I can’t remember the last time I saw my mother alive. I mean, I can remember a string of long and dreary days in a very seemingly oxymoronic beautiful month of May that led up to her death, but the actual last day she opened her eyes to see me ? Nope , I got nothing . What I do have memories of are a lot of “ it’s almost time “ days. Days where I would drop the kids off at school and pre school , and rush to a bedside to visit the woman ,who up until that point , signified strength to me. I would watch the Hospice nurse bathe her , do mouth care and try and keep her as comfortable as possible from this demonic disease that had ravaged her every organ. The whole time I was there I wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere but witnessing the deterioration of my mother , who no longer was really “ in there”. I so desperately want to recall when the last time I laughed with her was, when the last time I bitched to her about being a mom of three little kids who drove me a little insane was , when we last shared a cup of tea and a Law and Order marathon . I legitimately do not remember , because the minute her illness got to the point where it stole her from me I shut down. And that is a cross I bear every day.
The relationship between a mother and daughter is complicated . I know this , as I have been both in my lifetime. My role as daughter did not last long enough , and its abrupt ending made me quite cynical. Cynical of religion ( my mother was a devout Catholic and look where that got her ) , cynical of treatments, doctors and so called trials that in the end made her life a little better for a blip of time , then really sick for the remaining time. Cynicism and sarcasm grew in me tenfold on May 23 2005, the view I had of the world going forward would be very different. Fear of illness , health obsession and anxiety , served with a side of depression are just a few things that I have dealt with the last 18 years. The complicated part of being someone who is no longer living’s daughter is you have to learn to navigate many things alone , whether that be tackling motherhood yourself, wanting to know if her marriage was as hard as yours, and how she coped daily with trivial things while not losing her sanity. There is no one to look to for this . That person who created you and knows you best is gone. It’s Not your husband , not your friends and certainly not your own children because you are their “Go To person” not the other way around.
I am writing this because I am about to turn 52 in a few weeks. My mother was initially diagnosed around 50 years old , and battled for close to 10 years. That’s a long time to never feel good, to try and live your life knowing the black cloud is always just right overhead - and that umbrella is only going to last for so long. I have been trying to imagine how she must have felt for those years in her 50’s and I cannot even fathom it. Because I was In my late 20’s and early 30’s trying to live my own life and start a family , not concentrating on being a daughter. In fact, not concentrating on her at all , until the last couple of years when I was forced to . When I would sit next to her hospital bed and talk to her , hoping for any coherent response . Those were few and far between by the time I began being “ present” for her, being her daughter for the last leg of her journey . My mother never said she was ready to go, never said she loved me or goodbye during that blur of a month . I know she loved me of course but the things left unsaid are always what we long to hear. My futile wish for this birthday is to remember the last time I saw her living , not just alive but living.
So take it all in with those you love. Take pictures even if they’re silly , spend extra time chatting even if you have to be somewhere ( because in the end who is taking attendance ?) and try to be cognizant that any memory you have with someone could be the last one.
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