Don't Call Me Mother (40 page)

I soon realized that she had developed some memory problems. She left cigarettes burning in ashtrays, and left stove burners blazing long after she was finished using them. When the time came, we made our way to the hospital by bus rather than cab, because she insisted on it. The fact that it was raining, and that I was fatigued from my trip and had two suitcases to carry, couldn’t change her mind. Despite her illness and its attendant anxieties, she was as stubborn as ever.

At the admissions desk, Mother was given forms to sign. I was horrified to see “TERMINAL” written on them in big letters. I wanted to grab the papers out of her hands, to protect her from this awful pronouncement. Mother and I hadn’t spoken about her diagnosis, but the doctor had told me she was likely to die within three months—by August.

She became frantic when she couldn’t find something in her purse. “It’s all lost, it’s all lost,” she wailed, sounding like a child, and I realized again that she was not quite herself. She must be feeling vulnerable and angry all at once, I thought—a dangerous combination. I held my breath, remembering how unpredictable her behavior could be, even when she was at her best. One thing I knew for certain: At some point, the denial of me as her daughter would come up. I was prepared, but my heart beat fast as I thought about confronting her, as I knew I must.

We followed a burly man down a warren of polished corridors until we reached the oncology unit. Mother’s roommate, a kindly gray-haired lady, and her attendant greeted us politely. I immediately felt sorry for her, having my mother as a roommate. Poor thing, I thought, you have no idea what you’re in for.

Don’t Tell Them You’re My Daughter

Immediately, Mother began holding court, sitting on her bed in her street clothes, brandishing an unlit cigarette between her fingers. Various hospital personnel bustled in and out to check on her. After about an hour, a perky-looking woman carrying a clipboard arrived, saying she needed some more information for the records. When she noticed me standing on the other side of the room, she broke into a cheerful smile and looked back and forth between Mother and me, taking in our faces, no doubt observing our family resemblance. Squaring my shoulders, I took a deep breath. I knew what was coming.

“Are you two related?” she asked me, expecting the typical response. “You look so much alike.”

Trying to keep my voice from wavering, I answered, “Yes. I’m her daughter.”

The intensity of Mother’s response took even me by surprise. She jerked to attention on the bed and screamed at the top of her lungs, “Don’t tell them you’re my daughter!”

The scene that ensued would have been hilarious if not for its tragic history. The cheery lady with the clipboard was speechless with astonishment, her mouth dropping nearly to her chest. The roommate gasped, and the attendant who sat beside me froze in mid-breath.

I spoke again, in placating tones. “Please, Mother. Don’t be silly. You know I’m your daughter.”

The woman with the clipboard regained her composure and managed to complete the interview. I could imagine her thoughts as she left the room in a hurry: “I’ve met my share of crazy people, but these two take the cake.”

I knew Mother would deny me. I had meditated about it, worked on it in therapy, told my close friends and my children that I was sure I’d have to confront her rejection once again. Yet despite all my preparations, I felt the blood drain from my face, my emotions in turmoil. I felt cursed again by my own mother, under her old spell again.

I took deep breaths, trying to restrain my tears, but one escaped and meandered down my cheek. When a small moan slipped from my lips, the roommate’s attendant looked up at me with kind, soft eyes and said, “There now, it’s all right. It’s all right, dear.” She touched my arm. “Don’t let it get to you, honey. Some people can’t help themselves.”

Her simple kindness brought on even more tears. I allowed myself to weep silently, comforted by this stranger who had witnessed my mother’s denial of me. For the first time in my life, someone objective was validating my perception that Mother’s behavior was wrong. This woman’s sympathy and support convinced me at last that I wasn’t the one who was crazy. In that moment, an old, old weight was lifted from my shoulders.

But Mother’s abuse wasn’t over. The next day she slapped me for not handing the phone to her on demand, and she let me know that I was still persona non grata with her friends. “Don’t you try to talk to anyone about me. No one knows about you, and it’s too late to start now.”

I spent hours pacing up and down the hospital halls.

Mother’s moods were mercurial, as always. The first evening at the hospital, she lay on the bed, curled up like a child. She looked small and helpless, her dark hair spread on the pillow. Poor little Mother, I thought. She seemed so lost. She smiled weakly at me and asked me to rub her back, returning us to one of the few tender things we had ever shared. She moaned under my touch, telling me how good it felt. I had been trained in recent years as a masseuse, and I suspect she noticed my expertise. Nothing more was said, but for many minutes we were connected as mother and daughter once more. When I tucked her in and fluffed her pillow, she looked up at me with such innocence. “Where did you learn to take care of people like this?” she asked with a kind of awe.

“I had children, Mother. I learned by taking care of them.”

I don’t know if she caught my deeper meaning, that children can teach us to be tender and loving, something she didn’t allow herself to experience. She only smiled again and said, “You are very good and kind.”

I walked away in a peaceful frame of mind, grateful for her acknowledgement. What would be next for us, I wondered, on this journey to her death?

The day of the biopsy, Mother was upset and irritable, as one would expect. She hated to have to wear a hospital gown, she hated having to do what others told her to do. She fought and complained all the way. When she returned from the procedure, she put her street clothes back on and told me stubbornly that she was going home. I knew better, but didn’t argue. In fact, I had no idea what arrangements were being made for her.

As we had feared, the spot on her lung was cancer, but the doctor told me it was the brain tumor that would kill her. My breath caught in my throat at this news. Right now, Mother’s will seemed so powerful. She was certain that she would live, and it was hard not to believe her.

The doctor went on to say that Mother had been disruptive the night before, sending nurses home in tears. He assumed the brain tumor was causing her erratic behavior.

“Oh, it’s nothing new,” I told him. “She’s always been abusive and nasty, but usually she just focuses it on me.” I gave him a few examples of her bizarre behavior patterns.

“Let’s get a psychiatrist up here,” the doctor suggested. “We’ll see what he has to say.”

For the most part, Mother treated me like an interloper. She ordered me not to get involved in her care, not to make any decisions. She said she had an attorney who was in charge of everything. I didn’t challenge her, but I ran my own show behind her back. She was clearly not fully capable of making her own decisions. I had behind-the-scenes conversations with each of her doctors.

One afternoon, Mother let me know that I was not welcome in her room. “I’m expecting company,” she announced. She smoothed her best dress and put the finishing touches on her blush and eyeliner. Obviously, the expected visitor was a male.

“Who’s coming to see you?”

“None of your damned business.”

I took a deep breath and asked, “Mother, don’t you think it’s time you introduced me to your friends? After all, I’m here to help take care of you.”

“It’s just too awkward,” she snapped. “People like John from the restaurant don’t know about you, and it’s too late now.”

“Let me see if I understand you, Mother.” Here I was, fuming again despite my intention to stay calm and cool. “You’ve never told your friends that you have a daughter or grandchildren?”

“I’ve told you before!” she snarled. “It’s too late. They’ve known me for fifteen years and they’ll wonder why I never told them before. It’s too complicated. Just go away for a few hours.”

I slammed out of the room and took a cab to the Chicago Art Institute, where I tried to soothe myself with art. I saw such beauty in the paintings of the Impressionists, my favorite artists, but I couldn’t surrender to the experience. I ached with the knowledge that, even as she approached her death, Mother could casually toss me aside in order to keep up her pretense. I stormed through the museum, at times inspired by the light and color of the exhibit, but mostly weighed down with misery.

I was still steaming when I returned to the hospital. I stepped from the elevator and immediately saw Mother charging frantically up and down the hall, clutching an unlit cigarette. She started screaming at me on sight. “Where have you been? I’ve been waiting for you for hours!”

Full of my own frustration and fury, I shot back. “I got out of your way, Mother. Like an idiot I continue to do as you tell me, disappearing conveniently when you want me out of the way.” I stood a couple of feet away, glaring at her. “I am your daughter, do you understand me? I left my work and my children and flew here to help you because you are my mother and you needed me. How can you pretend that I don’t exist?”

Mother and I went on shouting as we paced the hallway. People looked at us aghast, but I didn’t care. This was my last chance to say words I’d never spoken, and I wasn’t about to stay silent.

“Mother, you’ve pretended you didn’t have a daughter, you’ve refused to introduce me to your friends. Stop denying that I’m your daughter. I can’t stand it any longer!”

By now we were standing in a waiting room, looking out at rain falling on the rooftops. Suddenly, she fell silent for a moment. Then, in a childlike voice, she asked, “I did those things? When?”

Instantly, the fight drained from me. I’d said what I needed to. I wanted Mother to say she was sorry, but I could see that she had no recollection right now of what she had done in the past—whether from the brain tumor or simple denial, I couldn’t say. All I knew for sure was that she was dying. I put my arms around her and held her close.

“Mother, don’t worry about it. Let’s go have some lunch.”

Her demeanor had completely changed. She seemed at that moment more like a little girl than a grown woman. Finally I had told my Mother the truth. I had stood up for myself.

Emptied of the feelings I’d always suppressed about her rejection of me, my heart felt peaceful as we walked to her room, my mother small and helpless beside me.

The Diagnosis:
Manic Depression

The psychiatrist was a soft-spoken man in his late forties. He was handsome, with dark hair and eyes and a gentle, well-bred demeanor. Mother had spent all morning preening, putting on her make-up and fixing her hair. When Dr. Hart greeted her, she minced a couple of steps toward him, chattering wildly. She carried her unlit cigarette aloft in a haughty gesture, acting every bit like Gram used to in her over-the-top way.

Mother flirted shamelessly with the doctor, sashaying across the room, acting so much like an out-of-control teenager that my face flushed. Didn’t she realize that her every word was being noted and analyzed? Did she really think that he would be romantically interested in her? I watched in fascination, but soon she waved me away, desperate for his full attention. I motioned to him as I left, affirming a previously made arrangement to talk on the phone after his meeting with Mother. She shouted after me, “Now you stay away. Don’t you talk to him behind my back!”