There is a lady who would bubble like a fresh glass of champagne. She always applied lipstick before leaving the car. She dressed with modesty and accessories. She could look at a snapshot and recall the location and every supporting actor in the cast of relatives and friends. She buzzed about drinking tea with friends, taxiing her children and then diving deep into her career. Her mission was to love those around her and soak up all the love they could possibly reflect.
Sometimes the prettiest tea kettle is never washed on the inside.
Soon the lack of self-care would catch up with her….. Replacing home cooked meals for buckets of ice cream and take out. Every mom deserves a treat, preferably in an edible form, in convenient form. Working longer hours in the place where she gets the most validation. It’s easy to give to someone who does appreciate you and taking from those who don’t seem to. She sat silent, pouting over the prideful actions her family took that would drive them all away from one another. Don’t say anything if you don’t have anything nice to say.
She confused the act of worrying for the depth of caring. Confused resentment for martyrdom. Confused rights for privileges. She constantly mourned that the blueprints they drafted of their lovely home couldn’t be built on a failing foundation. She never saw the truth extend into her life and the lives of her and her children.
I wish I had tried to understand her more. I wish she had tried to understand me. I should have grabbed her by the shoulders and asked her to teach me something. Something with my hands, something with my head, not something with my heart and definitely not just the less useful lesson that was to ‘always be nice’. I got to blame this on being too immature and naive and she got to blame this on my bad attitude.
I will never get to know her. She will never get to know me. That lady, my mother is gone.
Now there is a lady who is short and round. You can tell she used to be beautiful, though now she is near balding and wears no make up. She is heavy but clothes hang off her in a way that says she is uncomfortable and unfamiliar with this shape. She can’t remember where she is, what cup she is drinking out of, whose house she is in. She gets easily confused and overwhelmed but is elated to sit and drink tea with any smile that comes her way. Her failing mind is held hostage in a body she can’t care for. To her, there is comfort and routine in food. To me, watching her eat is like watching an addict ingest her drugs. If her house is any indication of how her brain works then the one well-worn path through the clutter and scrawled reminders pasting the cabinets are insights into her hopeless vault of old memories. Now, her only mission is to love those around her and soak up all the love they could possibly reflect.
I’m volunteering to be patient, kind, and open in the time we have left. I don’t really have a choice. I have to try to understand this version of who she is before there is nothing left of her. I have to release my grip on wishing she could answer all my questions or that she could still be that someone I look up to.
I’ll smile at that familiar ageing face and drink tea in her house, filled with clumps and piles that seem to make sense to her for a passing moment that she tries to hold on to. They are strewn about like the knots that form in my throat when I think about her. When I realize that one day I will need to let go of her and my angry immature love. Knots for the guilt of blaming her for giving up so easily and giving in with such victim hood.
But she has always been a lover, never a fighter.