Except the obvious: my mother is in the Palliative Care wing of the hospital.
Background: My mother and I are not close. My adolescence was an extended one; I didn't start to recover from it until my 30s were well underway. I was a thoughtful and malicious bitch for much of that time, particularly to my mother. The last ten years have been different for lots of reasons--one good one is that I got tired of my one-note monologue and decided to start acting like a human being. It's been nice. It's been difficult, too. Old habits die hard, especially those which start in a somewhat reasonable place and evolve into something nasty and twisted.
It hasn't been a movie-of-the-week. We didn't suddenly transform into a safe and affectionate family. There was no flash of white light, no cue for the violins. It has been exhausting and harrowing and a process which has required constant vigilance. There are so many automatic defensive tactics that come to mind that I have had to bite back. It leaves me casting about for things to say, topics to touch on, in the quiet minefield of our relationship.
I love my mom. I even like her, sometimes. I tried for years not to do either of these things, and it has surprised me that I can still find those feelings for her. When she got sick, it spurred me on to accelerate this program of accepting her for who she is, and what she can do. To love her despite her limitations and faults. There are still things I wish we could change about our shared past, but dwelling on those is not constructive, and so I try not to.
So: to the present. I'm sitting in her room, feeling slightly trapped. I feel that way at her home, too. It's not a comfortable place for me to be. It's all psychological--her retirement home is a lovely little bungalow built by her husband for his parents, many years ago. This little house reminds me of the person she wanted me to be and how constrictive that felt. It reminds me of all the things that disappoint her, about the person that I am. It feels like a straitjacket. So does this hospital room. And I know that it is just because my mother and I are in it. Together.
She's proud. Holy thundering racehorses, she's proud. I didn't realize how deeply it was ingrained in her until she needed help on such a personal level. Through all her surgeries, treatments, recoveries etc, she has not wanted me to come. I have visited her, of course, but as a guest in her home. Not as someone who is there to help. She is half a foot shorter than I--but she won't let me reach for the things on the high shelves. She doesn't want me to empty the dishwasher or clear the table or do any of the things that I usually do when in someone else's kitchen. Now she needs help walking and toiletting and eating. She would rather spend 10 minutes struggling with the knife and fork in hands that no longer take precise directions from her brain than ask me to cut her meat for her. She'd rather spend 20 minutes hunched over, exhausted, trying to attend to her own ablutions, than accept help from me.
Now, I'm proud, too. These tasks that I've described--this is what I do for a living. I provide care to people. I'm a care-giver. I cut meat, and help people bathe and dress and do their exercises and just generally assist with living. I know how to do this. I am damn good at it. My mother is finally in a place (I don't mean that I've been waiting for her to become this infirm, but rather that I finally understand how to help her) that I recognize--and she won't let me help. I stumble through conversations with her, I struggle with buying gifts for her, I agonize before visits. I'm fairly lousy at all of that. But I can give care. And it eats at me that she can't accept it from me.
We don't say 'I love you.' We rarely hug and never kiss. We don't drop in 'just because' or send funny little cards in the mail. We pace nervously around each other and try to avoid the soft spots. Our value systems are so different that any discussion of current events feels fraught with disaster. I feel so frustrated with my role in her life--what am I supposed to do?
And the answer comes to me, in the stillness of her room. She is lying quietly in her hospital bed, dressed and propped up on pillows, eyes closed. Her mouth is turned down at the corners in that strange, sad smile she had when I was small. I haven't seen it in years. The answer is: just be. Isn't that always the answer? She just wants me there. She wants to know that I am close by. I don't know why. I can't imagine why my presence is comforting to her. The way I treated her for most of my life--no one would blame her if she came at me with a sharp stick. But she asks if I am coming tomorrow (no, I am going to work). I tell her that I will be in next week again. My stomach clenches at the thought. But I will take a few days off from caring for her, and care for other people. There, I have purpose. I have a task-list as long as my arm and then some. I will be busy until my feet are screaming and my voice has run out. And then I will come back. I'll come back to this quiet place where other people rush from person to task. And I'll try to find a moment to just be. With my mother.
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| Summer, 1971 |
