This is an open letter to all of you in response to some questions you, Mara, asked me. I feel that you should all have the same opportunity to read this and react, or not, as you feel at the moment. Yes, I am giving you permission to ignore this post.
It may take me a while to complete and, knowing my style, I will probably write a sentence that I think conveys a paragraph of information, so ask questions if what I say is incomplete or not clear.
"How was it for you to lose your mother? . . .Even though, Maman, I do want to ask you … if you want to talk about it. Are there things you are hoping we will do? Are there things you hope happen differently? That, looking back, our behavior makes sense because you did it too?"
These are the questions Mara posed, and they are good questions. I will try to address them, but I may just go where my feelings lead me.
My first reaction to hearing my diagnosis was, "Oh, I am so sorry to all my kids. I wish I could spare you this journey." Yes, I wanted to call you all and apologize to you for putting you through what I know you will have to go through. But then, when I talked to each of you, my feeling was, 'Oh, they are so much more secure and mature than I was when I lost my mother. It won't be as hard for them. And, anyway, I haven't received a death sentence. The doctors feel I am young and healthy.' But then, I am comparing my insides to what I can see on the outside of you.
My mother was first diagnosed when I was only 12. She died 13 years later. She had cancer more than half my life. You would think that I would have had time to get used to the idea. And I did. I got so used to it that I failed to understand the outcome. It was just an ongoing part of our lives. She tried to prepare me, because remember, her own mother died when she was only 17. I think it was especially hard on her, as it would have been devastating for me to lose my mother at 17. (I can't even imagine!) But, try as she may, I just couldn't come to grips with her not being there once she was gone.
When my mother died, I went numb. Nathan was almost 5 and Mara almost 2. I went into automatic. I think I must have closed a lot of myself off in the name of coping. I know I didn't cry. I didn't cry for 2 years, and then it was only because I was under anesthetics. It (my grief?) was really difficult on our marriage. I needed your father more than ever before, and yet I was inaccessible to him. He had no idea what I needed and had no idea what to do for me or with me.
And then there was the whole process. Because my mother's tumor was a slow growing cancer, it did allow her extra time with us, but also, it killed her slowly. Torturously. Hospice was a concept that had just come on the scene and not at all in rural Maryland, where she lived. She actively was dying from March through August. Those were the 6 worst months of my life. I wanted to be with her, but had 2 small children who really couldn't come with me as she was so ill, and she was so far away. And things were sort of falling apart at home. I remember, when she was still pretty good, the doctor told her it would be weeks. By pretty good, I mean, she didn't feel too awful, but was no longer getting out of bed for much more than using the bathroom. We (she and I) figured that 'weeks' couldn't be more than 8 weeks because then the doctor would have said months. This was in March. Imagine how disgusted she was in July to find herself alive and in terrible pain. I wanted to be with her and take care of her myself, and I just couldn't. I couldn't make her feel any better. I was so helpless. And I knew the outcome was inevitable, and it would be sad for me. Not for her; she would be released from a special hell of suffering. That did make me happy when she died.
I must say, through the whole process, she always brought humor to it. I often was laughing through my tears, but I cherish the laughter. We developed a gallows humor that others thought was quite awful, but it sustained us. And I cherish my memories.
I would say that the pain from losing my mother at a young age has always stayed with me. Gradually, it stopped hurting so much, and just became part of who I am.
One of the things I do hope you will do, and most of you have pretty well, is stay in touch. Don't desert me. It doesn't have to be in person, but phone calls, emails, blogs etc. mean a lot to me. Keep me involved in your lives. Don't treat me as though, a) I will be around forever -- no one ever is, or b) as though I were already dead and just don't need to know what is going on with you. I'd love some help cleaning the attic, but I won't push it.
Things that I hope happen differently. Well, it is a different cast of characters. So I guess what I wish for our family is peace and harmony. It won't happen. Not because we are a contentious lot, but because death is messy emotionally. It brings feelings to the surface and is raw. There are miscommunications, hurt feelings, confusion. Pain. My hope is to sort out as much of those feelings beforehand when we are all a little saner. Of course, for me it will be easier. You guys are the ones who will have to live with the aftermath. This is sort of what I was talking about a couple of years ago when I invited you to clear up any end of life issues now, before I get to the end of my life. I have seen it over and over again (and lived it, too) where people want to bring up the pain of their past with someone who is dying and it is really just too late to untangle it. Let's get that out of the way now, while we have the energy to cope with it.
And I want no one to blame anyone else for anything. I know that sounds kind of sweeping, but I really mean it.
Does your behavior make sense? Sure, I suppose. I mean, what behavior? And there is still more to come. Events, behavior, life in general. How much sense does any human behavior make? If it 'made sense' it would be more consistant from person to person.
This is a little disjointed and perhaps a tad confusing, but let this begin the discussions.