Did I love you like I was supposed to?

One of these days we'll both be fine

One of these days we’ll both be fine

Did I love you like I was supposed to?

Tomorrow I’m heading to Toronto for a doctor’s appointment and leaving London (Ontario) where I’m staying while my mother who is in the hospital awaits a long-term care spot.

As I was packing and getting ready to leave London—I thought, well, at least today wasn’t all that eventful so maybe I don’t have to write about it.

Not that I don’t want to write this series—but writing about a trauma while you’re in the middle of it can be exhausting despite being cathartic. And I don’t really feel like I have a choice in the matter. I’m compelled to write this series whether I want to or not. I just want there to be some days that are less dramatic or stressful so there’s nothing to say.

Today was not one of those days—although it was the kind of low-key drama that if I didn’t write it down, it would be forgotten.

One thing that is so interesting about this experience is how many emotions operate in any given moment. I suppose much of life is like this. I just don’t notice probably because it’s not usually this intense.

*

Today my mother was agitated all day.

She called over forty times and I answered about 10 of those calls. I’m sure she called my sister and Dave about as many times too.

On the last call, I got frustrated.

I was hot and in the drugstore trying to buy a card and gift for her neighbour Helen who will be leaving the hospital tomorrow. Helen got her long-term care placement. In fact, she got two in the same week.

Of course I’m happy for her. I’ve grown quite attached to her and her family, but also I’m sad for my mom who has been in the hospital a month and a half longer.

We’re all feeling a little hopeless about when she will get her spot.

As I was trying to pick out a suitable card, my mom just kept calling and calling. Finally I answered and told her that I couldn’t talk to her. Then she called one minute later and I said I was on my way over and would see her soon. My tone wasn’t as nice as it should have been, and I felt terrible as soon as I hung up. I try never to snap at her because I know how frightened and confused she is, but in that call I knew I was sharp and likely hurt her feelings.

When I got to the hospital my mother was sitting by the front desk where the staff have her sit when she’s having a bad day or just won’t stay in one place.

She’s a fall risk and wears a yellow band that says “call don’t fall”. I’m not quite sure the of logic in making someone with dementia wear such a bracelet since she has no idea how to call the nursing station if she were in a situation where she would need help.

She must have been giving them a hard time because I heard someone say, “Thank god,” when they saw me walk in.

“She’s been waiting for you,” a nurse or psw said.

*

We got her shoes on and decided to take a walk in the hall where there’s a quiet spot to sit.

Today was one of those days I did all the wrong things as a caregiver.

Not only was I short with my mother on the phone, but also I didn’t answer her questions the way I know I should have.

“Where are my parents?” She kept asking. She’s been asking about them more often. For awhile me saying that they were in heaven and reminding her about the poem I read at Grandma’s funeral (“Crossing the Bar”) used to satisfy her, but one day she got freaked out when I said they were in heaven. She wasn’t upset that they were dead but that she couldn’t remember they were dead.

So I’ve been trying different approaches such as changing the subject or saying they are on vacation or that I will call them later. But my mother could see through these lies and kept asking about them over and over. One thing about my mother is that she is very persistent. Nothing I could say would satisfy her, so I finally blurted, “Mom, your parents are dead.”

“Both of them?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Why did you let me go on like that then?” she asked.

“I didn’t want you to be upset,” I said.

“It’s kind of good actually that they’re dead,” she said.

“Why?” I was taken aback

“Now I don’t have to worry about them or their apartment.”

“No, you don’t,” I said.

“I just have to worry about myself and carrying on,” she said contentedly.

“That’s right.” Her response was amusing.

“What about their money?” she asked.

And here’s the part where I should have shut up, but couldn’t help myself: “You spent it all.”

“All of it?” She was shocked.

They worked so hard all of their lives scrimping and saving to provide my mother with anything she wanted. My grandmother used old Sucrets tins to store her buttons and paper clips. Cleaned out milk bags kept cookies and homemade biscuits fresh. My grandmother sewed her own clothes and wouldn’t spend a dime on herself.

“You spent some of it and then dumped the rest in a slot machine.”

Then she laughed. “Did I do that? Good lord!”

“You did, but then you sold your house and got some money to pay off your debts.”

My mother has always been the type of person that when the bottom falls out—there’s someone to pick up the pieces. For most of her life, it was her parents, and now it’s my sister, me, and Dave.

“That’s good.” She was quiet for a moment then said: “I’m really lucky to have you and Susan.”

“You are.”

“I love you both very much,” she said and I could tell she meant it.

I nodded.

“Did I love you as much as I should have?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“When I was supposed to love you? Did I love you and Susan the way I should have?”

For so much of my life, my mother denied the horrors of our childhood. She had seen worse as a social worker so our lives she assured herself weren’t all that bad. When she went through the AA program over 30 years ago—Susan asked me if Mom ever made amends with me which is Step 9.

“No,” I laughed. “She didn’t.”

“She didn’t for me either,” my sister said.

Whenever we talked about the past or our childhood, our mother created a version in her head that did not exist for my sister or I. In this version she was some kind of wonderful parent, and we had some kind of wonderful childhood—not the fighting, screaming, passing out, blackouts, pill popping hangovers, strange men in the house, disappointments, and more. I was eight when I had my first thoughts of suicide—not to mention the “birth defects” I had to deal with—a lazy eye, heart murmur, learning disabilities which were mostly likely caused by her drinking when she was pregnant with me.

Even after she stopped drinking, she had convinced herself it wasn’t that bad for us. But it was. I suppose she had troubling living with herself for what she had done to her children.

Whether she meant it or not—I took my mother’s question about love to refer to our childhood and her parenting. Whether she meant it or not—I took her question to be some kind of acknowledgement or amends.

“Yes,” I said. “You did. You loved us the way you were supposed to.”

“That’s good,” she said as contented as she was when she heard her parents were dead.

Then she picked up the cat and dog photo book we bought for her birthday. “Awe, look at their eyes.”

She pointed to a photo of bull dog and white kitten asleep in each other’s arms. The dog had one eye open as if he was winking at the camera.

“Aren’t they cute?” she said.

“The children are always ours, every single one of them, all over the globe; and I am beginning to suspect that whoever is incapable of recognizing this may be incapable of morality.” —James Baldwin

Consider donating to the Palestine Children’s Relief Fund and the Sudan Solidarity Collective

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