Have I earned the right to grieve

I will never forget that Monday… I was preparing for another day of teaching at Okanagan College in Salmon Arm, BC; I was home alone because my husband was away on a road trip; the phone rang.

I saw that the phone call was from the nursing home in Alberta, where my mother was living. I had been contacted two weeks earlier by the nursing home to let me know that my mother had been transported to the hospital because of a bladder infection that wasn’t responding to medication. She was doing well, they just wanted to be more aggressive with her treatment. I had spoken with my mother shortly after she was transported to the hospital, the nurse walked the phone right to my mother’s room, so we had a conversation. She was in good spirits and looking forward to recuperating.

The following week, when Mother’s Day arrived, I decided that I would call my mother again, just to wish her a Happy Mother’s Day, and to let her know that we had a surprise in store for her. Of course, the nurses were very busy that day with it being Mother’s Day, so instead of speaking with my mother that day, I just asked them to let her know that I called. I quickly asked how she was doing, and the nurse said that she had had a good breakfast and had complained about the food; a sure sign that she was on the mend. 

So, when that call came in early that next morning as I prepared for work, I was expecting it to be the staff from the nursing home, telling me that my mother was once again back at the nursing home. Instead, what the director of the nursing home told me was that my mother had passed away in her sleep the night before. 

I remember not being able to speak so I believe I simply said that I couldn’t be on the phone and hung up. I know that I dropped to my knees in stunned silence, not sure what my next step should be. Then suddenly, I knew that I had to go to my computer. I felt this overwhelming urge to type out my feelings at that exact moment. The words just tumbled out of my mind, almost faster than I could type… 

Have I earned the right to grieve?  Can I justify grieving for a mother who repeatedly subjected me to a myriad of emotions as she herself struggled with her demons?  Throughout my lifetime I have been subjected to a mother violent at one moment and tearful at another, walking as though suspended from a tightrope not of my own choosing but placed there by a woman who knew no limit to her paranoia, anger and dilutions.  The problem was I never knew which side of my mother was going to be in control at any given time. The change could happen without notice, without provocation; one-minute speaking as a friend and a mother and then at the next moment speaking from the depths of her insanity.  I search desperately for a treasured memory that isn’t marred by confusion, laced with accusations, or overpowered by violence. From this search I am only able to retrieve small glimpses of happy memories; but even those are overshadowed by my desire to leave out the twisted part of those few memories.  Like someone desperately trying to find some kind of justice in a situation that screams of unjust. How can I honour the memory of a woman who scarred my soul so deeply?

Confrontation has never been an option for me.  Asking my mother to justify her behavior towards me would be like asking someone who couldn’t see to describe the colours associated with pain and torment.  Flashes of red and black, powerful white, moving violently across the window in my mind laced with black zigzags exploding behind closed lids; confusion beyond words sparked by impeding violence that knew no restraint. 

Pleading did little to appease the rage that fueled my mother’s outbursts.  A rage hidden in the depth of my mother’s own scarred past, a violence I have no doubt was inflicted by those that should have loved my mother and allowed her a sense of security.

I have this overwhelming urge to talk to the one remaining relative that was present during my mother’s tormented upbringing.  But even this last link to my mother’s past hides behind an anger directed so unjustly towards my mother. There were no allies in my mother’s struggle to obtain sanity in her twisted childhood; she was alone trying to work through the pain of rejection, the terror of violence and the horror of abuse.  The role of a child should never be one of attempting to understand the twisted years of their mother’s life. How do we take the limited experience we ourselves have in the world and make right things that happened before we were even a thought in someone’s desire to have a child? There was no way to rescue my mother from her tormentors or the scars that they left etched deeply on her soul.  It is from this that my Mother attempted to carve out a clearer vision of what the world should be. A vision she couldn’t extract from the deep incisions that piece together her being. Hers is a life so tragic that I know in my heart I must forgive her for all the damage that she inflicted on me while she spent a lifetime searching for love and acceptance. The story will remain ever tragic and my struggle to love my Mother despite it all will always confuse those around me.  Yes, I loved my Mother as the vessel that brought me into the world. In her own way she stood as a champion, my champion no matter the situation and for that reason alone I will love her unending.

The words were done…

I finished getting ready for class and went to work. When I got in front of the students, I told them that I had something to share with them and hoped that they wouldn’t mind. I told them about my mother’s passing, and then asked if they would allow me to read something to them.

After I read the words that had galloped to the surface that morning, I remember that we were all tearing up and suddenly we were in a tight group hug. It was so cathartic; I had been able to sort through my troubled thoughts about my relationship with my mother and I was able to accept the warmth and healing of a group hug. That seemed all that I needed because I was able to stay the entire day and teach my class. There were no more words needed; I was at peace with my feelings.