I listened to an old voicemail from my mom yesterday. So much in her persona and presence was different than what I have come to know lately. I saw her briefly last week while she was trying to nap. She said to me, “How about we stick together so none of us get lost?” I asked her if she keeps getting lost and she said, “Sometimes.” The moment has been haunting me a little since we had it.
She wanted to come with me to run errands and see Maddie’s‘s camp performance. She used to always offer to run errands or come over once I had the girls and moved closer to her. I was always reticent to have her company: perpetually pushing her off, or keeping the visit controlled to avoid any argument that would likely come at some point before she left.
Hearing her voicemail reminded me how subtle the signs of dementia can be, and how vulnerable she was to ask for help after the history forge between us. I can’t blame her; I was cold too, with two young kids, a husband and house to take care of.
I wonder about her perspective on all this; the true one buried deep below the layers of religion and White indoctrination. What would she have said to me about my choices in my life had she not been so blinded by the cage she was caught in?
Since she is my mother it matters to me, but alas, all too well I know the woman truly was caught in her ways and just wanting me to fall in line. It served me well enough to get through the system, to believe in education, and finding a partner to have kids with. It’s served me well enough to get to a version of my life that feels good mostly and brings me so much love. Yet still I crave those lost connections I know others have with their mothers.
I still worry I am too damaged to forge healthy relationships with my daughters that will last a lifetime. Also, deep in my heart I know I am good and true, imperfect and loving. I treasure the moments of love that I can share with them and let them know I believe in who they are.