HISTORY
There are two sides to every story.
4:16 PM
The day I found my mother's body was
one of those desperately garish, cheerless grey days right before
Christmas.
My mom and I didn't see eye to eye on
many things, but we both had come to despair over Christmas. Since
her health declined, the very press of what her expectations were
made family gatherings took more effort than she could manage. She
swore off holiday gatherings, but woe to her children should we
forget to make an effort.
As she had refused to even let anyone
set up the per-decorated artificial Christmas tree, I was hoping to
surprise her. I'd planned on hanging ornaments from ribbons from her
living room ceiling, in an attempt to bring a little festivity and a
smile. I figured at first she'd fuss at me, and would most likely
tell me to take them down, but thought it was worth the effort. I
had suspected she'd rant some, but then relent, stating I could leave
them up just a few days.
That's how it was, between my mother
and myself. Oh, there was love, but she could never express love
well. And, it forever seemed, no matter what I did, my efforts were
never quite good enough, never quite up to her standard. During
her long, slow decline, between cancer and congestive heart failure,
I'd gotten used to her standing over me as I did things for her (whether vacuuming or preparing strawberries and everything inbetween) , telling me what to do, how
to do it, berating me at times, but eventually thanking me, and I'd
know she was at least pleased with my efforts.
She married young, as most women did in
the early 1950's, right out of high school. I came along and she was
so pleased to have a baby girl.
She had hoped, she told me several
times, that she could dress me in ruffles and bows, and I'd be the
small replica of herself: a pretty, buoyant, happy, slim, athletic
girl.
Motherhood did not go easily for her
though, as she and my father split up when I was barely 3 years old.
Being a single mother in the mid 1950's was akin to being a pariah,
and she fled her small home town in northern Illinois for Chicago,
where she could find work.
I have a vague memory of a funny little
studio apartment, where we slept together on a fold out couch, and
ate our breakfast of cereal and milk out of those little cereal boxes
that one would split open the side, pour milk in and eat right out of
the box. The windows amazed me, as instead of people's faces, all
you saw was their feet. My mother was surprised I'd remembered that,
and as rather horrified, as she thought it was shameful that we lived
in a basement apartment.
Balancing a job, a small child and slim
wages was hard, so she farmed me out to her older brother's home and
family. My Uncle Rich and Aunt Dorothy were wonderful people; I
loved living there. Not only the fun of having my cousins to play
with, but Aunt Dorothy was demonstrative and boisterous as my mother
was not.
I had a grand time, and enjoyed every
minute. My mother's older sister, Aunt LaVerne had qualms though.
Aunt LaVerne was as reserved in her manner as my mother, and felt
that Aunt Dorothy's household was not the best place to raise a
child. (Aunt Dorothy was known to have a beer in the evening with
Uncle Rich and occasionally cuss: sacrilege!) There were words
between Auntie Dorothy and Aunt LaVerne the summer before I turned 5:
in the end, Aunt LaVerne and Uncle Russ simply added me to their
household with their children. Small traitor that I was at that
young age, I didn't mind. What fun for me! More cousins to play
with and I had a glorious time.
When my mother married again and I was
told I'd be going to live with her, I didn't want to go. You have
to remember: I was only 5 years old at the time.
We moved to California when I was 6,
along with my new baby brother. Things changed dramatically then; I
was far from what I'd called home, far from my beloved cousins, far
from comfort, far from my loving Grammy Ann, aunties and uncles.
It soon became apparent I was never
going to be the pretty, slim, buoyant, happy, athletic little girl my
mother had hoped for. I was plain, clumsy, chunky and shy: I was
also a tomboy.
Those first few years in California, I
protested. Being so young, all I could say was I wanted to go home.
Home, to me, was Auntie Dorothy or Aunt LaVerne's house. Home was
the snowy winters, the green summers, to chase the fireflies, to
play with my cousins, to laugh and be happy.
Those first few years in California, I
protested. Being so young, all I could say was I wanted to go home.
Home, to me, was Auntie Dorothy or Aunt LaVerne's house. Home was
the snowy winters, the green summers, to chase the fireflies, to
play with my cousins, to laugh and be happy.
I wanted to go 'home'.
How could I have realized at my young
age how much this hurt my mother's feelings? Along came my 2nd
brother when I was 9, and I was pressed into helping even more. Oh,
how I resented having to clean house, wash out cloth diapers, mow the yard, weed, wash the dishes
and, once my mother went back to work, mind my little brothers when I
got home from school. It's taken me these many years to appreciate
that I was learning skills that have served me well as an adult.
My mother and I never grew close, never
found a way to really talk to each other. She never gave praise,
only scolded for me to do better: it was the way most parents were
back then. She would often sit back, take a good look at me and
state sadly 'You are nothing like I ever was, I really don't know how
you could be so, so ….' and trail off. She had been the prom
queen, a cheerleader, the most popular girl in school: I was none of
those things.
I felt I was a pure disappointment; it
was as simple a that.
Children view adults as almost superior beings: children can never imagine
their mother being a true person in her own right.
As an adult, I
tried to see things from her eyes. I am sure the gulf in our
relationship started from my wanting to return to my aunties' homes.
How my mother must have missed me, wanted to have me with her, and
all I wanted to do was leave. It had to wound her to the core.
Sadly, about the time we could start to enjoy each other for who we
each were, instead of who we wanted each other to be, her health and
the resulting dementia brought a whole, new dimension to our tenuous
relationship.
The day I found my mother's body, I
had hoped to bring a bit of cheer to her. My heart still breaks
thinking of how she had died alone. If you knew my mother, you knew
what a powerhouse of opinion she could be. Being alone was exactly,
she would tell everyone, how she liked it. That being said, she did
expect visits, short, productive were the best: there were always
things needing to be done. Once she was satisfied, you were urged to
leave.
I can chuckle now: my mother, forever
the prom queen.
The day I found my mother's body, my
world shifted: my life would never be the same. Normally, I came on
a Saturday, perversely, that weekend, I came on Sunday, a day too
late. Did I disappoint her again? At this stage, I try not to think
of it that way: we both tried our best. Its time to let the old
hurts go and just remember the good.
Mom, I love you.
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