(warning: This is a bloated, self-indulgent prattle of a post.)
I've had a something that has been niggling my mind in the past few weeks that I wanted to speak about (I'm fine with ending that sentence with "about", to rewrite it to say "I've had something that has been niggling my mind about which I wish to speak," sounds flat out stupid): Me and my sainthood.
I have received some truly lovely emails regarding my relationship with my mother. There is nothing that I would enjoy more than seeing my puffy mug painted on church ceilings or knowing that pieces of toast in which my face mysteriously appears is supporting a whole cottage industry on eBay. Unfortunately my sense of guilt is standing in my way of such otherworldly fame (damn it). I am not a saint when it comes to dealing with my mother. I touched on this in a comment on one of my posts - It has only been in the last five or so years that I have been able to relax my own ego enough to have fun with her.
When my parents relocated here to be near us, they settled into a retirement center fifty miles away from our home. Fifty miles is close enough that you can’t say no, while still being far enough to be a major pain to manage. For awhile I was convinced that my parents did this on purpose. I’m now almost convinced that they didn’t. I could fill this page with all the complaints I use to have, I won’t though. Why would you want to read that? I will tell you about the day when things changed for me:
[knock, knock]
Mom: “You’re late.”
Me: “I know. There was an unexplained back up on I5. It took me eighty minutes to drive here today.”
Dad: “You shouldn’t drive so slow on the freeway. It’s not good for your transmission.”
Mom: “Okay, let’s go to Fred Meyer. I just need to go to the bathroom first. Oh, and your daddy’s wheelchair is broken. You need to fix that before we go.”
Dad: “Betty, it’s not broken!”
Mom: “One wheel doesn’t turn or something. Last night at dinner, you father sat outside the dining room spinning in a circle. You need to fix it.”
Me: “Okay, I’ll look at it. Maybe it just needs some WD40. Just in case, where’s your toolbox?”
Dad: “….”
Mom: “….”
Me: “You don’t know where your toolbox is, do you?”
Mom: “Give us some credit! We know where it is.”
Me: “Where?”
Mom: “At Zoda’s apartment. We gave it to her.”
Me: “What! Mom, I put that little toolbox together for you. Why would you give it away?”
Mom: “We’re past being able to fix things. Seemed a shame to let those tools go to waste.”
Me: “::sigh:: Okay, well, let me see what I can do. I can’t believe you would give away tools.”
Mom: “I’ll get you a butter knife.”
Me: “Do you have any WD40?”
Dad: “Why would we have WD40?”
Me: “I bought you guys a couple of cans right after you moved in.”
Mom: “Oh those things. I threw them out. It seemed dangerous to keep them in the apartment. Very smelly.”
Me: “I can’t believe this. Okay, let me look around and see what I can figure out.”
Mom: “Why are you so grumpy?”
Me: “Mom, you can’t figure that out?”
Dad: “Don’t talk to your mother in that tone.”
Mom: “It’s not your wheelchair. Just be grateful for that.”
Me: “Yes, I know, I know. Here I found some Pam.”
Mom: “Well put some newspapers down first before you spray that junk.”
Me: “Dad, have you been rolling through the community garden again? There’s a lot of mud caked on these wheels. They’ve told you that you can’t bring your chair out there.”
Dad: “No one is going to tell me that I can’t go to somewhere called ‘community.’ That’s just not right.”
Me: “You two are going to get evicted from here, I swear.”
Mom: “Ho-ho-ho, I’d like to see them try.”
Me: “Well, the good thing is it looks like the only thing wrong with the chair is you have some mud and gravel really jammed into that little back wheel hub. I think I can scrape it out and it will be okay again.”
Mom: “See? You get all angry about the tools and all you would have needed was the butter knife anyway.”
****
[honk honk]
Me: “Mom, why are you honking the horn?”
Mom: “Well what’s taking you so long?”
Me: “I’m having trouble getting the wheelchair to fold.”
Mom: “You need a bigger car. We told you when you got this one that it wasn’t big enough.”
Dad: “Don’t bend the wheelchair frame!”
Me: “I’m not putting the chair in jeopardy! I just can’t get that little lever up. There’s mud jammed into that too.”
Dad: “You didn’t do a good job of cleaning it out.”
Mom: “She was always bad at cleaning.”
Me: “Can y’all just give me a break here?”
Mom: “We are. Just try harder.”
***
Me: “There you are. Why didn’t you answer your phone?”
Mom: “I read where cell phones give you brain cancer.”
Me: “Mom, I don’t think using the phone for a ten second conversation is going to give you brain cancer.”
Mom: “You’re not a doctor.”
Me: “Where’s Dad?”
Mom: “I pushed him by the bananas.”
Me: “Mom, that’s clear across the store. Let’s go get him.”
Mom: “I don’t want to walk all the way over there. I’ll stay over here by the furniture.”
Me: “You promise you’ll stay right here?”
Mom: “Of course.”
***
Dad: “Where’s your mother?”
Me: “I don’t know. I told her to stay around here.”
Dad: “Children shouldn’t tell their parents where to stay or not stay.”
Me: “Dad, I wasn’t trying to order her around. I just didn’t want to have to hunt for her again. I’ll try calling.”
Dad: “She won’t answer that thing. You know, the cancer.”
Me: ::sigh::
***
Mom: “What took you so long to find me?”
Me: “Mom, you didn’t stay by the furniture.”
Mom: “I didn’t need any furniture. Why did you think I’d be over there?”
Dad: “That does seem illogical of you Deven.”
Me: “You told me you’d stay by the furniture.”
Mom: “I’m sure I never said such a thing.”
Me: “You did. I tried to call again too. Why didn’t you answer?”
Mom: “Your mind is slipping. Remember, the cancer?”
Me: “… yes, the cancer. Why do you even have the phone with you and on?”
Mom: “Because I want to know if you’re trying to call.”
Me: “But you’re not going to answer.”
Mom: “No.
****
[honk honk]
Me: “Please don’t honk the horn!”
Mom: “I just wanted to tell you not to squash the cupcakes.”
Me: “I haven’t even put the groceries in yet. I’m still trying to fold up the chair.”
Dad: “Betty, she’s going to bend up that chair. Go help her.”
Me: “Don’t come help me!”
Mom: “Too late, I’m here. You just lift that little lever up and smoosh in the sides.”
Me: “I know that Mom. I can’t get the lever to budge. ::OW!:: Quit pushing on the sides!”
Dad: “Don’t talk to your mother in that tone.”
Me: “Mom, quit trying to help. I’ll use a pen to try to pry that lever up.”
Mom: “Bet now you wish you had a butter knife.”
****
Mom: “We’ll just sit here while you carry in the groceries. That way you don’t have to get the chair out. You better make two trips.”
Me: “I can get everything in one trip.”
Dad: “You’ll squash the cupcakes.”
****
Dad: “What took you so long?”
Me: “The elevators were very slow.”
Mom: “It’s lunchtime. All the elevators are clogged. You should have brought up the groceries at another time.”
Dad: “Did she squash the cupcakes? Betty, I think she squashed the cupcakes.”
Me: “I. Didn’t. Squash. The. Cupcakes.”
Mom: “You’re getting all worked up Deven. Calm down.”
Dad: “She squashed the cupcakes.”
****
Mom: “Does this place have tables? We can’t sit in a booth.”
Me: “Mom you know they have tables. We eat here all the time.”
Dad: “They could have redecorated.”
Me: “Redecorated? Since we were here last week?”
Mom: “You make it sound like that’s not possible. Your daddy and I watched a show where they redid someone’s living room over two days. A week would be plenty of time to redo a restaurant.”
Dad: “What will we do if they don’t have tables?”
Me: “I, for one, plan on faking my own death.”
Mom: “Don’t be a sassy pants.”
****
Me: “Mom, why are you walking so fast? I can’t keep up with you and push Dad.”
Dad: “I told you I can push myself! You’re going to run me up a curb and bend the frame!”
Mom: “shhhhhh… you two hush up! Deven, meet me at the back of the car.”
****
Me: “Mom you look all wildeyed. What’s going on?”
Mom: “Here, here, take this. It’s to help with your daddy’s chair.”
Me: “You stole a butter knife?”
Mom: “Yes. I know it’s a sin but God should forgive me because we’re in need. I wouldn’t have had to do that if you kept some tools in your car.”
Me: “….”
Mom: “You could say thank you.”
Me: “Thank. You.”
Mom: “That didn’t sound very grateful. I sinned for you.”
****
Mom: “Well goodbye dear. It was a nice visit.”
Dad: “Yes it was. And my chair didn’t get bent. Though those cupcakes look a little tossed around.”
Me: “….”
Mom: “Sorry about your headache. I hope it doesn’t turn into something serious.”
Dad: “You should throw away that cell phone.”
Mom: “See you next week.”
Me: “….”
****
As I drove away, my head hurt so much my vision was blurred. It wasn’t just from the things that I wrote about above, but also the hundreds of little details I chose to leave out (I’d say for the sake of brevity, but looking back up at that mess, I don’t think I could claim that). It was also the weight of two years of weekly visits like this.
I pulled over into a parking lot. Put my head down on the steering wheel and sobbed for a good ten minutes. I was so heart broken. I had visions in my head every time I came for a visit, that Mom would greet me at the door with some iced tea. That we would all sit and chat about me, Ben, current events, things that Mom and Dad were interested in, blah blah blah. That we would leisurely go to the car and make a non-traumatic trip to the grocery store where there would be no twenty minute discussions about whether or not you could soak dog chow long enough to fool people into thinking it was beef stew. That once in the store, my parents wouldn’t slip away from me like mercury. That we would calmly return with their purchases, and then discuss lunch. That there would never be panic that EMTs would have to be called to extricate them from a dining booth. And that at the end of the visit, I wouldn’t feel like I had been beaten with a tube sock filled with tangerines.
I lifted my head off the steering wheel and repeated, “Two years.” Really, it took me two years to figure out that this was the way things are, and are going to be? What a dope! In that second, it was like a switched turned on. Really, it happened in an instant. I’ve worked in prisons, I’ve worked in middle school, and I never had trouble dealing with impossible people. I should be able to deal with my own parents. After all, it was very unlikely that they would try to shank me. I should be able to make this work. It was then that I decided to treat my weekly trips to see them as charity work. I gave up all personal expectations of what this time was going to be. I was going to go see them for THEM, not me. Week to week after this, it became easier.
I’m not going to ask you to believe this was a seamless transition, but really, it wasn’t as difficult as you might think. I had a mantra I repeated to myself when things got tense, “This is for them, not you. This is not about you, this is all about them.” As time went on, I had to repeat this mantra less and less. For awhile, I thought I was proving out that old saying “Charity begins at home.” It was after the passing of my father, that I came realize that what I was doing was not charity, it was forgiveness. I had forgiven my parents for not living up to my expectations. I had forgiven myself for being a big ol’ egocentric head. It was simply the letting go of all the things that were never going to be. And that was a huge weight let go.
I love my mother unconditionally. That goes without saying. The real gift has been allowing myself to like my mother unconditionally. I sincerely like her now. All of her quirks, all of her eccentricities. I like her friends the same way – unconditionally. It’s one of the best things I’ve ever done for myself.
Now I could get all preachy and tell you how you should do this too, but I know that all circumstances are not the same, not the same at all. Though it would be nice if y’all would stop for a moment and just think about giving up some of the hurt you carry around with you. See if there’s just a tiny little piece you can say that you’re just going to leave behind now. Do it for Mom.
If you made it all the way down here in this post, please let me tell you I’m sorry for wasting five minutes of your life. See? There’s a bit of hurt you can let go right now.TIP:
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Comments
My parents aren't there yet, but idea of thinking of time together as a gift to them is very sound. I know my mom loves it when we get unstructured time together, even though it can sometimes drive me crazy.
You are a lucky girl. And a wiser one, too.
This was teachy, not preachy.
If my mother were not dead, I would try to take your advice. As it is, I might revisit some of her actions with the clearer vision of hindsight.
I thank you for the peek behind the scenes. Trust me, every daughter here knew there were a few million pages missing from your hilarious stories ... I'm just glad you offered your insight and I'm ever so grateful to live through this with you ... it's almost as good as doing it myself!!!
xoxo
Ann
My mother isn't near retirement age yet and lives 800 miles away, but it takes a lot to get through a visit, for both of us. It's great for three days, then like clockwork we'll turn on each other and get into a huge catfight about something stupid.
BTW, I loved the conversation about the dog food. Sometime I'll have to blog about the time Mom convinced her son (age 6) that times were tough and we were going to eat dog food for supper that night, and since he was being so brave about it, he could choose which can was going to be "his."
Nope, you're not a saint. You are great because you are *real* - magnificently so.
As for preachy, I am sooo bad about that! Thanks for reminding me to not do that.
And finally, I think your mom is great, and I think you're pretty great, too.
I have, to a certain extent, let go of a bunch of stuff with my parents, and amazingly, the parts that were about me have all gotten so much easier and better. I feel free to really like these people now. Losing expectations is a good thing.
Thanks for this very nice post. I will now shut up.
Now, get to work on that Tequila & Donuts-flavored toast!
I wish all 4,000 or whatever people thee are here would read this---cause there is major league wisdom here.
(I know what you'rte thinking Freaky, be careful---you'll give her a big head) But it's all true.
accepting people as they are. I relearn that all the time.
Many blessings to you. And I am impressed by your memory.
but you write great stories, and I've never felt that time I spend with them is wasted
this was one of the best
St Troll blesses you with clear sight and a sound heart ::wave, wave, poof::
You selfish bitch.
And then post it.
And then follow up with a "Just kidding!" comment.
If I knew you, I wouldn't hesitate. Here you're trying to deflate your own ego, and no one's letting you. It's truly a shame, people. Don't canonize her yet, she ain't dead.
Hugely entertaining as always, and if you want my "Winner of Pulitzer Prize" .jpg, just let me know.
(runs for cover)
(Freaky has a whole stash of Zerry picks I can nab from)
I believe I may have ceased to make sense.
I toast your bloated post!
It's a very hard transition, this aging thing. I liked it a whole lot better when going home was fun because it meant meals my mom cooked for me, and getting to sleep late and lounge around and be pampered. I miss those Diva days!
Okay, maybe not a saint. How do you feel about a bodhisattva – traveling the enlightened path w/the Buddha? (Your face could still be found in toast).
Seriously, though, this post made me feel all gooshy. Thank you.
Thank you.
This says it all: " It was after the passing of my father, that I came realize that what I was doing was not charity, it was forgiveness. I had forgiven my parents for not living up to my expectations. " My own mother was far more than eccentric or annoying and there was a lot to forgive her for. But I didn't do it for her, I did it for myself. And it was the best thing I ever did.
thanks for posting all this. I think your humorous writing allows you to reach people where saying this "straight" would get tuned out.
The scene every Senior Tuesday at the grocery store: All the boomers helping their elderly parents buy groceries. We exchange weary looks as our parents creep down the aisles, scolding us for rushing them. We take deep breaths and try to put back two of the four cartons of ice cream Mom is loading into the cart. I am not the only "child" who sought out an empty aisle, where I would swear violently under my breath and kick at the air. I also see that I'm not the only one who would drop Mom off then lean into the steering wheel and cry.
But now Mom's in the stupid nursing home and all demented and I would love to have her back harassing me about my terrible handwriting or inability to put the vacuum bag cleaner on correctly ("like your BROTHER.") I'm sure you're not a saint, but you are wise and funny and your mom is very blessed. thanks for this.
It's official. I love you.
You are not even a tiny bit a rotten person, nor preachy. Your post could not have come at a better time for me. What I want to know is how you made the transition. You could be preachy some more and tell us how you did it. I sure would not mind!
I wish I should have realized sooner...
We all have to care for someone (s) we love but maybe we don't like so much. Someday, it may be us or our beloved friends.
Thank you for explaining it all and making it funny too!
Mom's been gone for 20 years, but you remind me to talk to her anyway, at least every Wednesday.
Must get some sleep to talk to Dad tomorrow. Hellish 3 hour conversation that will make him so happy.
Jake (the dad) thanks you. Kirsten the daughter thanks you too.
Good advice, works in all kinds of relationships.
With my Mom sinking further into Alzheimers, I came to see her as others did and appreciate her personality which shown through even up to the end. Was a process and forgiveness was a major part as well as giving up the needy child within me.
Long life has its rewards.
And the ending. HA!
I. would. buy. this. book.
I am not a saint. What helped me cope was a mantra whereby I named all the difficult, stubborn, bratty children she had taken care of during her life--her 6 younger siblings, her six children, particularly her daughter, her 15 grandchildren. I tried to figure out how many days, weeks, and years of child care she had provided to help me go to school and work.
The mantra helped. Laughing with my brothers and my children helped even more. Mom and I ultimately kept faith with each other, and since she died in 2004 I am never regretted welcoming her into my home.
This was so touching and wise. I'm with the others who say "Book! Please?"
Forgiveness and letting go of expectations. {{Thunk}} *hits forehead with heel of palm* Simple, yes. Easy? No.
Thanks for the encouragement. :-)
Your writing reminds me of a book: "Take my Parents... Please!" I must say your writing is so heart rending and yet funny, you must, must compile and get it published. You must!
I love and like 'em both. :-)
Well done.
Is there a Post of the Week? There should be. This is it.
my relationship with my mother started to change after my therapist suggested that i look on my time with her as volunteer work, treat her with the same compassion i would treat someone i didn;t know.
i really love this post. thank you.
It's the expectations game that gets us in trouble all the time -- the "if you really loved me, you'd do what I want" game that makes people on both sides end up losers.
In this matter, you've obviously got your head on far straighter than most -- including me.
(Stacey, don't be silly - thank you)
You are a good person. You are a decent person. Keep reminding yourself of that. Parent's are good at pushing buttons, whether or not it's intentional. Their parents probably did the same thing to them. It's hard breaking learned behavior. It's also OK to forgive them while accepting that the pain you felt was real. Sometimes we just need to shine a little light on that pain to help it heal.
It just getting into the mindset of loving your parents and accepting all their quirks and faults; and hoping that when you get to their age your children will do the same....
I nursed my husband through 14 years as he fought a brain tumour that robbed him of every dignity - and yes, there comes a time when you realise that you have to do things for them not for you. You find that when you can accept then you can cope and suddenly you can love and appreciate.
and i envy you for figuring it out in time.
and like it or lump it, you DO have a lovely heart.
Subtext.
Oh, you can't be a saint, you need a tiara of your own first. Tell mom taking butter knives can get her six to twenty-one months, but buying a screwdriver will mean she can spread butter and screw as well, legally.
I had a similar moment, but the knowledge was handed to me by a therapist. She said, "Look, the only person you can really change is yourself. That person isn't going to change, so change how you deal with them." So I did. Funny thing is, once I changed, they changed too.
Magic.