Confusion Ensues

It's no secret that November 22 will mark yet another year since my mother passed away. And each year, I am met with such unpredictability as to how my mood will swing in addition to how it will affect those in my family.

This year, I am a little more melancholy and missing my mother even more than before. However, I can see why given that I'm preparing for my wedding in June, my brother and his wife are expecting a baby girl in January . . . a lot of family things going on, things that my mother should be witnessing but isn't.

What leaves me at a loss for words and feeling even more confused and melancholy is the way my father reacted when my other half and I invited him to stay for Thanksgiving. He says that he'd rather stay where he is and not travel. He argues that he doesn't like having to clear a potential visit with us before making arrangements (clearly not thinking about the fact that both my other half and I work and have other things going on that a visit from anyone would require discussion in advance). He takes statements I've made and either blows them out of proportion or twists them around to sound like something he can be upset about. Then he proceeds to manipulate me by saying whatever he chooses to say to elicit guilt and unrest on my end. And as much as I say it doesn't bother me, I won't let him get to me . . . it does bother me, he does get to me. My brother says cut our father some slack . . . he's old and doesn't think straight or clearly at times. I agree with his statement, however I know just how much my father crosses the line and disrespects my boundaries. Basically, he acts as though it is completely inappropriate for me to have any boundaries. At. All. What leaves me more melancholy is the fact that my father will not put his own discomfort or imagined grudge aside for Thanksgiving. In the years following my mother's death, my father and I have always been together on Thanksgiving. I feel abandoned, cast aside.

Just when I feel like the three of us are moving ahead, it's as though we move farther apart. It's as though we no longer know how to function as a family without my mother. It's just anger and many unspoken words.

Never give up . . . on anyone

I knew my mother was sick . . . I knew there wasn't much time left for her. But, I always thought there would be time for us to try and mend fences. I thought there would be time for us to find resolution and closure to the past together. I was wrong. I missed out on opportunity after opportunity to make amends with my mother, but towards the end, I gave up. If there's one trait I could say I definitely I inherited from my mother it's her stubbornness. Ok, and maybe a sense of pride. Though it is no excuse, I know that I gave up meeting my mother halfway because each time I did, it got me nowhere.

See, my mother and I were so similar that if you put the two of us in a room together (alone) the equivalent of a verbal World War III would break out. That’s just how we were . . . from the time I could probably speak, we rarely saw eye to eye on things. We were constantly arguing. But, the flip side is that when we got along, we really got along. We had a blast when we would go shopping together. She always gave into my ploys of “forgetting my wallet at home” and footing the bill. She did this even when I was a college student. There were times when my mother and I just laughed and laughed together – late night drives across the state of Pennsylvania, unpacking our house when we moved to Philadelphia, incredible shopping trips for prom dresses, etc. But, all that was lost on us when we didn’t get along. And in the last few years of her life, there were many things that brought her disappointment and sadness about some of the choices I made for myself.

For me, when my mother was getting really sick and the future was looking dim, my fears completely surfaced. I feared her dying thinking I was such a huge disappointment, that she hated me, etc. And what made it even worse was that the last time I saw her, two days before she died, I barely said a word to her. In fact, I don’t think I said anything and at the time, I had no idea if she even knew I was there. So, yeah, she died and our last moment together was silence. No words. Nothing. And this realization echoed through every inch of me.

So, there I was. My mother was gone and we had no resolution. No closure. Nothing. And I had all these lingering questions. Perhaps it seems childish or insane that I thought my mother hated me or that I was nothing but a disappointment in her eyes . . . but our relationship was so tenuous that these were truly my fears. Thus, in addition to feeling sad and grieving . . . I was angry because my mother left before we could resolve anything. She died without shedding a small ray on how she really felt.

God, yes, God, has a funny sense of humor though . . . either that or an incredible sense of timing. As I reveled in this anger, my father told me that my mother’s nurse was on the phone and she was asking for me. Her request was simple – to come to the house to talk to me about my mother and her last hours. Of course I said come over; which she did, the very next day. Never in a million years did I think that she would be my answer. What she conveyed to me was something I never thought I’d hear or learn about my mother’s thoughts. Especially during her last hours. In a nutshell, when all was said and done, the nurse told me that my mother was proud of me and the woman I had become. That though I didn’t follow the path she thought I should have, that I didn’t do so bad. And yes, she loved me. Apparently, my mother woke up calling for me and then proceeded to spend however long talking with the nurse about me and my life. She tried to express such disdain, worry and, perhaps, disappointment . . . but the nurse told me that when she simplified it for my mother, she couldn’t argue with the fact that I had a good job, a roof over my head and the ability to take care of myself. My mother conceded that there really wasn’t much more she could ask or expect. At least not at that point. And most of all . . . my mother loved me.

For quite some time, I was bitter because I couldn't understand why my mother couldn't have just said these things to me. Why she couldn't just, for once, tell me "I love you" without it being a battle of the wills. Why she couldn't have just met me halfway. Just. Once.

Now, I am not bitter or angry that it wasn't my mother who could have told me these things herself. She had her reasons . . . which I do understand. Rather, I am grateful that the nurse felt compelled to share this information. I am grateful that my mother was able to have this sort of conversation and leave nothing unresolved. It was Thanksgiving Day when I learned all of this . . . talk about something to be grateful for.