Day 1

Where does this story start? I’m not sure. The facts of the story emerged to me piecemeal and in no particular order. I have lived this story but it has changed over time as new facts emerged. This is the overview of my mum’s life. Future posts will explore memories that are part of my understanding of my mother’s life and my own life.

My mother, died Tuesday June 27th. We all dread the loss of a parent. We all know we have to face it. But this loss for me is  complicated because the woman who  gave birth was lost to me many years ago. And that is the source of the rather grim name of this blog. My mother’s life and by extension my life has been shrouded in shame and grief.

My mother grew up in a Canadian city with her parents and younger sister. My grandfather was the owner and president of a small family owned department store located downtown . They were a well off family, respected leaders in the Jewish community. My mother was beautiful and intelligent. I always called her a princess. Her life was full of friends and family and love. She graduated from McGill University probably among some of the first women to do so. She then met and married my father. My father was a doctor and delivered the babies of important people in many fields in Ottawa. He was also from a prosperous Jewish family.

They had four children and a beautiful home, but it was not a happy marriage. My father abused my mother. My mother attempted suicide by carbon monoxide poisoning in her parents garage in 1970. It was a time when domestic abuse didn’t exist. More precisely nobody talked about it. The standing and pride of a prominent family didn’t tolerate family shame, discord, scandal. Apparently, my grandparents wouldn’t hear of divorce. It is my sense that my mother was not very independent and could not do something like that alone. My father was having an affair with a case room nurse. I can only imagine how isolated and desperate my mother was.

Mortification, shock, shame, despair, guilt, grief anger…these must have been among the feelings that people around her must have felt. However, when I think back to that time I don’t remember what I felt. I do know that nobody really talked about what happened. No one told me my mum attempted suicide; I was forced to hang out with my father and his girlfriend. Although I remember that I was aware of terrible fights, I didn’t and don’t recall actual physical abuse. After decades of dishonesty and bad behavior on my father’s part I recognized him as an abusive person, although initially I did not connect it to physical abuse against my mother. Now it is clear that shame was the overarching feeling in my life. And now I have grief for the mother who harmed herself out of shame and despair and for the women I knew who internalized her shame. Nonetheless she lived a life of dignity and humor and I will try to honor that too.

 

reentry

Getting back was harder than I thought. The first three weeks were a slog. Sadness enveloped me. The reality of life with the loss of my mother. My mother was a force in my life, a presence, a part of it. I have always focused on how she wasn’t a mother, how I won’t miss a nurturing, supportive, rock like force in my life. I won’t. But I sure miss something or at least feel sad about something. As I wrote in a brief post earlier, I feel sad about her life, but I just feel sad too.

I am surprised and sometimes overwhelmed by how much I think about my mother. One day I realized that I had no gifts from my mother. It wasn’t that she wasn’t generous, but that she didn’t have the wherewithal to get gifts for her children. Gifting requires intention, thought and planning. My mum didn’t have much capacity for that kind of thing. She alternatively squandered money on silly things and worried about money since she never had a grip on her finances. As we learned these last couple of years, she didn’t think she deserved to be able to spend money.

But I do have things from my mother. We are planning to get a paint job and I’ve been packing things away in preparation. There is a needlepoint of Mary Poppins that has hung in the kids’ room for years. My mother made this needlepoint. As I put it in a box, I considered giving it to one of my nieces or nephews who have been having babies.  When I was a little girl, our house was renovated. After the renovation my mother decorated my brother’s and my bedrooms. Mine was blue and white. I had pretty white matching furniture with blue and white gingham curtains and bedspread. The Mary Poppins needlepoint had a blue frame to match the overall decor. I had big closets full of toys and clothes.

My mother made this for me to decorate my room. I will keep it. I believe that Mary Poppins was the first movie I ever saw. I have the vaguest memory of going with my mother. I also remember years later watching the movie on TV at my grandparents and being unable to hold back tears.

On Wednesday, my colleague complimented a black blazer I was wearing. I hadn’t worn it very often, but it was a blazer that my mother gave me. It was a hand me down, but my mother had good taste and it was the kind of jacket I would wear and like. My colleague asked me if it was new. I replied, ‘No my mother gave it to me.’ I felt oddly comforted saying. I had an item of my mothers that we both liked.

 

Mum

It’s hard not to get past the overwhelming sadness of Mum’s life. I see now her bravery and her generosity, all within the context of a life that was truncated, thwarted, destroyed.

Memories of my aunt

My mother has one sister who was six years younger. She married a very wealthy man and moved to another city about 2 hours from my hometown. As my grandfather’s business failed, her husband who had inherited a thriving development business helped to reorganize the business. Whatever the reorganization was the business ultimately failed with a valuable well located retail building going into foreclosure. At the time of the reorganization, my aunt and uncle both worked with my aged and kindly grandfather to draft a will that would provide for both daughters. My mother was not going to be able to support herself once my grandfather was gone (my father should have been but he managed to legally avoid that responsibility.)

We were all in my hometown when the structure of the will was presented to us. (This was before the building went into foreclosure I believe.) It sounded like a plan. I was about 27 living far away with my husband and young baby. We made ends meet. The arrangements seemed fine and no one asked for or would have listened seriously to any concerns.

Part of the structure of the will made my aunt, her husband, my brother (also living far away with a challenging career and growing family) and a lawyer designated by my grandfather trustees of the trust for my mother.

Money from my grandfather’s estate and the eventual sale of my grandfather’s house were to build the trust. The estate was to be divided evenly. The thing was my aunt and uncle were running the show. We were never informed of how any money was distributed or spent or invested. It was all baffling. I guess we were supposed to trust the adults in the room. I’m pretty sure my grandfather did.

This is all to say that my mother’s only sister took on a big responsibility with a lot of leeway.

My grandfather died in 1990. The house was sold in 1998. I recall sometime after my grandfather died or around the time of his death I had a conversation with Lil that was unfruitful. I was on the phone with her and asked that there be more consistent and open discussion about the finances set aside for my mother. She took this as an affront and began asking me how she felt having lost her sister all those years ago in such a tragic way.  I was tongue tied. I was supposed to think about her.

A few years later, my cousin got engaged to a classmate from art school. He was a nice guy. The family seemed excited. He was not Jewish, which was obviously not an issue for my cousin and I believe my aunt and uncle were accepting. I seem to remember the family joined a more liberal congregation so that he could convert because no matter what my aunt was throwing a grand, elegant, hora dancing Jewish wedding for her only daughter. I have two vivid memories of the event. My aunt did not have her sister (her only living immediate relative) sit at the head table with her family and the groom’s family but with cousins. (When I told a girlfriend this she said it was amazing how I had turned out to be a decent person.) The second was that my aunt used the tallis of a beloved uncle who was an orthodox rabbi as the chutzpah (wedding canopy). This showed her love an esteem for the uncle, but using the tallis at this wedding did not honor his memory. My aunt cheapened the ritual to satisfy her need for the wedding she envisioned. Ugh.

My aunt’s youngest child Mike got engaged some time later. He had become orthodox and had met a woman in Jerusalem where he was going to be married. I got a call from my aunt one day. She tells me that Mike’s greatest wish is to have his cousins at the wedding and she wanted to fulfill this wish and offered me a trip to Israel. I understood (perhaps erroneously) that he wanted his orthodox cousins (I wasn’t one), but more importantly I really didn’t want to have anything to do with the event. My aunt went on to say that she would not have my mother come to the wedding unless one of us committed to taking care of her. She felt it was her right to enjoy this moment with her family without the distraction (and discomfort) of my mother’s presence and it was up to us to make it work for my mother. (My mother attended all of our family gatherings arranged by us without fail. Needless to say Aunt did not show up and did not offer to help with Mum until about 2 years ago.) For some reason I cried. She said foolish things like, ‘I cherish the time I spend with your mother.’ And, ‘I wish I could spend more time with you.’ (Not something I desired, either did she.) In any case, my mother didn’t go. My aunt didn’t have her at his second wedding either.

I became concerned about my mother’s memory and capacity to take care of herself sometime in the early 2000’s. At this point, my mother was still driving and managing OK, but I sensed her memory was changing. I was in touch with her doctor and a visit to  a neurologist was arranged. She was scheduled for a CT scan and told me that her sister had agreed to go with her. This was great news. However, when I reached Aunt, she defensively denied having made any such commitment and was much too busy. It’s likely she had never made the commitment, and she made it clear she was not available.

For my mother’s 70th birthday, Aunt threw a party for my mother in my hometown. My mother was thrilled to see her cousins, most of whom she saw rarely (despite living nearby). I couldn’t help but wonder why Aunt didn’t invite my mother’s four children. It still gives me the creeps.

Over all these years, my aunt had my mother to her home for a Jewish holiday or any event once or twice. She has several large homes in the city not far from my hometown, in the country and in Florida. My mother hadn’t set foot in them for decades.

Fast forward to my mother lying in hospice. I was spending the day quietly with my mum and in sweeps aunt, fresh from the bat mitzvah of a grandchild of an old friend. Aunt then prattles on about all the people that were there who sent their love (who had not been in touch with my mother for decades). Some of the names I recalled from the long past; some I didn’t. Throughout the long afternoon, she continued to remember the names of people who had sent their regards, all of them ghosts in my mother’s life. My mother seemed pleased to hear but didn’t really say much in response to her sister. To me these were simply reminders of all the people who had abandoned my mother. She then continued to tell us about her garden at the country house and events she had had at her home. She talked about the grandchildren my mother had never met. She went on and on.

At the end of it all, she texted my older brother (not me) to say what a great job he had done taking care of my mom and how she feels at peace, (I don’t know her exact words) with the role she played in my mother’s life. My brother did not share this with me, but with my sister.

Update (9/5/17)

Shortly after my mother’s death I was talking to my sister. My aunt came up. My sister gave her credit for showing up to family events and being generous in helping out with expenses for such events. I felt like I got punched in the stomach. Aunt had been absent from all of my family events and had never helped out in any way emotionally or financially.

 

eclipse

today was the full eclipse.

In Maine there was about a 50% effect, very cool to watch.

I have been seeing images of my mom lately, a lot of them in the hospital.

Experiencing who she was but also the feeling I would never know her as no one can really be known.

I will always feel sad about who she became and wonder about who she was.

I have also been thinking about a cousin’s response to her death, where she referred to my father as my mother’s friend. I think I will respond. It feels like a misconception that dishonors my mom.

Granny

One Friday night after we had had our traditional Friday night dinner at our grandparents, I was sitting with my grandmother in her bedroom. It was a big gracious room with a dressing room and a bath. She was stretched out on her chaise longue in one of her many caftans.

She asked me, and I don’t remember what motivated the question, she asked me, “How do you think that your grandfather and I feel about your living with your father and his whore and their bastard?” Or something like that.

I loved my little brother. I also experienced my own kind of mortification about this situation. At the same time, ever in the thrall of my father’s influence was defensive of my father.

All I remember is running out of the room downstairs. Then, I went to Friday night services with my mother. I have a vague recollection of finding some solace in going to shul although in retrospect it seems weird that I would find comfort spending the rest of the evening with my mother.

 

sad

it’s ok to be sad. I think I said it already, but it bears repeating.

Went to morning minyan again. I like the 45 minutes of quiet and prayer. I do like the prayers of praise, some of the others don’t really move me.

Rituals help you feel, help you acknowledge.

I am still peeling away.

Feelings are like onions.

I have avoided writing. I don’t like it anymore, but I think that I should make myself write more and figure out how this works.

The writing and memories can make me feel bad and sad. It takes me to places that don’t feel good.

30 days

today is 30 days after my mum’s death

it is the end of the second stage of mourning

this was to be the end of the blog…sort of

yesterday i was sad and i let myself be sad

i can be ok and be sad

i can have doubts about a lot of things

today i told peter about how i masturbated a lot

i realize now it was out of stress, anxiety and self loathing

i was so ashamed

I was ashamed of my body and terrified of any changes in my body

all those changes that i couldn’t avoid

i remember wanting to be a boy

i wonder if any of that was because of who my mother was

Getting up

Today the first seven days of mourning ended. A moment when it’s time to move on to another less intense stage of mourning. Now I am wondering about the nature of loss and my particular sense of loss. It is still intertwined with the loss of my ‘before mum’ the woman who mothered me for the first 8 years of my life who I have only the vaguest recollections of.

My mother’s presence in my life was always difficult. Having her around was trying and difficult. Talking to her on the phone made me worry. For years, the details of her life were plausible. She went to art classes, and other activities. As time when by discussions about health and fender benders were muddled and concerning. I know it gave her pleasure but I also knew as the years went by that our conversations were increasingly based on a soup of my mother’s memories. It also made me feel bad, a little guilty, a little unhappy, a little powerless. Her life and her presence in my life were complicated and unhappy. Over the last number of years, I intervened more. I talked to her doctors. I got her to join day programs and connected her to more community services. She needed more activity because she seemed to be getting a little depressed. She needed more eyes on her because she was increasingly more forgetful. In 2012 she underwent testing for dementia. This testing was prompted largely by phone conversations about fender benders and car insurance disputes among other things. She was diagnosed with mild dementia and was convinced to give up driving. A transition that was not that dramatic; my mum was able to take in in stride and she started taking buses places. This was a credit to her adaptability, good nature, and resourcefulness.

Back to what I have been thinking about today. I have lost my mother who was not really a mother. I have lost a parent who I had to parent. It’s not the same as losing a child. For a long time she didn’t appreciate the interventions although she always ended up complying. For the time that we were very involved in her life, in particular searching for a retirement home and moving her, she constantly said she didn’t deserve it. Our generosity made her guilty because she had not been there as a mother. Sometimes I dismissed this as a gambit to have us go away. But it was a persistent theme in her conversations with us. It got to the point where it broke my heart. She was ill and dying and still claimed she didn’t deserve the care we gave her. I could never have lived with myself if my mother had died in a dirty unkempt apartment alone. She died with dignity and with loving children around her and very good medical care.

I guess this is what I got from my mum the opportunity to give to her. The chance to make the end of her life not so difficult. I’m still not sure where that leaves me and the nature of her loss, not the before mum, the after ‘mum’. Her loss is an absence in my life but her presence also reminded me often of an absence.

Whatever happened I became the person I am out of my circumstances that were tragic and difficult. It’s hard to reconcile that with the happy full life that I have. I can trace thoughts and events in my life that brought me here. But I still don’t get how it all happened. I was going to say I still missed having a mum, but I still don’t totally know what that means. I love my children and I know my children love me. I don’t know what it is like for them to love me. My love for my mum was so convoluted.

So I will move on from today and try to frame my mum’s role in my life and feel good about it. I will move on recognizing the hole within a hole.

Letting go

One day in the hospital a couple of weeks ago my mother was asleep or kind of out of it most of the time. I remember is was a Friday, so it was probably June 16.  I love Tom Waitts Closing Time album. It’s melodic and sad and simple. I have had it in my iTunes for a long time (and virtually nothing else). Feeling alone and a little sad, I played it  so both my mother and I cold hear.

I couldn’t help but get teary. Mum’s breathing was labored and she looked and sounded uncomfortable. She got upset and said she wanted to leave. I said that she was getting care from the doctors and nurses at the hospital. She cried and said it wasn’t working. She asked me to let her go and I said she could. She also needed assurance that we would take her back to Ottawa.I held her hand and we both cried for awhile. We were both wiped out.

We listened to a little more music, Leonard Cohen, and watched a little television.

The next day I arrived early in the day with Suzanna. I had planned to leave the hospital a little earlier than usual because Hilly’s fiance was at Paula’s for Shabbos and I hadn’t met her yet. However, when I got to the hospital, it was clear my mother had taken a turn for the worse. Suzanna and I sat quietly, chatting, conferring with the nurse. My mother was sleeping most of the time and struggling to breath. Her breaths were also noisy the result of congestion. The nurse, Rose, gave her more morphine and a medication to take care of the congestion. I stayed late.

When I told Peter that her condition had changed radically, he suggested I stay instead of leaving the following Saturday morning. Unable to really judge anything, I asked Suzanna who thought it was a good idea.

I cancelled my flight and rearranged my car rental. Then I asked Peter to come.

The next day Paula and I both spent most of the day at the hospital. We were freaking out. Mum didn’t eat and couldn’t really swallow. Paula spent the night.

The next day, Mum was more with it…

 

forgiveness

It is traditional to ask forgiveness of a person who is dying. This struck me as awkward and something I didn’t really need to do. And then I did it. There is no doubt I could have been a better daughter, more patient, more giving, more available. There is no doubt that time with my mother was difficult and I gave more to her than most people. But if I’m being really honest that is a pretty low bar.

My mother repeatedly said that she had been a bad mother and that she didn’t deserve what we did for her. I never felt she didn’t deserve the interventions I made on her behalf, never. It was never a question of deserving; it was a question of her safety and well being. Nobody else was stepping up to oversee, monitor, care. I had a responsibility. I state these as facts with no rancor.

So one day while sitting with my Mum as she lay in bed breathing hard not able to get up, I apologized. I said I was sorry for not being a better daughter; she apologized for not being a better mom. It was simple and sad and healing.

My mother did something terrible in 1970 attempting to end her life in my grandparents garage. But in all the years that have gone by, I have not heard anyone express compassion for her. My father repeatedly said she abandoned us. He said she was spoiled and impossible to please. He blamed her for her weakness. So now can I forgive my father for the kind of parent he was? I will leave that question for another day.