The strange reality is both my parents are gone now, and with that the final hints of true devotion only a parent has for their child. The last of that echo, however faint it became these past few years, is now truly gone.
Funny isn’t it, to feel that way? Even in the last months, when my mother didn’t say much and certainly rarely knew my name, I had the distinct feeling that she recognized my face and felt glad to see me. She knew I was familiar in some way and that became enough for me. I could fill in the rest with words to help her remember or at least pretend she knew. Perhaps it’s all energy and vibration when your loved ones are close. I like to think that when people pass, the energy dissipates and becomes stardust again; though I still look for signs; I always look for signs.
For me, having the time and space to care for my mom at a greater amount than I would have, had I’ve been working, was truly a gift. I’m not saying it was all easy. Dementia brings up its own dark moments that are uniquely horrible on their own. But my mother, the one I knew growing up with all her expectations and judgements, drifted to the back of her existence and left a being that was less encumbered. For the most part, it created a space for me to connect with her in a way that aligned more with my expectations and experiences. The levity and the dark moments were all on me as they intersected with my memory of our history.
I kept wanting to speed up the process and, at the very end, I practically craved pushing her along without respecting she needed to transition on her own; forgetting that, of course she would do it on her own.
When my father died, I felt so utterly raw and cracked open. A lot of his death was about me truly experiencing the disconnection of death for the first time. My mother’s death has been quite a different experience, more of a relief and some discomfort in feeling mostly relieved.
The past three years have felt long and cumbersome. Though we all had the best intentions, sometimes to a fault, it still feels like there was more we “should” be doing for her. She raised us that way and left us on edge like that. Before her dementia progressed enough to limit this part of her personality, I felt those judgements immensely. Ultimately I think we let her down; we always let her down. It’s ironic to look back now and see how our decisions to do the right thing might have elongated the process.
It’s hard not to be resentful at the end of someone’s life when you’re still hoping to iron out your differences and find a way to peaceful closure. It’s unfortunate that my mother hailed from a time and had a religious connection that ingrained so many “shoulds” about how the results looked. I think she felt like she failed because many of the outcomes she expected from all her mothering did not come to fruition. I’m not sure she had it in her to step back and look with fresh eyes at what developed instead. I look at the lot of us and I see how truly amazing it is to be part of a story of six girls in one family.
Part of being an orphan means those expectations of your parents and how they presented in your life live solely within you now - the other end of the line has dropped. It calls you to connect with your own expectations and who you are as an adult moving through the world.
I prefer to remember her as fondly as I can. I know there will be moments where my anger will get the best of my memories and I’ll be sifting through ashes. Mostly though, I’m choosing to let the dead be at peace… and let me be at peace too.
“Don’t move the way fear makes you move, move the way love makes you move.” - Rumi