This time, we did things differently. This time we went no holds barred. She told of her pain and suffering and I told of mine. I willed myself to listen to her instead of refusing to let her venture onto certain topics that I had deemed 
taboo. I finally allowed her to tell me things about her personal life which suddenly put a new, heart-breaking spin on why she did the things she did as I was growing up. My anguished cry of “You were never there for me!” withered on my lips as I contemplated the woman who was unfolding before me. Now I acknowledged the truth: that she had truly struggled through an abusive childhood that left her broken.
And then my father passed and she was forced to file for bankruptcy and lost everything; she could barely keep her head above water. She was just afraid and only did what she thought at the moment was right. When I was a child she had never hated me or wanted to neglect me; she honestly was fighting to function day by day and only her love for her children had kept her going. And when I was an adult and she had financially lost everything because of decisions that involved my family, well, she just understandably “shut down” and withdrew from me.
Over forty years of pain melted away as we shared our disappointment, our rage, our insecurities, and our shame and heartache. I finally saw my mother as she truly was — a brave, loving person who was a lost soul, who lost everything, instead of the cruel, stingy monster I had made her out to be. We spoke for a very, very long time.
We celebrated her birthday a short while later. I cannot properly describe to you the eagerness with which I sought out the perfect birthday gift for her — and the ecstatic joy I saw in her receiving it. For the gift was just a symbol of the real gift we had both received, a long overdue gift that had been waiting 40-something long years for both of us to unwrap.
Today, I can honestly say that I had a mother. And my mother had a daughter. We actually loved each other. We could talk about things openly now and resolve problems like, well, like mothers and daughters normally do. We shared our tears and pain. We enjoyed our times together and missed each other when we were apart. We forgave each other. I finally had the privilege of finally showing my mother honor and respect on a daily basis. I listened to her, supported her, and left her loving messages on her answering machine. I bit my tongue when I knew my tone of voice was too strong. We both honestly acknowledged when a topic came up that triggered us back to our past struggles, and we moved on together. It was not easy, but then again, most worthwhile things in life aren’t easy. Now, when my mother and I interacted, there was a palpable positive energy between us; the bond of two people who cared deeply about each other. I wish my children could see it. My sister sees it. And I know God sees it.
In the end her mind was slipping and her short term memory fading. However, I am so grateful to have been given the opportunity to heal our relationship in this world. I enjoyed the many months she spent with me last year making up for lost time.
All of the little things and big things that used to upset her she no longer noticed. I didn’t have to worry about her obsessing about the things that used to consume her. She would say the funniest things and we were always laughing with her, not at her. She was extremely possessive of her purse and junk she managed to collect (yes, she managed to find “things” even in the hospital). Many times my sister and I would discuss breaking mom of her hoarding habits. To which we both agreed that there was no way to stop her. The stuff stays. Let her keep something familiar.
I don’t make excuses for
my mother’s past behavior, nor do I pine for another crack at a childhood with a June Cleaver sort of mother. What was simply remains in the past. In some strange way, the dementia seemed to have made her a more content person — probably a result of a combination of good drug therapy, a safe, controlled environment and her ever-changing brain.
Things did get worse for mom in the end but we all worked hard to live day by day when it came to just making her happy; to stay positive and to model positive behavior in her presence. I recall when I was younger, how I used to consume so much energy fighting every word that she said – protesting her every thought, frustrating her further. However, I learned in the last few years, after love and forgiveness, to just simply enjoy the present with her. Something I wish I could have learned earlier in my life.
And so as the final days passed, I’ve come to see that my mother’s death was truly one of the greatest gifts she ever gave to me. In her dying, she allowed me to share in her confusion, regret, fear and doubt. She was perfectly and beautifully human in her vulnerability and need for comfort and support. By witnessing her final struggle to make sense of her life, to release the fears and regrets of a lifetime, I was given permission to step fully into the often confusing and stormy world where my own life plays out.
While I like to say that I feel her spirit with me now, who knows if that’s really what I’m feeling? It could just be my own need to feel her with me. The greatest thing I learned at her bedside through those long nights was that, in fact, I know very little, maybe nothing at all! That life is indeed a huge mystery, and the best I can do is bow down in humility, and ask for support, comfort and guidance as I do my best to open my heart wider and wider, and express my willingness to forgive, live fully, enthusiastically and with great abandon so as not to waste this precious gift of life as a human being; a fragile, weak, vulnerable, petty – and also powerful, glorious and stunning – human being.
It was so strange the morning she passed; mom had been struggling especially hard through her last night. I had the hospice staff bathe her and fixed her hair and even put on lipstick for her. I then whispered into her ear, “Your hair and makeup are done just as you like. So it’s o.k. to let go now, you can finally go to heaven and be with Jesus.” Just a few moments later she opened her eyes and looked up. It was just as I had experienced with my father 15 years ago when he passed. I stood there and held her hand and watched her take her final breath and that was it. She was gone. The nurse came in and said to me, “she must have heard you.”
I now realize the loss of either parent cuts deep, but I believe that mothers shape most women’s lives like no one else. What your mother served for dinner (or didn’t), whom she married (or divorced), the work she chose (or had forced upon her)…things like these tell a daughter what it means to be a woman. Whether you model your choices on hers or cringe at the very thought, whether she nurtured or neglected the girl you really were (as opposed to the one she thought you would be), your mother is your North Star. And while she lights your way, she also links you to the past.
Over this last year I often wondered how much longer I would have with her and what I would do when she was gone. I know now today; mourn hard and slowly. I hope to come to accept the yearning that blindsides me when something wonderful happens—a baby’s birth, a success, my hopeful reconciliation with my daughters—and now neither mom nor dad are not here to share any of it.
Now when I see women chatting with their mothers over lunch, I will wish them many more outings together. And when I hear that a woman I know has lost her mother, I will do what other women have done for me. I will write a note, share a memory, offer whatever help I can on her path to her mother’s empty house. A gift for supporting each other is part of our inheritance as women. When I find my heart breaking thinking of my own daughters and this horrible distance between us, I will pray for reconciliation and wish for forgiveness and understanding.
I know I will see my mother every day just as I have seen my father since he has passed. In the hazel eyes of the woman in front of me at the post office. In the auburn hair of the lady dining at the restaurant table adjacent to mine. In the lightly wrinkled hands of the grocery clerk as she hands me my change.
I will look for my mother in the faces of strangers every day. But the moments I will see her best, most vivid and true, are when I look in the mirror.
I will miss you mom. Today I know that you did the best you could.
Love your daughter,
Julianna
