Me and Mom

There’s June Cleaver, Claire Huxstable, Mother Teresa. And then there's my Mom.

 

About the only thing all four ladies had in common were high levels of estrogen.

 

Mom and I didn't see eye to eye on many subjects and that's putting it lightly. If I was having fun, I shouldn't be. If I wasn't having fun, then that's just how it should be. We fought constantly: over my hair, my clothes, my grades, my choice of friends, and my life in general. The disapproval came in many forms, mostly verbal, starting very young and carrying on well into adulthood. And even though it’s all history now, I still remember the sting of some of the things she used to say.

 

Sometimes, even now, those words are right there in front of me again like an unwanted imaginary billboard. And if I allow it, I’m still 10 years old and feeling totally inadequate. My care wasn’t inadequate: I was looked after, fed, watered, had a bed to sleep in. But in all the years I lived under my own mother’s’ roof, though I knew it wasn’t so- couldn’t be so- I never felt truly and unconditionally, no-strings attached, loved.

 

It felt that way because, through my eyes, Mom’s love so often came out in such peculiar and unloving ways over the same small and- in the big picture- nit-picky issues. Again- hair, clothes, friends, not living up to her expectations- it was like a long playing broken record that she never removed from the turntable. Same ol, same ‘ol. I didn’t specifically measure up well with my big brother Steve. I never measured up in general. And it hurt that I didn’t.

It broke my spirit and often, broke my heart. Sometimes I didn’t know where to go to feel okay, just as I was, except around my friends. Or in my room, with my books and baseball cards.  But this broken relationship with my own Mom, all the heaviness that came with it sometimes made me feel a little jealous of all the kids I knew who had intact, and even great relationships, with their Mom's; the kids with Mom's that really seemed to not just love, but like their kids, too.

 

Oh sure, I did typical little boy things that would land me in hot water with anyone’s Mom. But when she was angry at me for stuff that seemed unfounded and unfair, I used to think, "Why can't my Mom be more like Kirt's mom, or Gary's, or Paul's?" Or at least be a little less rigid. Lighten up a little Be More understanding. More patient? Or maybe, why couldn’t she just leave me alone?

I'm not sure that was in my mother’s maternal DNA though. However to her credit, I think Mom was born to be a Mom. She took the role seriously and seriously cared about the raising of all us kids, though my interpretation of "caring" and hers were most likely worlds apart. Besides, the way Mom learned to mother probably wasn’t anything she could control. She went on her instincts, or perhaps was just doing as her Mother had raised her. I don’t know. My perceived shortcomings and faults seemed to set her off though and she often took them out on me. Of course, none of her babies came with an instruction manual, either. I wish we had because, though. Maybe it would’ve been easier for her. Or easier on me.

Or at least, going though it with her, wouldn’t have sucked so much.

But I refuse to go around and 'blame my life' on Mom or my upbringing. Any mistakes I’ve made- and there have been plenty- I made ‘em on my own and with no help from the sidelines. Being Mom's kid didn’t cause me to go out and 'do something stupid'. All my errors and transgressions are nobody's fault but my own, and I take full responsibility. So there.

Mom died in 2002.

She’d had a bad heart for a long time and it finally gave out (and I often wondered if raising me had been a contributing factor to her heart disease). But fortunately, by the time of her death, she and I had finally put up the white flag of surrender. The wars and little skirmishes we’d waged forever it seemed, were over. A working truce had finally taken root in our relationship and at long last we'd achieved peace in our time. We'd pretty much buried the hatchet, and not in each other.

Though a description of our relationship wouldn't be found in a Hallmark card, by the end I'd come to appreciate and love her for who she was. And I think maybe she'd come to love and appreciate the person I'd grown to be, too. I was finally “ok”; at least okay enough that in her final year, her perceived shortcomings in me were never brought up for discussion. I called it progress. She called it “mellowing with her age.”

Whichever, at the end, we'd become friends and because we had, Mother’s Day remains a hard weekend for me. Nobody sees it, I keep it locked up inside, but every Mothers Day since she's been gone--maybe in the shower, getting ready for the day, or at church-- there’s always a random small little moment where I find myself thinking about her and missing her. I guess it doesn’t seem to matter how old you get, or how positive or dysfunctional the relationship was, the boy never forgets his mom.

But it's on Mom's Day especially that I struggle not to beat myself up for growing up such a challenging child. I know I was a pain sometimes and often tried her patience. Mom was also diabetic. And when her blood sugar ran low, it likely contributed to, or set off, her mighty mood swings, rants and rag-on sessions. As a kid, though, I didn’t make that correlation. I just knew she was mad at me and I was bad. Yet as an older kid and young adult I wouldn’t cut her any slack for it.  By then, I think I pushed her buttons on purpose, just to "get even".

I never derived much satisfaction from it though, and it’s often been hard to forgive myself for letting the all-important maternal relationship sink to the depths of disharmony that it did. When Mom was alive, I tried to make up for it by always sending cards and flowers on birthdays and Mother’s Days and calling weekly as well. Did it make a difference? I don’t know. But in our not always very hand-in-hand relationship, I think it mattered to her which, I suppose if nothing else, meant she still mattered to me. And though I can't go back and try and get my childhood right, at the end of Mom's life, I think I finally did. Or came close.

On a whim one Saturday after a dump run, I called to see if she’d like to join Amy and me for lunch. She sounded delighted at the invitation, and an hour later she and Dad joined us at Bakers Square in Auburn. And for the next ninety minutes, over a sandwich and some fries, we caught each other up on the latest news and gossip. We didn't talk about anything special, just shared some pleasant conversation on a random Saturday afternoon. Nice meal, good chat. But as we were leaving, she pulled me aside and told me "It made my day that you called. Thank you. That was a really good time. Let's do it again soon."

It was the last time I saw her.

The next morning, as she and Dad were on their way to see her grandkids over in Reno, she suffered a final, massive coronary. Taken to a local hospital, she was placed on life support as the family gathered. From what we were told by the doctors, she wasn’t going to make it this time. So everyone went in and said their farewells. But not me. I chose to remember her the way she’d been 24 hours before, and how happy she said I’d made her feel. That's the last memory I wanted to have of her; the battles were over and put to rest and that I’d finally done something right and good for my Mom. I wanted to remember the good day we'd had in life on Saturday, not the deserted jar of clay being kept alive only by machines on Sunday.

Amy and I didn’t even stay the night in Reno. It was clear Mom’s time was very close, but I chickened out on staying to the end. Consumed with worry, fear, regrets, anxiety- the finality of it all- I wanted to go home and go to work the next day to keep my mind occupied on something else. So we went home. Sleeping in my own bed didn’t help because after a mostly sleepless night, the sun rose on a picture perfect summer-like Monday morning and nothing had changed. Mom was still dying and I was still being eaten up by the past.

It was September 30, 2002. 

Dad called about a quarter to ten with the expected news that the doctors had pulled the plug. Less than five minutes later, Mom took her last breath and peacefully left this world bound for eternity with Jesus. Oddly, the time of death was 9:30 on 9/30.

I went out to my car and cried for what seemed like an hour, thought it was really only about 15 minutes. Nobody noticed the red eyes, or if they did, didn’t ask. I didn’t even volunteer the information of a death in the family till I had to ask for the day off for her funeral. I guess everybody handles bad news differently; I did anyway. Looking back, though, the way I handled it seems really strange. Was I just trying to compartmentalize, or just copping out. Either way, working the rest of the week, and not talking about the family situation, seemed therapeutic. At least, it kept me busy.

As my mind wandered during the funeral, I wished I could go back and just one more time look her in the eye and tell her “I love you”- and really mean it. That would mean a lot to me. But I can't do that now. Yet someday I will see Mom in Heaven again and when that day comes, I sometimes wonder if I'll crumble in tears in front of her and beg forgiveness for being so difficult on her in life, or if she'll smile and hug me and  tell me all along how proud she was that I was her kid.

Putting the past in the past is still a work in progress. No, I didn't have a storybook upbringing. It was dysfunctional. However, in reality, it could’ve been a lot worse. Besides, in one way or another, I think everybody’s family is probably a little messed up. It’s the human condition. Nobody’s perfect. Nobody’s a perfect parent. None of us were perfect children. We’re all a product of our environment- dealing with the hand we’re dealt as life works itself out. Or, to borrow from an overused contemporary phrase, it just is what it is.

In life, Mom and I coexisted on an emotional battlefield, each of us taking shots, inflicting wounds, declaring small victories or retreating to fight another day. And though some scars remain, the battle, at last, is over. And at the end, I know she loved me. Mom didn't show it very well, but if nothing else, in her own way, she tried to. I don't miss the quarrels, put-downs, and bad feelings. But sometimes, I miss the friendship we settled into at the end. I miss just getting together to talk.

 

And as I pass this 9th Mothers Day without her, I think the following status update I saw in Facebook today makes a nice Mom's Day milestone marker. I think she'd like it too-

"If roses grow in heaven then pick a bunch for me. Place them in my Mother's arms and tell her they're from me. Tell her that I love and miss her and when she turns to smile, place a kiss on her cheek and hold her for awhile."

God bless you, Mom.

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