In the grander scheme of things

I am my Mother now. But only in the generational scheme. I am the oldest tier of relatives, I am the oldest generation in my little family. Before me came my parents and before them, their parents. Now I am the one who pulls the fabric of our family together and keeps us from fraying. I never wanted the job and this morning when it hit me, it hit me hard. I'm too young to be the elder. I'm too young to wear that crown, although I do love shiny objects and who doesn't look good on a throne?
I miss my Mom. I never thought I'd feel that, I never thought I'd love her.
My Mom was many things. To most she was seen all put together, matching outfits, hair done, lipstick on. But inside our doors she was my greatest fear. When a person is manic you never know what each moment brings. I've hinted at my childhood. It wasn't great but it was, to quote every idiot out there, what it was. My brother and I learned to tend to ourselves when Mom was in a downward spiral. We tentatively smiled when all was up and happy. And we survived and surviving made us who we are. It made him emotional and afraid of upset. It made me strong but a little too hard when people need me to be soft. And as I aged I turned my back on my parents. I had to for my own mental stability. All was well until the call. I've talked about the call before so bear with me, I have a need to retell the story.
The call. The call came in on a Wednesday. No feeling of doom as my phone rang, no black cloud overhead. Just a call from my parents neighbor. She was worried about them. Life changed quickly. For Mom, for me, for my brother and it ended for Dad. I arrived in Florida on a Thursday, the next day. Dad died a few days later, Mom died almost two months ago. Somewhere in between Dad and Mom, I found myself. I've never been a big fan of people claiming to "find themselves" and I certainly never set out to do it. Three years of Mom solidified Tia. I love my Mom. Another thing I never thought I'd say. Somewhere in between touching down in Florida and today, I learned to love her.
I know now that her mental illness shaped her. It made her weak. It made her strong. It made her a fighter. I don't think my inner strength is half as strong as her's was. Even when we reached NY, even on hospice the first time, even as cancer found her twice, even as wave after wave of manic depression hit her, she fought back. When my brother and I made that decision to let her go, her body kept on fighting until she ran out of strength and quietly left us.I miss her, I'm lost without her. She made me strong but losing her made me weak.
People tell me things like "she's in a better place", "she's with your Dad", "it was her time" and my personal favorite "she's happy now". She might be happy, she might be with my Dad in a better place, and yes it was her time but I miss her. I'm grateful that I got a chance to be with her. I learned to be compassionate, I learned to forgive and forget. I got to know who she was.
I've started to heal. The holes of the loss are filled with my granddaughter. The other end of the family scale. I heal with every moment I spend with her, she brings me joy.
Someone at the home used to call Mom 'The Matriarch'. I guess that's my job now.

cryin’ and cybers and cares

I'm still finding my way through losing Mom. For all my complaining and whining about dealing with her issues and taking care of  her, I find that I cannot cope as well as I thought I would. Bear with me please, I have many stories and many memories waiting to find words but it's coming in spurts now and I'm trying to find my way. 

Reeling, feeling, dealing, and hopefully someday even keeling.

My Mother passed away a week ago. Her last two days were quiet ones and she wasn't in that  state of  mental torment anymore. She hung on as long as she could. She is, was a tough old bird. But it was time and she had fought long enough. My brother and I spent most of her last week with her, talking, laughing, me singing songs I knew she loved and a few I knew she didn't just to see if there was any Shirley left in her. Thursday we thought we'd said our goodbyes but Shirley wasn't ready. Friday we cried with the weekday staff because we knew she'd be gone by the time they got back from the weekend. Saturday we were at peace with it and we told her we loved her and told her it was okay to let go, that her
mom and our Dad were waiting. At 10:30 pm on May 17th my Mother let go. It was her time, her turmoil was over. I froze when my phone rang at 10:55 pm that night, I knew who it was. I said "oh shit no" and answered it. It was her time, she was gone. I'm reeling still, a little lost. A little confused by the love I developed for her these past three years. I'm feeling it still, sadness, confusion, loss. I'm dealing with paperwork, cremation, phone calls, memorial plans, burial. And someday I will be back on my even keel. I hope. My Mother really wasn't much of a Mother to me but she was my Mom and recognizing who she was and what made her how she was gave me insight into myself and I love her. My Mom is dead now, I will miss her.

I am going to continue this blog. I will talk of my childhood, my life with and without Mom, and I will hopefully come to grips with this loss I feel right now. Shirley was a strong woman, a brave woman, a wounded woman, and a woman I am lucky to have loved.

last steps

My Mom is on hospice now. My brother and I made the decision last Friday. It is time. She has no real life quality left and she is in deep mental pain.  We've begun to just treat pain. It's difficult to watch and difficult to live. I will post more in a day or two. My mind is hurting right now.

let sleeping Shirleys lie

Growing up I always knew our home was different than the other homes in our average middle-class neighborhood. Sure, our lawn was trimmed and well maintained. Sure, we played the games all neighborhood children played, hot box, monkey in the middle, freeze tag and other fun games. We rode bikes, played t-ball, joined Boy and Girl scouts. We were clean, WelL dressed and from the outside all was well. But our house held secrets one of which was our mother's mental illness. Everyone in our neighborhood knew, they just never said anything out loud to us. When mom would have her bi-yearly breakdown they would look out for my brother and me, feed us, watch us, treat us just a little bit kinder. I think they figured we needed it but to us crazy was normal.
In the 80s mom got better. She really wasn't cured, it was medication related. I was a mom then and so busy that an almost normal mom was okay by me. And life marched on with mom having an occasional downward spiral. She'd go back in for treatment and we'd get her back, a little paler, a little calmer, a little more normal.
But now normal is a ghost, we think we see it and then it's gone leaving us to wonder if we just imagined it. Dementia + loopy = Shirley. She screams for Ray, there is no Ray. She talks to the corner of her room. She cries for her mother. She curses like a biker. She accuses me of stealing her pants, of killing the cat, of hiding her shoes. She thinks my brother is my dad, she says he took her food and won't let her eat. She tells random staff and visitors to shut the hell up. It hurts to see but a ranting and raving Shirley is better than a sleeping and out of it Shirley. Sounds good doesn't it? Truth is, a sleeping Shirley is a better Shirley.
Yesterday she looked up at me and said "I am dying. I am going to die." And then we both cried. Her because crying is her go to emotional outlet, me because I cry for who she was, the mother I had, and the mother I wish I'd had.

My Mother's hands

My mother's hands once made a cake,

Once rode a bike,

Once ironed a shirt.

My Mother's hands could sew a dress,

Could steer a car,

Could pet a cat.

My Mother's hands would knead bread dough,

Would wash the dishes,

Would address an envelope.

My Mother's hands wrote a newspaper column,

Typed quite fast,

Sent Christmas letters.

My Mother's hands would shuffle cards,

Would turn sheet music,

Would play the piano.

But now my Mother's hands have no more words,

Have no more music,

Have no purpose.

My Mother's hands are quiet now. 

dine and dash

My mom is sick, sick as in go towards the light sick. It’s been a long emotional week full of ups and downs and downs and downs. Lots of downs. That tummy bug we all had turned into a uti for my mom. One that has her hovering on the edge of here and heaven. For the last eleven days I have been sitting here watching her fade and wondering what we should be praying for. Alive, she’s here, I can see her and sit with her. But it’s not really her, it’s a frantic small person who screams until she’s hoarse and repeats a word or phrase over and over again until she falls asleep, exhausted from her confusion. She doesn’t eat, she barely drinks, this isn’t life. And then I head home at the end of the day, exhausted myself from doing nothing g myself. Nothing but watching and cajoling. Nothing but crying and praying. Praying for nothing, praying for something, praying for everything. Before bed I call and check on her. I go to sleep but not to rest. And then in the morning I return, hoping for  a miracle, expecting none. But she is better every morning. Little steps. Tiny changes and I smile with relief. Short lived relief. Maybe she turned the corner, maybe this is good. But my hopes are dashed, the progress is so small. One step forward, two steps back. And this is my new world, praying for something, hoping for everything, expecting nothing.