In 2005, my mother was diagnosed with Pulmonary Fibrosis (PF). I was a junior in high school and vividly remember my hospital visits, overnight stays, and fierce sense of numbness. It was my coping strategy, not to feel anything. I remember locking myself in my closet and crying/screaming into towels from all the pain I was experiencing. Everything seemed to hurt a little bit more at that age (do you remember?). Everyone around me thought I was amazing because I would stay with her in the hospital and press the “Help” button for her if she needed the nurse. I didn’t understand then (and don’t understand now) why people thought my actions were amazing. I think they mistook a child in shock, for strength. I must’ve been really good at hiding my emotions because everyone seemed to “feel better” after talking to me about my mom’s newly diagnosed illness. Everyone seemed to look at me for answers on her “health status” when her lung collapsed, got pneumonia, and had intense bouts of “loosing her breath” (at which point she would look at me with her big, brown eyes and claw at the wall). I don’t think I’ll ever be able to erase that from my memory. As difficult as that time was for me, I’ll never regret being there for her…because it was she who had to go through everything. Not me. I was just a spectator in her suffering.
I remember one night she couldn’t sleep. She kept turning in her sleep, which was difficult to do since she couldn’t breathe very well. My body read all of her movements as an emergency, so with every turn she made, I was up and ready to go! She had a particularly large flow of visitors that day and although she should’ve been exhausted, she couldn’t sleep. I remember she grabbed my hand and said, “I’m glad everyone’s gone. I don’t want any more visitors. I just want you. You’re the only one I want.” I remember feeling afraid, because until that point…I had seen her as the strong one. Her words gave me the strength to keep on going, because for the first time in my life, I could see that she really needed me.
It didn’t take long for things to get back to “normal” once she was “stable” again. Our usual mother/daughter arguments continued, but something in our relationship changed. It became deeper, in many wonderful and awful ways. Looking back, I think my mom was in a lot of pain and living in fear. I have no doubts in my mind she thought of death—whether or not she was dying—whether or not she would die soon—what would happen next—what about her kids—especially the youngest boy, who was barely 7 at the time. She started treating me very differently and would say very hurtful and painful things to me…probably because she was in so much pain and fear. I didn’t understand it at the time, and I’m only coming to the realization now, that we (humans) tend to treat the people we love the most –the people we hold closest to our hearts, in the most awful ways. Why? Because we feel safe with them. Because we know deep down, no matter what they yell back at us, that they love us…many times unconditionally.
So much has changed since 2005. I graduated college, found a partner, bought my first car, went back to school, made furry additions to my family, etc. I wish I could say my mom was there through all those changes. Truth is, I pushed her away. In college, I fell in love with a woman (who is still my partner—8 years strong!). I was ashamed of my sexuality and afraid she wouldn’t accept me, so I pushed her away. In fact, after I “came out” to her, I didn’t see her for 3 years. That brings me so much shame and pain. It feels like there will never be enough “I’m so sorry’s” to forgive myself. I know one day I’ll have to forgive myself…but today is not that day.
Today is a day of deep pain. My mother is dying. She is thin, frail, weak, and in the ICU with a lung infection and abnormal levels of carbon dioxide. Where am I? I’m states away in the last few weeks of my M.A. program trying to finish this degree as quickly as possible so I can go and see her. It’s hard to determine when “it’s time” to drop everything and go, especially when I’m so close to the end. A huge part of me wants to be with her so badly, I probably will just end up going to see her. Who cares about grades right now anyway? Certainly not me. But I know she would be sad to know I’ve “given up” on my grades, especially since she’s worked so hard to give me my education (and I mean, really, fucking hard. I mean the kind of hard that involves moving countries and working 3 jobs, “etc.”). Words can’t capture how proud and thankful I am to be her daughter (no matter how many years I spent wishing for so many other mothers—including Fraulein Maria).
I know she’s dying. My gut tells me she is facing the end stages of this disease, and I have so many questions. Most importantly, I’m confused as to what role I should play in this process. I want to be strong for her, but I don’t want to avoid acknowledging her fragile condition. I want to cry, but I don’t want to her to panic or even comfort me. I want to create space where she feels loved, acknowledged, supported, and free to just be herself… And it’s really hard. I’ve worked so hard to turn off my emotions—to segregate them into my closet of pain—I’m not sure balance can exist because I don’t know if I’ll be able to turn back once the flow of tears and emotions start. She keeps telling me to “do my homework,” which I find really cute and silly. But I know what she means is “hurry up and come because I really need you.” I’m so torn, and it feels really, really lonely here.
[loving-kindness phrases]
May I feel safe, may I feel content, may I feel strong, may I live with ease.
May she feel safe, may she feel content, may she feel strong, may she live with ease.