Simpatico

Writing is hard. I find myself in a constant battle of wills with my own psyche. That sounds too judgy. That makes zero sense. That will set off a cataclysmic avalanche of yawns. Yet, 2023 is turning out to be my “year of the higher power.” I have committed to grow in a relationship with God. In doing so, I find myself praying on purpose. Rather than waiting until my molehill of issues reaches Vesuvius despair, I am making prayer a common occurrence, even, or especially, when things are good. The thing about God is, He tends to respond. I am finding out that the response is seldom going to result in anything easy and breezy. My higher power asks me to do difficult things. Today, the one-year anniversary of my mother’s death, I would rather stay in bed and watch the raindrops fall from the leaf clogged roof gutters than face the world. But, I asked Him what to do with all of these big feelings today. The answer felt less like a gentle wind and more like a gut punch. I need to write about my mom today. So, here we go.

Two scant weeks ago, I told you about the Instagram reel of my mother that has now topped 26,000 likes and nearly 900 comments. Here’s what I didn’t tell you. Not all of the comments are nice ones. Most people are sorry for my loss or they want to tell me about their loss. Their mom died last year or 5 years ago or 25 years ago. They are glad to see my caption that says something like “call your mom if you are fortunate to still have her.” However, that statement enraged many. “My mom doesn’t take my calls anymore.” “I have no love for my mother. How dare you suggest that I should open myself up to an abusive phone call.” “My mother is a monster.” “Not every phone call to a mother is a positive occurrence. You should be more careful with your words.” “My mother destroyed my life.” For the first few weeks of this post, I was trying earnestly to respond to every message. After the negative

ones filtered through, I just couldn’t read them anymore. It sent me into a tailspin. After much internal conversation, I think I understand why I was so shattered by these words. In my nightmares, my own children feel this way about me. I worry, incessantly, if I did enough. Were they too scarred by my divorce from their father? Did I ruin them? I look back on my years of early motherhood as the best time of my life, but is that all an illusion? Was I the monster? They would tell you this is all hogwash. I asked them. But, here is something I know to be true. The mother-daughter relationship is not for the faint of heart.

My mom and I were not always close. If you know me, or knew her, or knew us together, this may shock you. I won’t air dirty laundry, Momma. Fear not. Let’s just say there were periods of estrangement. Depending on my mood of a given day, the estrangements were her fault more than my own, though I realize it is in my nature to paint myself as the heroine in this story. My mom chose to live apart from me during a time I felt I needed her deeply. I was young. I chose not to tell anyone. This continued, throughout my early adulthood. I cut off all contact. She remarried. I wasn’t invited. That made me more despondent. It wasn’t that we never saw each other. We kept up appearances. I just didn’t speak, and she just didn’t speak. My si-lence cut her like a knife, and her absence absolutely suffocated me. Suddenly, I was in labor with my last child and had a sudden realization. I could call my mother. I needed her and, with the intense clarity only a contraction can provide, I decided to roll the dice and pick up the phone. She walked in, an hour later, like the last near decade never happened. Except, the same estrangement happened again. And, again. Then, one morning, I woke up to the realization that she was older, and that something wasn’t right. That’s how we began rowing in a boat together against the current of Alzheimer’s. I was bitter. Why? Had I not been through enough? Had I not cried enough tears over the emotional turmoil we’d weathered through our lives? Now I’m her sole caregiver? Again, the things God will ask of you will never be simple, or easy, or carefree.

I am embarrassed to speak to you of these ancient tragedies with my mom. When I look back at her life and at my life, I see through the lens of wisdom, retrospect, and love. The jagged edges of our experiences seem softened by humor. The bucket of old pictures I sifted through for her memorial one year ago showcased a life that was rife with suffering and disappointments for her. I have no anger. I finally see my mother for what she was, someone doing the absolute best she could. I wasn’t only loved by her. I was adored. I was cherished. I was her everything, though she wasn’t quite sure she deserved me. I am certain that she is watching me from an incredibly gorgeous vantage point. She knows I understand, finally. We are simpatico, Mom and me. Because of her, I can do the difficult things. Love you, Momma.