Mama's Gone

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My mother died 4 months ago and it was her birthday a week ago. Both dates went by with very little recognition or notice from her family or the world. My sister and I were the only ones that really noticed or cared. Her long time friend was one other who also mourns her passing although their friendship is something I would class as unhealthy. My mother would yell, curse, and order him around like a slave, and he was someone who enjoyed being bossed around. Now that she is gone, he can’t make the smallest of decisions.

I spent 2 years with my dying MNPD mother. I was advised by my psychiatrist and counselors not to do it. “Do not go into the dragon’s den! She will eat you up and spit you out!” The warning came faster, more frequent, and even more dire. I didn’t listen. I wanted a mom. I wanted my mom. I wanted to find her. I was determined and certain that armed with foreknowledge that I would be safe. How delusional I was. The unicorns and rainbows I saw in my eyes were really spears and fire from the fire breathing dragon. Less than one-quarter of the way through the journey I had a mental breakdown.

You would think that one would stop at this point. Take heed from the wiser experts. But no. My mother raised me well. She needed me, and I thought I needed her. Now that I knew what the dragon could do, I went back in armed with my salt shaker to sprinkle on her tail. I was hardly equipped to say hello, let alone have anything more meaningful or lasting. The dragon was nice for awhile. She was warm and not breathing fire for just the right amount of time for me to put away the salt shaker. Then a blast of her fiery wrath came while I was unaware and unguarded. I spent more time on the floor in a sobbing heap of jello than I did on my feet being the woman I should have been. The attacks were constant and accurate. She knew exactly when and where to hit.

I was deteriorating. Just like in the video games when you have to destroy the big monster at the end of the level, I was getting weaker with each attack. My therapist said I had to stop, to let her go. I said I could not do it. When asked why I could only speak from what I felt and from no place of logic. I said that I would feel guilty leaving a dying woman to die alone. I couldn’t do it. She tried to explain that this dying woman tortured me. That she made me beg to live with the knife held at my throat. That she made me beg again with the gun loaded and pointed at us. That she made me watch her die as she overdosed on pills and made sure that I understood that it was my fault as she lay dying. What is there to feel guilty for if I should walk away. This woman you feel guilty over disappeared for 25 years. You owe her nothing. Not guilt, not love, not anything.

I could not see it. The though of turning away from my mother made me feel like I would be less of a person. If I walked away from her and left her to die on her own, I would be as heartless as she had been in her life. I was better than that and I would show her. I was dancing on the end of her strings just like I had been programmed. Mother did not have to do a thing. She just had to exist and I was the puppet. She made me feel like maybe she cared, and then pushed me away. She complimented me and then shut me out. She would call from the hospital and ask me to come and see her. When I reminded her that it was a two hour drive one way, and the last time I did it she refused to see me, she then started to scream on the phone that I was killing her with my words. That her doctor said she shouldn’t be upset. How could I do this to her? My mouth was hanging on the ground and I was wondering what the staff must be thinking of me.

I went to the Cancer Clinic with mom for her bone marrow biopsy. She was in such terrible pain and didn’t want to go alone, so I went with her. After the biopsy, she could not lay still so I climbed on the stretcher with her and held her in my arms and tried to comfort her. We both fell asleep. I treasure that moment. The next day she refused to see me.

Two months before my mother died she called me from the Cancer Clinic. She had been in pain for a number of months and a new cancer and new metastases on her nerves had put her pain over the top. I grieved her pain. I am not my mother and cannot stand to see any human being suffer. Such terrible pain that I still can’t bear to think about it. So, I get this call from my mom. In retrospect I know it was meant to be the final call. In this call, my mother managed to give me a glimmer of the mother I wanted. It made me both happy that I saw it, and cheated that I didn’t get more of it. In the end, it left me empty and so sad. This is what my mother said to me, her daughter; that she brutalized, tried to kill, and shut out of her life for 40 years.

“ I love you Vinjette. I want you to know how much I love you and have always loved you. You were my baby. My precious beautiful baby and I loved you so much. You were so adorable. I want you to be happy. When you are sad and you cry I want you to feel me kissing your tears away and my arms wrapped around you and holding you tight to my heart.  I LOVE you. I have always loved you. I want you to know this.”

Beautiful. Brings a tear to my eye. No sorry. No regret. No remorse. No acknowledgement of wrong doing. I feel cheated. But I did get to hear my mom say she loved me for the first time at 61 years of age. Then she refused my calls. All of them. I never heard her voice again.

My therapist said I did not go into the dragon’s den because of my feelings of guilt of not being there for a dying person. She said I was trying to find myself in my mother and I was not there. I don’t know where or who I am.

After her death I really unraveled. I started rocking, twitching, disassociating. The nightmares and night terrors came back. I was so angry at her and then I loved her. I loved her final words. An Oscar winning act indeed. She hooked me. I fell for it. She loved me the best way she could, but her best way was never acceptable in any society. While going through her things afterwards my sister and found a machete, a gun, a switchblade, and the razor strap she used to beat us with until we bled. My blood was mixed with her vows of love. I remain her victim.

Luke 23:34 And Jesus said, "Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do." and they cast lots to divide his garments.

I believe God forgives my mom. I believe she is in heaven and I will see her again. The world broke and created the mother I had. Just as the world has broken me. I am not my mother, nor will I ever be, but I have caused others harm. At times, I needlessly provoked my mother in her illness because I was so angry and felt I need to extract my pound of flesh. I am ashamed of that. I wish I was a better human being. God forgive me too.