Eternal Hope of a Daughter

There are a few posts that I have dreaded and the next few are among them.  I have been thinking about this for at least a month; pondering, writing and rewriting in my mind.  I have been writing about my Mom’s illness this summer and it has been good.  But I came to a sudden stop.  Because I knew that I had to write this.  The last post was supposed to be this one but I avoided it, just one more time.   This time I can’t.

The facts, dates and research are somewhat easy to write.  Even though the memories are very painful, it is much easier to write than the emotions.  I hate crying.  I hate crying in front of people even more.  And writing out the emotions of my Mom’s illness is like crying in public.  I feel so vulnerable, so exposed.  But, it needs to be done for me to move on.

When my Dad was killed just before I was born my Mom wasn’t able to breastfeed.  In the first few days it was discouraged due to hormone issues and medications that she had been given.  But even after those initial frightening, horrible days we weren’t together much.  She had a farm to help run, lawyers, trials, grieving, among a million other things that she hadn’t planned on.  I honestly don’t think she knew what to do with me.  I represented the hopes and dreams of a future that was never to come.  Her parents were there and helped take care of us.  So I bonded with my Grandma and later Auntie D more than I did with my Mom.  My Mom and I never regained that bond.  We both knew that us having very different personalities was not the only issue in our relationship.  We never actually discussed it; we didn’t seem to need to, even on her death bed.  Our lack of bonding had been a necessity of the moment.  And once I was old enough to understand what had happened around my birth I understood that she had no choice.  But her lack of choice didn’t, and doesn’t, take the hurt away.  I didn’t have a choice in any of it.  I was an innocent child who not only would never know my Dad; I would never really know my Mom.  The woman who was to be my Mother was taken from me.  She was changed in such a basic, cellular level; her hormones, brain chemicals, physical appearance and personality changed.

I was and am so thankful to have other Moms to fill in the gap.  I don’t know where I would be without them.  My Mom was sometimes threatened by these other mother figures but I think she was thankful for them as well.  But as thankful as I am to these women, I had always somehow hoped that my Mom and I would magically grow this bond and be as close as other mother/daughters.  There is the “what if”; no matter how many times I told myself how unhealthy it was.  When it comes to our parents it seems that we all become eternal optimists holding out hope.  Would my Mom and I have been close if my Dad had lived?  Or would we have still clashed and this way I got my “other” mothers?  Did I actually gain by losing?  We will never know these answers and I’m working at coming to peace with what I did and do have so I don’t have to ask “What if” as much as I used to.  When she became sick I had every emotion possible swirling around me.  As much as I had known that day was coming it is still painful to be looking at the end.  Not only of my Mom’s life but also at the end of the eternal hope for that magical bond.  Would we come together just in time?   Would we have enough time?  Could we accept each other after all these years?

I knew there was a cost to both scenarios.  If we became close while she was sick it would only be to lose her all over again.  But if I ran away instead and didn’t at least try what regrets would I have?  Could I live with myself?  Could I walk away from a relationship with my Mom even if it was fleeting?  Could I handle the pain of either choice?  Again, this was a choice that wasn’t really a choice.   I had no choice.  I couldn’t walk away.  And I have no regrets.

Leave a Reply