Thursday, February 24, 2005
Nine months today. Every day I feel the urge to write, but I end up conflicted, torn and deleting whatever it is that I write. I'm going to put it into words today, because I need to do it.
My relationship with my mother was complicated, but I suppose that's the case for nearly everyone. She was, for me, a walking contradiction. She was emotional, stubborn, demanding, talkative and infuriating. She was also warm, loving, helpful and giving. But I fear that my stories about her will tend to be too much one aspect of her personality and not enough of another. I don't want to give the impression that she was all good or all bad, and I worry that individual stories will be taken out of context and somehow harm the memory that I have of her, or give the impression that I don't remember her accurately. Is it wrong to be angry about certain things? Is it wrong to laugh about others? I don't know. This is all very new territory for me, because nine months isn't enough to sort out how you handle someone's memory.
So maybe I'll start by telling a bad story, and then follow with a good one. One for one. That's fair, right? And it's not that the bad stories are bad, necessarily. They're just stories that, at the time, hurt or upset me.
When I was 17, my father was hit by a car while walking in the parking lot at work on a cold, rainy March morning. The woman just nailed him from behind. I came home from school that day to find my father in his recliner, in his robe, with a hospital bracelet on his wrist. When I flipped out and asked why my mother hadn't called me at school to tell me about this, she said, "It just never occurred to me that you needed to know." I later found out that when she left for the hospital, she didn't know if he was even conscious or going to live. She had no details. Yet I didn't need to know.
A few years later, I was home from college on break, and I was lamenting my choice to become a writer because I would never make any money. My father had been in chronic, severe pain for three or so years at that point, and I saw a significant potential for him to require long-term care when he was older. I was really worried (at 20) about how I was going to provide for my father who would probably have to go out on long-term disability for this terrible pain he was in. She laughed at me. Laughed. Told me I was being ridiculous, that he would get over it, and that I was a fool to worry about it. I didn't feel like a fool. I felt like the weight of the world was on my shoulders, and I just wanted someone to hug me and tell me it was going to be ok. Instead, I was mocked. And I'm not talking about a few casual jabs. This was her laughing and me sobbing for hours in my bedroom. I was crushed.
Fortunately, nearly nine years after the accident, he found a surgeon who performed a surgery that's given him relief since day one. I don't have the same worries anymore. But it doesn't change the fact that on that day, I was so terribly sad.
But there are good stories, too.
Three years ago, mom's friend Micki was diagnosed with a pretty signifcant case of breast cancer. Micki, of course, was devastated. Throughout the process -- waiting for test results, surgery, biopsies, radiation -- my mother was there for her, calling on the phone, taking her little gifts, etc. Micki said once that having something major like breast cancer really showed you who your friends were. Some people heard her diagnosis and never called again, as though somehow their contact with her would put them at risk. But not my mother. She was there, helping, supporting and, above all, talking like she always did. I think her death was particularly hard for Micki because she had been there for her through all the hard times, and Micki would never have the chance to repay the favor.
My relationship with my mother was complicated, but I suppose that's the case for nearly everyone. She was, for me, a walking contradiction. She was emotional, stubborn, demanding, talkative and infuriating. She was also warm, loving, helpful and giving. But I fear that my stories about her will tend to be too much one aspect of her personality and not enough of another. I don't want to give the impression that she was all good or all bad, and I worry that individual stories will be taken out of context and somehow harm the memory that I have of her, or give the impression that I don't remember her accurately. Is it wrong to be angry about certain things? Is it wrong to laugh about others? I don't know. This is all very new territory for me, because nine months isn't enough to sort out how you handle someone's memory.
So maybe I'll start by telling a bad story, and then follow with a good one. One for one. That's fair, right? And it's not that the bad stories are bad, necessarily. They're just stories that, at the time, hurt or upset me.
When I was 17, my father was hit by a car while walking in the parking lot at work on a cold, rainy March morning. The woman just nailed him from behind. I came home from school that day to find my father in his recliner, in his robe, with a hospital bracelet on his wrist. When I flipped out and asked why my mother hadn't called me at school to tell me about this, she said, "It just never occurred to me that you needed to know." I later found out that when she left for the hospital, she didn't know if he was even conscious or going to live. She had no details. Yet I didn't need to know.
A few years later, I was home from college on break, and I was lamenting my choice to become a writer because I would never make any money. My father had been in chronic, severe pain for three or so years at that point, and I saw a significant potential for him to require long-term care when he was older. I was really worried (at 20) about how I was going to provide for my father who would probably have to go out on long-term disability for this terrible pain he was in. She laughed at me. Laughed. Told me I was being ridiculous, that he would get over it, and that I was a fool to worry about it. I didn't feel like a fool. I felt like the weight of the world was on my shoulders, and I just wanted someone to hug me and tell me it was going to be ok. Instead, I was mocked. And I'm not talking about a few casual jabs. This was her laughing and me sobbing for hours in my bedroom. I was crushed.
Fortunately, nearly nine years after the accident, he found a surgeon who performed a surgery that's given him relief since day one. I don't have the same worries anymore. But it doesn't change the fact that on that day, I was so terribly sad.
But there are good stories, too.
Three years ago, mom's friend Micki was diagnosed with a pretty signifcant case of breast cancer. Micki, of course, was devastated. Throughout the process -- waiting for test results, surgery, biopsies, radiation -- my mother was there for her, calling on the phone, taking her little gifts, etc. Micki said once that having something major like breast cancer really showed you who your friends were. Some people heard her diagnosis and never called again, as though somehow their contact with her would put them at risk. But not my mother. She was there, helping, supporting and, above all, talking like she always did. I think her death was particularly hard for Micki because she had been there for her through all the hard times, and Micki would never have the chance to repay the favor.
