October is my mother’s favorite month. I must say it is high on my list as well. The crisper air, the autumn colors… it is a time to prepare for the winter hibernation. This is the place where new ideas are born, and often they wait for spring to finally emerge.
My mother and my younger sister (who she takes care of) live well over a thousand miles away from me. At the mature age of 82, she had finally decided it was time to have a total hip replacement, and this was how I ended up here for the entire month of October.
In September, I tried to envision how this will happen and what I would be leaving behind. Aside from my art and all that goes along with this, there is my loving partner of 17 years, my two grown sons, our 3 goofy, always- happy- to- see- us dogs, one elderly white meowing cat, my plants that have all become too large to bring inside and my extremely valued and supportive friends… I am missing everything, really.
Being in the home of my mother brings many things to light. This is the place where there seems to be no area to set a glass, no coffee table or other usable surface, and no real comfortable space to just sit and talk. In the all beige-white living/dinning room, there are the stodggie, unforgiving couches that are spread out like a dance hall, and the dining table with it’s large, stiff chairs that are overshadowed by a tall glass cabinet completely filled with plates and glasses.
Papers are stacked the entire length of the tiny, made for two, kitchen table, which leans against the tiny, wallpapered –with- pink- flowers wall in the tiny kitchen, that seems to be made for one. There is also a clock radio on this same table, which is the size of a large, fat notebook that is topped with a tall pile of receipts going back to some forgotten time. Notes are scattered here and there with clinging messages that are no longer needed or understood, while used paper towels clutter the limited countertop surface waiting for a second chance. (Of course, I am not knocking recycling of these used towels, as I use mine in my studio at home for clean up of brushes.)
There are also those strange impersonal trinkets that are placed just so on shelves and end tables with no dust in their sterile environment… seeming void of some unexplainable warmth and familiarity.
Two tables do have some very healthy looking houseplants… she does love her plants, and they show it.
The most puzzling thing is the amount of clothes hanging in perfect organized fashion in every available closet as well as the entire length of her basement. These are also accompanied by multiple laundry baskets filled with folded clothes. Some of these are familiar items that she wore to one of her daughter’s weddings, or maybe some old 70’s vest or dress that one of us wore, that would be just the thing in a resale shop today. In fact, the amount of clothes does bring to mind a resale shop, and definitely could clothe at least 10-20 people with complete wardrobes. My mother obviously has trouble parting with clothes in general, be it memories or just the idea that these things had some relative monetary value once upon a time.
Now this is where I need to mention the center of my mother’s and sister’s undivided attention… the sweet female cat that keeps them both from loosing touch with the finest love there is. I have never seen or heard such a love pour fourth through my mother’s words as they do for this small animal. She leaves behind her crippled heart in this matter.
I often reflect on words, dreams and some moments of frustration. Why is it that some of these words she uses, the way she says them to me, affect me in such a way? Surely enough years have passed that I am not that same child who fretted over my mother’s ways.
I have always had trouble actually explaining how I see my mother to others- her mannerisms, her way of speaking, and now her way of not being able to hear much of anything being said to her. She has always had trouble hearing us, but it was never because of a hearing problem. This is a more recent development, even though it has been changing for a few years by now. It is noticeably worse, and very frustrating for most of us, as well as for her. This is where she often gets agitated with people that she says do not speak loud enough. Lately I feel like a translator in some weird sideshow that everyone around us has to hear, even if they don’t want to. I try not to show my impatience, but I have mentioned a few times to her about getting a hearing aid. She typically answers this with some statement about not having enough time for everything, and … “ I can only do so much”. I am then reminded, in her offended tone of voice, of how very busy her life is and… “When do I ever have time for myself?”
This is the same answer I get for anything she may not feel like dealing with… like those small, homeopathic pills I brought for her to help her heal. She is set on automatic defense mode just in case anyone should try to approach a touchy subject, even if it is just a small suggestion that may be helpful.
There is anger in my mother’s spirit… deep seeded. As she told me recently, and I remembered I have heard this from her before, “I don’t forget or forgive people who have hurt me… I am sorry, I just can’t!” Perhaps we all could say that people who have hurt us are on some kind of list marked, ‘TO AVOID’. However, in my mind I see the self- destructive pattern... the unmistakable path to ill health and an unhappy life.
I do love my mother, but we often love our family members in spite of our many differences. She did give me life. Who can ever say this is not something to be honored and respected? She did do the best she could with what she knew… I do believe this. Her heart is in the right place; there is no question of this. These are things I could not tell my mother as she would never feel anything but hurt. I would never want this for her. Although I have felt my level of patience being tested recently, there are no bad feelings or blame being thrown here… just some grasping of where I came from and where I am now.
In the first week after her traumatic surgery, she finally began to see the light at the end of the tunnel. This time period that we thought would probably be the most difficult, to say the least, brought forth all this pain and discomfort, along with all the conflicting emotions that also needed the chance to heal. Her small child revealed herself from deep inside, as the little girl who felt helplessness and despair…. memories of the unspeakable, disturbing childhood that she has really only recently revealed to me in detail… no one else has heard these harsh truths from her lips.
Physical pain often seems to be a direct response to emotional trauma, and my mother has always had pain. Her back, her arms, her neck and especially her legs… all those varicose veins and the crippling arthritis.
She has never been fond of drinking water, either. As a young child she confessed to me that she had an aunt who leaned over to her one day and told her “ Stay away from water honey, it will make you fat!”. No surprise this aunt died from some sort of cancer.
Perhaps my mother thought this statement was foolish even then, but it probably had some damaging effect. To say the least, she has steadily dehydrated herself most her life… a sure link to sore joints, aching muscles, and a thirsty spirit. God only knows how many other symptoms that have developed from such deprivation.
Deprivation… that is my mother’s mantra. Not providing for her body, mind or spirit what she so sorely needs… the nourishment of love. It is a kind of ownership of suffering…. Like some ugly beast that she feels she must announce, control and even use to manipulate others, unlike the over powering beasts of her sad past.
Sometimes there is a false comfort in the familiarities we cling to. Fear becomes the guide, leading to all those feelings of unworthiness- not feeling lovable… being undeserving. It seems to be passed on through families, like a virus that mutates and changes to gain strength and survive.
But this is where I come in and block such destructive behavior. I have struggled with this dis-ease, as I am sure many have and do, but I have at least realized it is a lie. I don’t always believe this, but usually my brain shakes the feelings deep into my knowing heart, and I am saved from my insecurities once more.
We are all worthy and lovable, and we are hear to remember this… we are the God within us. How can this not be absolute and pure love?
As the last few days of my stay here approached, we had run into more complications. My mother called me into her room last night and told me about this sore area on her right cafe. As I looked closely, I could see the redness. We both knew this was a possible blood clot, and after a long night in the emergency room, it was confirmed.
This morning we went in for an ultrasound, and as I sat there waiting, I had the realization that my stay here could be quite prolonged. I was feeling empty inside, with mixed feelings of guilt and sadness in the same moment. Everything flashed into my head that I knew I needed to attend to back home. All these obligations and opportunities that will be missed, and how will I manage to meet some of these deadlines?
We were most fortunate to find out that it was a blood clot, but not the deep vein version, which is so much more serious. Her version is just under the skin from smaller veins, and with a hot compress and some Aleve, she is able to stay on the road to recovery.
Hallelujah! We were out to celebrate in a local Mexican restaurant, which I didn’t know they had in this part of the country. Indeed, the entire crew seemed to be authentic, and I know I seemed a little too eager to look at and speak with the Mexican waiter… I was so happy to see him. I am sure he thought I was coming onto him, or maybe just some kind of crazy gringa.
We filled our hungry bodies with many delights, and came home with two to-go boxes that my mother happily stuffed, even with the chips and salsa! Some nourishment and a few smiles later, even if only temporarily, my mother forgot for a moment that she is the sufferer.
The night before my flight back home, my dreams were vivid and most strange. In the one dream that stands out, my mother and I were going somewhere in a sleazy taxicab. We were riding in the front seat with the driver, who was leaning very heavy on me, and was staring at me instead of the scary, curving road! He brought us to some dark alley where people seemed to be waiting to take advantage of anyone who arrived. I knew this is not where we asked to go, and when the car stopped, the taxi driver told me I owed him $100 for the ride. I told him I thought it was too high, and that I didn’t have this amount. He was going to keep us captive, but somehow I talked him into trusting me to come back with the money. I told him I would do this, even though I thought it was very wrong.
My mother seemed to be doing very precarious things… walking on the edge of a high wall, as I followed her closely, trying to abate her risky movements. She seemed like a child in her actions, being so carefree, which is so opposite what she really is like.
There was much more to this dream, but my conscience memory has let it go to the infinite dream log that lurks in some hidden place.
I know I cannot come into my mother’s existence and rearrange everything, like some cluttered, dusty closet. I would not want to. She has every right to do and feel whatever she must.
As I eagerly contemplate returning to my own happy clutter, I realize this existence here is her life; her chosen path, and I was only here for this October to love, to listen and hopefully, to help her heal.
Sending much love to my mother, even when she cannot hear me.
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