Mom died shortly after last week’s post was published. My eldest sister texted a question and because I was driving, I returned the text via phone call. The answer she was looking for was irrelevant and she said very simply that mom was gone.
“Good,” I said, as Maureen took my hand and started to cry.
After what I had witnessed the previous 72 or so hours, I was relieved. The pain had ceased, the screaming had turned to silence. She was, at last, at peace.
The last week has been an emotional one but I am still waiting for that breakdown; the flood of tears, the ache in my heart, the agony that comes from the loss of a parent. Mostly, I have been overwhelmed by shame and guilt for the way I let mom be treated these last several years. The reality is that my younger sister is troubled. Her behavior is not rational. She is dishonest and manipulative to a point that is almost comical – if the repercussions were not so serious.
And I didn’t do anything about it.
Sure, I discussed it with my siblings. We texted one another about our frustrations. We shook our heads and wrung our hands. We would take turns challenging her and calling her to account, only to have our lives threatened, our children ridiculed, and (in my case) being told I was banned from the facility where she had warehoused mom among the demented and inept. She had held mom hostage – emotionally, spiritually, and physically – and I rationalized that my hands were tied because mom had chosen her as power of attorney.
So there are two kinds of mourning going on – one for a mother I loved, who raised me and challenged me and supported me. Another for a sibling I surrendered to and in whose presence I hope to never find myself. Someday I will be able to separate the two but for now one loss taints the other and I find my anger focused on my own lack of action.
Life is complicated.
Years ago, when I was in the Holy Land, at a hotel in Bethlehem, I was on the phone with my mother. I was about thirty, unmarried, and calling to check in and share a bit of the journey with her. Suddenly, the power in the whole town went out and sirens blared. Knowing just enough to be scared, I crouched down in the phone booth and relayed what was happening to my mom, thousands of miles away.
“Really?” She said, “The power is out…” Then a pause. “It’s fine here,” she said, suddenly oblivious to the miles and the ocean that separated us.
That simple phrase, “It’s fine here” became our rallying cry for the rest of the trip. Twenty years later, friends still quote it to me.
In the stillness of the morning, sitting here all alone, I imagine that’s what mom would say right now. Forget the guilt. Forget the past. Forget the pain that comes from knowing you probably couldn’t have done anything without permanently fracturing the family. Forget it all. Just remember the love, that she tried her best as a parent and, when appropriate, as a friend. Wherever she is, the response would be the same, settling my nerves and reminding me once again…
“It’s fine here.”
