Considerations Upon the Death of a Parent

July 3
Today, my mother died.  A few hours ago, I asked my sister, "how are you?" and her answer was, "I don't know."  I understand that.

July 4
I was a bit emotional for a couple of hours last night.  It seems to me that no matter how one feels about a person who has been significant in our lives, it would be impossible not to feel anything at all when that person passes.

No matter what sort of mother we have, certainly she is a significant figure for us.  Many of you have mothers who nurtured you, cheered you on, held you when it hurt and sang when all went well -- you have a different experience than I do.  My mother was a narcissistic, alcoholic, abusive parent.  She criticized me privately and publicly; she struck me or found other physical means of hurting; she told me often and clearly how ugly, stupid, completely incapable I was.  She never stopped that -- when last we saw each other, she continued to tell me what a terrible, awful person I was, how evil and vicious (I caused her to have PTSD).  So, a couple of years ago, I determined (with a lot of help from friends who saw it much more clearly than I did!) that visiting her was painful for us both, and that I would not continue it -- with the one caveat that if she actually asked to see me, I would go.  She never did, and I had not seen her in over two years when she died.

She was not a good parent -- not by anyone's measure.  Still, when I heard she had passed, I did stop to think that people are seldom all or nothing -- she had her own demons to struggle with, and did not have a happy life.  Certainly, no one ever loved her enough.  She was very insecure, and found her own worth only by tearing others down; she was perhaps the most judgmental individual I've ever known.  She did have a much longer life than many, despite her many health issues.  Perhaps it was her own stubborn attitude and a strong belief in her own immortality that kept her going, who knows?  She was 89.5 yesterday.  As I understand it, she was normal for her when the staff of her retirement home checked on her at noon -- but at 2 p.m. when the physical therapist arrived, she was non-responsive.  So far as we know, she went quickly, peacefully.  This has many blessings in it -- for her, of course, but also especially for my sister, who had the charge of the day-to-day care.

My mother was an excellent swimmer; she taught me to swim at a very early age.  I may have been able to do this before I could walk, I am not sure.  It is the one athletic thing I can do -- and it is serving me well now -- as swimming is something that the doctors, physical therapists, massage therapists, all agree is beneficial to me.

She loved music.  I learned from her the love of music.  In true narcissistic fashion, she signed me up for piano lessons, then screamed at me for doing "everything" wrong (as a contrast, I truly enjoyed hearing my children practice music -- mistakes and all!) -- of course, I gave up the lessons as soon as I was able. In high school, I wanted to take guitar lessons; she refused.  I left home the summer before my senior year in high school, and one of the first things I did was to go back to music lessons.  Now retired,  I still study and play piano -- and voice, and banjo.  My retirement life is rich because of the music that comes with me.

She loved art, and styled herself an artist.  I learned to love art, and to cherish creativity.  To my mother, being an artist and being creative meant only in the mediums she herself valued: oils, watercolor, etc.  So she would say things like, "well, art skips a generation" -- meaning her own children had none of the art or creativity she valued.  But I learned to see creativity all around me, I see it in my siblings, my own children and grandchildren -- and I value that.

I am sorry her life was so terribly miserable.  I can see that she caused almost all of her own misery, but still -- I am sad that it was that way.

When I decided not to visit unless invited, many people told me I would regret this when she was gone.   So of course the obvious question is -- do I?  No.  It was the right decision, saving us both misery and unhappiness.  She could not love me, and although it took me a very long time, I eventually learned not to hope for that.  Her life, for me, is a good example of many of the things I have learned on the road to recovery -- and a good lesson to me, too -- not the route I want to follow.  I hope she rests in peace; her life was anything but.