On Parenting My Parents When I Was a Child: Two Book Ends

As they are both no longer physically here, and I'm not doing much of anything these days thanks to the pandemic, this leaves me with plenty of time to just ruminate, and connect what dots I am able to, and just try to understand my trauma, and be in awe of the fact that I survived. I have a couplet of stories wherein I advocated for my parents, something neither of them ever did for me at a time in my life when it was truly necessary for my development:

Age 4-5

My mother's verbally abusive father was at our home. My dad and my grandfather both were outside doing yard work or some household repair. My grandfather was his usual verbally abusive, emotionally destructive self, verbally harassing my dad. All I knew at the time was he was being really mean to my dad. So, in response, I picked up the garden hose, and gave the old man a good dousing with some icy cold well water. This was long before RA had crippled him up, and he made chase after me, stopping once he got to our dining table, my hiding spot, a place he could not reach me. Dripping wet and seething with anger, he wanted my dad to punish me, and all dad did was shrug his shoulders and say, "tough luck, pops."

Age 12

At a family gathering at the home of dad's aunt (his mom's sister), my dad's mother decided (now that she had an audience) she was going to humiliate my mother for being fat. "I'll never understand how anyone could make love to a fat woman!" Which of course brought all conversation to a full stop. And not one of the adults in attendance, NOT EVEN MY DAD, interceded on mom's behalf. I gave it a moment, and then replied, "Well, grandma, I don't see anyone beating a path to YOUR door to make love to YOU." And much like in the first story, dad's mother asked if he was going to discipline me. Dad just shrugged his shoulders and say, "Why should I? She said the truth."

The parallels between the two stories is evenly balanced, and a consistent theme throughout my life--parenting my parents. And now, here I am in my 50s, and I need to parent MYSELF.

In Possession of My Tormentor's Weapon

In 1989, when I left home for the final time, and eventually married my ex, I grabbed a humble, well-worn wooden spoon. I have vivid memories of mom using it to stir bubbling pots of Sunday gravy, or mixing up batches of holiday cookies--and I'm realizing now, 900+ days since she died, that those were just surface memories and attachments I had with that spoon. 

Only recently did the other memories associated with that spoon bubble up from the depths of my subconsciousness, and I am remembering the spoon as an instrument of abuse. When enraged, she'd lash out and beat us with whatever she had in her hands at the time.

My sister always (ALWAYS!) would get stabbed during dinners, but for me, I usually got beat with the bristle end of a hair brush, or get beat with the wooden spoon, or a stinging open-handed slap--all met with m stony stoic silence until one day I snarled out the words, "Are you DONE?" And I don't think she ever beat me again after that.

I'm just now able to acknowledge my tormentor is physically gone, but her physical weapon remains in my kitchen--yet her psychological and emotional weapon remains deeply entrenched in my memories, my attachment style, persistent rumination, and fighting a constant battle against the negative inner dialogue and self-gaslighting. 

Somewhere I read CS Lewis said that it isn't JUST that his friend died--it's that the part of him that only his friend could bring out would never be brought out again.

Though not a friend--when mom died a big part of me died too, but which part? The dangerously vulnerable part? If so, I should be glad it won't be brought out again. But she is my mom, and she gave me life--something I had no choice in the matter, and I had no choice for 52 years but be resentful and resigned that the relationship never was AND NEVER WILL BE what I wanted and desperately needed it to be, and I just hope whatever I DID do for her/on her behalf was sufficient. And yet, all I still want to do is run away and hide.

Pieces

Thinking back on that quote attributed to CS Lewis regarding the death of a friend & grief. It isn’t just the death of his friend he grieved for, but also he grieved for that part of him that only his friend could bring out and which would never be brought out again. 

A refinement on a thought in another blog post—she is my mom and she gave me life—something I had zero choice in the matter, and I had no choice but be resentful & resigned that the relationship never was and never will be what I wanted & needed it to be. A sentiment in one of her last birthday cards to me, “Remember, this was a journey we took together” still resonates and makes me wonder how much of a choice does a zygote have?

I just hope whatever I did for her was sufficient. It HAS to be sufficient. 

Another Funeral

To be frank, when I got a call from my cousin David, I knew someone died, and at first I thought it might have been my uncle as he had heart surgery not that long ago. I never would have expected it was my cousin’s husband Dan.

Five years ago we attended their wedding. And here it is five years and two months later and we’re burying my cousin’s husband, age 38.

In all likelihood, he died due to COVID, but we will never know as my cousin opted out of an autopsy, which left me no other recourse but to do what I always do and connect the dots. 

August 24th my aunt (mom’s sister, who is his mother-in-law) tested positive for COVID, and has been sloppily adhering to limiting in person stuff to people in her pod/bubble. 

Three weeks later, he was found, stone cold dead on his kitchen floor. His co-workers came to the house when he wasn’t reached by phone. 

Entirely plausible he had been exposed to COVID, if not this one time but likely multiple times by everyone in their “pod.”

So, three weeks after my aunt tested positive, there we all were in the funeral home to say goodbye to Dan and try to (feebly) support my cousin who was in shock. 

The only people wearing masks in the funeral home besides myself was my cousin David & another cousin, and my aunt and uncle were both there bare faced. Of course my sister, brother, brother-in-law, and niece all were barefaced too. 

The funeral home was a full house, and several people in attendance had persistent coughs. 

This illustrates quite keenly my justification in avoiding family gatherings, that the majority of people sadly cannot be trusted to do the bare minimum to protect others or protect themselves. It is as if mom’s death meant nothing to them, and doesn’t even serve as a warning to them. Perhaps they have forgotten about her already. 

On Childhood Abuse RIP Anne Heche

Someone’s worth is what remains when we subtract one’s bad characteristics from the good, and the sim that remains is our true value. 

While I am not an apologist for the destructive behavior which sadly led to Anne Heche’s passing, as a survivor of childhood abuse, I do possess empathy for her, and sympathy for her friends & family she left behind. 

I know all too well, and all too personally, that when our tormentors die, all the damage that they wrought does not miraculously dissipate and correct itself. 

Ms. Heche’s death did make me pause for more than a moment and reflect how random it all is, how we survive and cope in the aftermath of emotionally destructive childhood abuse. 

I could have been a statistic in many ways. I could have been a pregnant teen. I could have ended up in relationships with domestic violence. I could have become an addict. I could have been many of those things, but did not. 

This is not to say I came out of my childhood, or my almost 54 years, unscathed. The after effects of abuse presents itself differently in everyone whose formative years were impacted by abuse. 

For me, most notably, I have had problems with nearly every relationship I have had with women in authoritative positions in my life: my grandmother, mother, aunt, women I encountered in the military, as well as my boss, and work associates older than myself. 

Perhaps this is one of the contributing factors behind my difficulties to find a job elsewhere. Then there’s the issue of spending my first 30 years totally lacking any self worth. 

All that is MY legacy of abuse. 

Recently Jennette McCurdy’s book “I’m Glad My Mom Died” was published. Much like Anne Heche’s book, “Call Me Crazy,” it is a biographical account of childhood abuse. I wish these were isolated books, but there are countless books out there (remember Mommy Dearest, by Christina Crawford?). And this isn’t unique to mothers & daughters—the very night my mom died, I watched Cracked Up: The Darrell Hammond Story. 

It is a predictably easy thing to blame our mothers for our struggles. It is easy because for too many of us it is true. 

I don’t need to publish a book or have a movie made about my abuse, and that doesn’t make my reality any less real than anyone else’s. But I do feel an uncomfortable kinship with these women (and Mr. Hammond as well). 

Reading articles & books or watching films depicting their abuses resonates deeply with me—it is so eerily familiar, we are all telling familiar stories, so familiar, it is as if we are sharing the same narrative, or perhaps we are distant members of the same family. 

Catharsis: This Is Us

It's been two years and two weeks since mom died, and I'm still unpacking everything (will the unpacking ever end?). 

And in keeping with where we are in the pandemic (yes yes! the pandemic continues!)--we're not at the beginning, and we're not at the end, we're at the beginning of the end. I can only hope I'm at the beginning of the end of that horrible initial phase of grieving.

What does a ruminator do? Ruminate! That's all I can do--it's not as if I can have any conversations with mom anymore. So all I can do is rehash everything and have conversations with myself.

Every detail. Everything happened so quick. From the moment mom was officially notified that the virus was in the nursing home, then she was sedated before I could say my final goodbye, and then roughly 10 days of radio silence, her borked out of her mind, shallow breathing and sitting in her own filth, neglected by the people who were tasked with caring for her, until the dreaded, inevitable call came through that she was gone. (She died on May 4th; and the nursing home that neglected her got their full monthly payment from Medicaid, basically rewarding them for doing nothing.)

I have been stuck in an existential feedback loop, truly sad that I wasn't able to talk to her. I wasted too much time trying to advocate for her, when I should have just talked more to her. I thought there was more time. Then she was gone. I thought I was prepared for it. I thought I was emotionally detached enough. Trust me, nothing prepared me for what I've been experiencing.

Last night, I watched the second-to-the-last episode of This Is Us. This was a show she'd probably have thoroughly enjoyed. The final episodes are devoted to the ultimate passing of the mother, Rebecca. The scenes of her transitioning from being alive to being dead involves her character on a train, encountering people who were significant in her life. Rebecca is young and vibrant, and though she cannot see the people saying their goodbyes to her, she can hear their voices as if they were in another room. 

As I had hoped while watching this episode, I had hoped I'd gain something cathartic and useful regarding the death of my own mom, since I wasn't able to be there with her. And fortunately, I had that catharsis.

In early 2014, mom almost died of a ruptured gallbladder. As was the case with most of mom's health crises, they always held off on surgery until she was at death's door, because the surgery itself could have killed her. This time they waited until she was in sepsis. 

I remember showing up at the hospital and she was in post-op recovery, totally out of it, and we weren't convinced she would pull through. I crouched down and whispered in her ear, "Mom. It's me. I love you. I still need you. I still need my mom. But if you need to go--go. Don't stay for me. I love you."

Coincidentally, she rallied, and managed to live another 6 years after. This was beginning of 2014, and by winter holidays 2014, she had caused a rift between me and my sister, which caused me to stop going to family gatherings as I was avoiding my sister. 

People are complicated; life is messy. 

Life is complicated; people are messy.

The universe saw fit to give her nearly 6 more years, and yet, because of her own words and deeds, it threw a monkey wrench into how that precious remaining time was spent. No matter how much time we think we have, it's never enough. I wish I were more prescient & present. But as much as I beat myself up, I am not a mind reader. I am a human just trying to make the best out of a less than ideal situation. 

From Xmas 2014 until July 2017, I avoided all family gatherings. I'd visit mom on Columbus Day, or a week before/after her birthday or Mother's Day. And sadly, Mother's Day 2017, the universe fucked me. I had an issue with the lock on the front door to my home, and despite the car loaded up with gear and food for a weekend at mom's, I had to stay home and deal with a locksmith, as Maharajah was in the UK on business. 

Life is what happens when you're busy making plans. 

Man makes plans, and God says "HAHA!"

Before I knew it, July 2017 she took a series of tumbles at home, which resulted in her deciding to stay in the nursing home. Columbus Day 2017 was spent helping my sister empty out the house and prepare it for sale. I didn't visit mom that time because I was filthy and exhausted and angry--angry at her, and angry at my useless brother. 

Winter holidays 2017 was spent heading to Singapore for a cruise, and dispatching the last of dad's cremated remains at the Equator January 3, 2018--the start of the 10th calendar year since his death. November 2018 we headed to India for the wedding of a cousin. I think I might have seen my mom one other time, perhaps Columbus Day 2018 which again was a thankless visit. 

My final visit with her was December 2019, when I visited and dropped off a bag of treats for the holiday. It was a good visit. I stayed with her for two hours, of nonstop chatter. It was a good visit.

Not much happened from Christmas until mom’s birthday in March. Shady Pines was quarantined a couple times, allegedly due to the flu. We hoped for the best & hope this mess would pass soon. 

Then in mid-April 2020, my last chat with her, she was exhausted, and was "presumptive positive" with COVID. Despite the fact she claimed she was feeling better--I think that might have been the ativan talking.

My last good bye was what I'd call an "every day" type of goodbye. Unlike all other times, I concluded the call with an "I love you," which was out of character for me. 

I spent too much time being angry with her, and too much time waiting for an apology or a true reconciliation that never happened. The best I could muster was a silent resignation and granting her or the situation amnesty. 

I always wished things were different, and I have always suffered because of this attachment or reasonable expectation or hope for things to be different. Hope, to me, has always been a dangerous thing.

For two years I've grappled with the finality of all this. I've grappled with the fact she was depressed for possibly her entire life (and my entire life, too)  and intensified immensely after the passing of my dad in 2008, and not even the passing of her abuser, her father in 2012 elicited any change in her mood or mindset.

I knew for a long time she didn't want to be here. I remember in 2008 when dad actually survived the surgery (which there was only a 10% of survival), her response wasn't a THANK GOD!, rather, her first words were, "I guess he forgot what a fucked up world this is."

For two years, I've tried to find some solace or greater meaning in her death, that she got what she wanted--to cease to exist. Her physical suffering was over. 

Sometimes I feel that way myself, but that's just the surface shit--the reality is, I want to cease suffering. And isn't that exactly what death is? The discontinuance of suffering?

So while watching This Is Us last night, I was reminded that I did say my final goodbye (albeit in 2014). I want to think there was some greater meaning to me thinking upon that last night watching This Is Us, and I shouldn't quibble over whether I said it in 2014 when her death seemed to be imminent but wasn't. 

Perhaps this is my subconscious self telling me to be kind to myself. That it doesn't matter when I said it, but the fact remains I said it at all.

Two Years Ago, Exactly

Hard to believe. It's been two years since this last voicemail from mom, the voicemail wherein she tells me she was informed the virus was in her nursing home. 

I spoke to her a couple times on the phone after that, relatively casual conversations given the dire circumstances. I was reassuring her I was contacting the ombudsman and the NJ Department of Health in regards to it--to no avail. And the last few times I tried calling her, either she was on the phone with someone else, or her voicemail was full and I wasn't able to get in touch with her.

Quickly thereafter (within a week thereabouts), she was "presumptive positive." One by one, each resident in the wing of her nursing home either died in their beds, or were whisked off to the local hospital to die. Eventually her roommate went to the hospital. At this point, mom was hysterical, screaming out for my father (who died in 2008). 

Hospice came in to sedate her before I even had a chance to say goodbye. She languished for another 11 days until her ultimate passing, pretty much neglected by hospice as well as the nursing home itself whose solitary task was to care for her. There was one CNA for 67 residents. They weren't even able to put her phone to her ear so I could talk to her. 

The sad thing about having a vivid imagination is that I can totally envision the position of her body, I can totally smell the neglect, I can totally hear the shallow inconsistent breaths. I can envision her corpse being handled with disrespect, and I can envision her corpse languishing in a refrigerator unit for fifteen days until it was cremated. 

I wish her final voicemail to me was something else. Something where she feigned being upbeat or cheery. Even one of her patented vague voicemails, in a terse clipped tone, "It's your mother, call me."