control over myself, my life choices. I’m halfway there with my current illness.
When I went home to help Dad get you settled in the
assisted living facility, you had a cogent few moments, and said, “I like this
place but I don’t want to live here alone.”
You cried. I cried. Dad
cried. I thought I would never forgive
myself. Dad thought I was blaming him,
but I wasn’t. In fact, I wished he had
done it sooner, because you were so sad all the time and he was irrational and
truculent about taking care of you. Only
he couldn’t be there 24 hours a day, of course.
He would take off occasionally, and whether he was gone a few minutes or
a few hours, you would be all alone, not knowing what to do, not knowing who or
where you were half the time, and frightened.
The hole in your heart was abysmal
and dark, and your endless tears drowned nothing. And I was 1600 miles west.. Dad finally got someone to come to the house
half time, but it wasn’t enough. After
you went in the home, you seemed happier for a short time. Then you just got smaller and smaller until
you flickered out.
We were all there on that day; I felt your presence until
the moment you let go. As my head rested
on your chest, I felt your life-force move through me in a halting intake, then
out my mouth in one big gasp that came with your last breath. My head reeled up and I wailed, “She’s gone” to the rest of the family, who
were gathered around you. The essence of
you vanished in an instant, leaving behind a vapor trail and the casing that
was once your body. I felt G-d’s
presence twice in my life; once when I witnessed the birth of your first
grandson, my nephew, Benjamin, and in the moment of your death
I know all those things I think of as success aren’t what
really matters, even though the world tries very hard, every single day, to
tell me otherwise. Our “success” in the
world is far different then what starts as gold stars delved out to us as
preschoolers. And those gold stars are
all too often the chrysalises of what becomes the canonization of
over-achievers. Our society rarely
recognizes that hard work doesn’t always pay dividends. And yet we frequently forget, if ever we are
taught, the Golden Rule. But you taught
it to me in spades. I only wish I could
appreciate all that you were, without beating myself up so much. I know you are never very far from me. I sometimes feel you a foot or two above me,
to the left, smiling down. I turn to you
during those times of despondency, and once, while meditating, I “heard” these
words:
“Sherika, my
sweet girl” (Your eyes are glistening
with tears. I feel one hand on each of
my cheeks.) “You are so brave. I know
you don’t think you are, but it’s true. That
cynical side of you is racing to catch up, telling you it’s not hard to be
braver than me, who wasn’t brave at all.
But that’s not what I mean, and your soul knows it.
You feel you don’t belong, but if you are there, you
must belong, right? It’s taking me time
to adjust to being on the other side. I
miss you so much. I miss your Dad. I’m happy he is with someone. But it’s not as easy to let go of jealousy as
the movies make it out to be. There are
bits and pieces of what we once called our humanity that want to cling to the
life we just left. But the worst is
over. The disease. And I know that’s
what you want for yourself, too. I wish
I could help you in that department. I
wish I could say something that doesn’t sound like it belongs on the bumper of
a car. I wish I could see you, touch
you, and talk to you the way we use to when I was well. I know we can in some ways; and we must be
grateful for that, and leave the rest behind.
I know you want the things that seem easy to have; romantic love,
health, success. All I can tell you is
to open yourself up to it. And yes, I
know that hasn’t worked for you in the past.
Maybe it won’t work now, I don’t know.
But doing nothing, that we know reaps nothing.”
I miss you, Mom, but I hear your words. And I will see you when I see you.
Love
Sherri
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