How to know someone

I finally did it... I had the courage to re-read the things that my mother wrote. Years before she died, she sent me a folder of "essays" that she had written. At the time I encouraged her to finish them and submit them. I offered to help - thinking perhaps this would be the thing that could bind us and maybe I would come to understand her better. But to her, they were finished. I guess she felt that they were perfect and beyond criticism. I filed them away in the tall black metal cabinet.

I came to view that attitude as part of her disease. She was bipolar and "delusions of grandeur" seemed very descriptive to me of how she saw herself. The flip side was that it made it difficult for her to ever be truly productive. I on the other hand seem to have the opposite problem. Although I can usually sit down and get the job done, I have no real talent. I'm just a plugger - but that often seems to be good enough to have some success. I may never experience her highs, but I won’t experience her lows either.

My mom seemed to me to be a person who lived in the past. And indeed, her writings reflected that. I often wondered why she did not write of her children much, especially since I had young children who seemed to occupy my every thought. Her thoughts seemed focused on past lovers, a failed marriage, and her many disappointments. I came to believe that this was also part of her disease.

And then I found it. A two-page essay entitled "-E-". Finally some thoughts about me. They were there after all. I had a place among all of her past memories. I hope I managed to bring her some joy. My thoughts have been so occupied with her since her death. I still yearn to know and understand her and death has not changed that. Reading her thoughts now I feel less defensive and more open to understanding her. Something that might have been more useful when she was alive. I have her actual words on paper... something that not many of us get to have.

I miss her terribly and I miss the possibility of knowing her. Whether knowingly or not she has left me a great gift. Maybe that is why we all write… so the next one reading may have a better understanding of who we are. We can say so many things in print – even things that may be too hard to say in life.

Elisabeth

Things change and stay the same

My mother was complicated, but our relationship was not. In retrospect, I realize that it never changed or evolved the way that I would have wanted or even expected it to. It has always been the same and it has always revolved around her. Even when things change, they stay the same.

My mother was diagnosed as a manic depressive in her late teens. It was called bipolar disease later. Whatever the term, no one ever talked to me or my brother about that disease or what it meant to our lives. No one ever asked if we were OK, or scared, or angry. Everyone acted like she was perfectly normal and the crazy things that happened from time to time were not to be discussed among outsiders. When she would have an "episode" when I was a young child, my grandmother and grandfather would do their best to take care of everything and then when I became older I inherited that task. During these times I learned to watch out for her.

My mother was beautiful, intelligent, and talented. But she always felt that she was better than she was, better
than us or the rest of the world. It was her disease that gave her this confidence but at the same time it made it impossible for her to realize her potential. Throughout most of my childhood she alternated between depression, laying on the couch watching TV day and night, and intermittent episodes of mania during which we all lived in a state of unreality. There was a constant battle between realities - hers and the rest of ours.

I loved my mother and I have always felt that she did her best to love me. Like all children, I always tried to gain her love - whether by "being good" or getting good grades or keeping my room clean. It was not until I had a daughter of my own that I fully realized all that was missing. It happened when my daughter had just came home from the hospital after she was born. I was feeling insecure and tired and asked my mom to help give me her first bath. I thought that maybe this would be the moment - three generations of women - making a memory. I would tell my daughter the story when she was grown. In her usual form she just told me that you just give her a bath - you're a smart girl, figure it out. And that's when I finally did. There would never be any hallmark card moments between me and my mom and I would just have to accept things the way they were. I made a peace within myself - this is how it is and I didn't want to live without her, so I would try to believe that this was the best she could do and that it wasn't her fault. And I always knew that things would be the same until she died. That I would have to tip toe around her and her moods. That I would not be the center of attention. That my true feelings would not be heard. That I would never hear that she loved me or was proud of me and I would have to be all right in just knowing that she was.

Then one day she called to tell me that she felt a mass in her rectum. She hadn't even gone to the doctor yet. I felt nauseated but knew that it was probably real. I made plans to visit, once again putting my own needs and now the needs of my own children on the back burner to look after her.

I arrived at her apartment to find a thin, frail, sick woman. The house was in disarray and it smelled. She could barely walk. She hadn't made any appointments. When I saw her I started to cry and told her that she looked terrible and why hadn't she called be earlier. To that she responded that it wasn't nice to say that she looked terrible. Still living in her bipolar world. For the rest of the week I took care of her - not trying to keep her from sleeping with the milkman and trashing the house, but trying to keep the house from burning down when she dropped her cigarette, cleaning up after she went to the bathroom, and making doctor's appointments that she refused to keep. The whole time all I could think was this really happening, just as when she was manic and did crazy things. Will I forever question the reality of a situation? When she died, what I knew would happen did. She just slipped away without any words of wisdom, goodbyes, or even a will for that matter.

Now that she is dead, I miss her terribly. I want to call and tell he what happened. I can't erase her cell phone number from my phone. I want to feel like I still have a chance to change things between us and to be closer. But now that will never happen. Just as I knew before that it would never happen.

Elisabeth

Happy Birthday Mom

Today is my mother's birthday. She would have been 69. She died this past September. I forgot that it was her birthday until I wrote the date on a note at work just after midnight. I am an OB/GYN and was working overnight from the 7th to the 8th. Three healthy babies were born this morning and they all share their birthday with my mother.

I loved my mother and now I miss her terribly. There is a huge hole in my life that used to be occupied by her. There are no more phone calls or visits. There is no more criticism. There is no more connection to the city in which we lived together. I still cannot believe that she is gone. I still cannot bring myself to delete her number from my cell phone.

My mother was complicated and so was our relationship. She suffered from bipolar disorder and I believe that was a big part of her personality. That could make it difficult to be around her, it blurred boundaries and often made her act inappropriately. It spurred hour long converstions with my brother and best friend complaining about what she said-did-didn't do.

But she was still my mother and I loved her. And even though she never said it, I know she loved me. And with each birth and new beginning I witnessed this morning I know that life goes on and is worthwhile.

Happy Birthday Mom