MOTHER, MAY I?
The anniversary of Mom’s death is coming, May 3rd. I sadly remember those last few weeks of her life in the nursing home. I didn’t drive to city.
My son says, “You don’t want regrets.”
I went up the very last week of her of life every day, 1, 2, 3, and that last day held her hand and apologized for my life of raging at her. I think now of my failures as a daughter, yet interspersed are the good things I did too. I did rag at the weekend nurse and insist on a special chair so she could get out of bed. I did move her bed out of from the wall so she didn’t have to lay on one side only. I had the super open her apartment and gather a few mementos to decorate the one half room she shared behind the curtain in the nursing home with the women who had no legs. It was so hard letting go that I stayed away until that last week.
So thank you dear son, you gave us one last moment of love, where I looked in her eyes and felt loved; finally. And I can carry on knowing that she loved me best as she could, just like she’d said all along; “I did the best I could.” Boy, how I hated that expression. It stopped me, which was the point. Shut me up.
I left a remark on a blog this morning that I’m sharing because it hit me so deeply: When You’ve Been Abused
Saying the actual name or names of my attackers is like vomiting.
And the older I got the less I liked anyone bringing up ‘family’ because I couldn’t play the game and pretend anymore, I would sneer and mumble my sarcasm under my breath, still too afraid to speak the truth.
One of the favorite comments when introduced as Mom’s daughter with seven brothers, with her by side glowing with pride, “Oh, seven brothers, you must have been so spoiled!”
And when young I dutifully smiled shyly believing that must true if Mother says it is. But as I got older, I’d say to myself, “Yeah, spoiled, but not in the way you think.” At least I’d begun to see the truth as it is.
I won’t say their names if I don’t have to. I protect myself from evil, or a kinder version, due to their youth, very bad choices