My mother just died. Yes, she up and died. Why did she do
such a thing? Well, her body was exhausted, after 90 years of living. She’d had
six children, a few of them quite challenging to raise. She’d been associated
with a husband (my father) who perhaps did not satisfy her needs (and I don’t
mean sexual, but simply a strong, involved, male presence capable of relating
emotionally). Not that there is anything wrong with my father. He was a great
provider with very interesting ideas and interests. My sister quite likes him.
I found him wanting. I needed his attention when I was a teen and did not get
it. So I paid him back, I guess. He spent money he did not have on my
counseling and etc. But, back to my mother.
I was fortunate to see a lot of her in the last five or six
years. When she started inviting me to her funeral, I guess I started visiting
a lot. Twice a year at least. Since I live 900 miles away, that was an effort.
Not a huge effort, but an effort. And there was more affection than usual.
Quite odd for our family. Maybe she actually loved me! Maybe I actually loved her!
It was a wonderful thing that all six of her children could
be with her about two weeks before she died. She was on hospice care at home. I
arrived about two hours after she’d been brought home from the hospital, having
gone into hip surgery able to speak, and having come out not able to
speak. I do not know why this was; perhaps another mini-stroke. She’d already
had two. AND breast cancer. AND a heart attack. She was a trouper. She was
strong. But no one is infinitely strong.
The strange thing is, I’d broken my own pelvis after a
fall...just six weeks before that. My mother was worried about me. But I
recovered. She did not. I was at her side when she was pretty conscious for a
few days after returning from the hospital. I told her I was sorry for the
trouble I’d given her as a teenager. I told her lots of things. I am not sure
they were the things she wanted to hear.
The love between us seemed to suddenly come into view in the
last few years. It wasn’t always visible. There was so much anger, especially
on my part. She was always a lot stronger than I was, and always worried and
giving advice. I remember when I came home from a car trip to Maine and back to
visit friends. I had driven it straight; it wasn’t THAT long a drive. She
remarked that I should have taken a rest stop. I responded with fury. That was
in 1980, so long ago. Since then I’ve felt more and more tenderness for
her. And I’ve realized she felt
that for me.
So, what do I do now? I think the only thing I have learned,
which I suspected all along, was that everyone has a reason, and everyone is
struggling. In some ways, my mother (partly because of her religion) seemed
sure of herself, psychologically. When she became physically weaker I was able
to give her something, perhaps. I
have realized that she cared about me in a primal way; it has nothing to do
with competing philosophies. At
what level do I want to live and experience things? If I stick to the basic
level, I was loved by her. Yes, I was. And that is good to know.
