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Forgiving a Mother Who Never Asked

Mother’s day is a hard day for my husband. His mother passed away several years ago due to complications from the chemotherapy she was receiving for the treatment of breast cancer. It damaged her heart to the point that she needed a heart transplant. The attempted transplant was not successful and a mechanical heart was implanted. She suffered several strokes shortly after and died within a week of the surgery. Her untimely death is not the only reason that Mother’s day is hard. It is a tough day because he has had to learn to forgive a person who was not sorry.

A mom of two boys by the age of 17, she missed out on the normal experiences of a teenager in the mid 60’s, and often told her sons this. She frequently left the boys with relatives, dumping them off for weeks at a time. It is testament to the poor living conditions that he had with his mother that the days of living with grandparents and a few times with an aunt and her partner were some of the best times of my husband’s life, and the people he credits for giving him some semblance of a normal childhood. She was mentally and physically abusive, and had some of the things happened in this day and age, the boys would surely have been removed from her care. The addition of a stepfather and later on, two half-brothers did not help the situation. The younger ones were favored but even they didn’t escape some of the abuse. My husband tried to run away multiple times and ultimately left for good as soon as he turned 17,  joining the army with his mothers written permission.

Seven years later, when I joined the family, things had only improved marginally and although my he never complained about his upbringing and rarely said anything negative about her, I could see the situation clearly.  She was not a big part of our lives through the years, and her death only bothered me because of the grief that it caused my husband. He mourned her passing even when he was handed a letter at the funeral, written by her before she entered the hospital to await her transplant. The letter was not the apology that I initially assumed it would be. It was a list of his shortcomings and the hardships she endured in her selfless attempt to raise him and his brothers. I watched him burn the letter that night, and I saw him cry. There would be no absolution, no explanation, nothing that said “I did the best that I could.”

Yet, he misses her, especially on her birthday and Mother’s day. Maybe he misses her good points, she was beautiful, and witty, and at times, generous. But I think he misses most, something he never had. A relationship like I have with our son. I wish that he had with her the easy friendship that I have with our boy. The shared jokes and favorite TV shows, the ease with which he shares things with me that sometimes I don’t really want to know. I wish that my husband had that with his mother. I wish he had a lifetime of sweet memories of her instead of the painful legacy she left behind. I wish that she had left a different letter. I think he just misses having a mother, good or bad. He loves her and has forgiven her, although she never asked for it.

It is a strange thing to behold as a nurse, and as an observer of human nature, how children love their mothers. Selfish and abusive or unfeeling and negligent, these things do not prevent a child from having the desire to be with his mother. They long for them, and call for them until suddenly they don’t. Until finally, the child is old enough to protect himself from the pain of rejection. The heart hardens and a wall develops. A wall that a future partner will spend a lifetime trying to knock down. A wall that a mother, nearing the end of her days, lonely, and with a lifetime of regret, could dissolve with a few words… “I love you, I’m proud of you, and I’m sorry, I did the best that I could.”

Afterword: I almost didn’t post this piece. I asked my husband to read it because I wanted to get his permission since it is his life, and his story. He told me initially that is was alright to post, but I could tell that it made him sad. He doesn’t want his mom to look bad. I actually had a different title in the beginning, and some unkind comments. We talked about it and I changed some things. Tines, thank you for letting me share with others a small piece of your amazing, crazy life.

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More Precious than Jewels

She is far more precious than jewels. Proverbs 31:10

This is the face of a mom who has to go to work. Her daughter wants her to stay home but she has to go. Her mouth smiles but her eyes do not. She has her keys in her hand, her purse on her shoulder and she has had to ask for favors from family and friends to watch her daughter because it is nearly impossible to afford daycare and because her evening and weekend work schedule does not allow her to send her daughter to one anyway. She cries as she drives and she thinks about that sad face. “I can’t do this,” she says aloud. But she is doing it. She works in a busy emergency room where she will see good moms, with pinched, worried faces. Mothers whose children have high fevers or a broken arm. She will also see a few bad moms. Selfish and rude, with coarse voices and a hardened exterior, they will sneak outside for a cigarette or demand to know in a loud, disruptive voice, “what the f#@$ is taking so long?”  But those moms are few and far between. Many of the  mothers are single and many are like this mom; trying to get by, struggling to raise kind, productive citizens on boxed macaroni and cheese. This is a picture of my daughter, She is a single mom. She is one of many, many women who are doing it every day, even though they feel like they can’t.

This is to the mom who drops her kids off at daycare after an early morning wake-up call in which the first thought was that you are going to go to bed early tonight for a change instead of basking in the one hour of alone time you have all day. A morning spent changing diapers, feeding the cat, asking, then telling, then finally yelling at your preschooler to get her shoes on in between trying to make yourself presentable for work and then suddenly remembering that the baby has a well-child checkup mid-day and you will have to get out of work early. You drop them off in a rush, but the baby clings to your legs and puts up his chubby arms for you to pick him up. You smile and remove him, give him a kiss and tell him that you love him, and leave him with his caregiver. You cry on the way to work and think, “I can’t do this. ”  But you are doing it.

This is to the mom whose six-year-old exhausts you with requests to play Uno, Barbies, and hopscotch. “Read to me, watch me, play with me” is her battle cry. You go to the bathroom to get a minute to yourself but the door bangs open and in she comes, asking to make cookies with you. You need a break, an hour alone to not talk or smile and to please no one but yourself. But there is no one to relieve you, and you feel guilty for wishing you could be alone. “I can’t do this,” you think as you get out the chocolate chips and she pulls a kitchen chair up to the counter so that she can “help.” But you are doing it.

This is to the mom whose teenage son is angry with school and with life. His music is loud and his hair is long. His friends are questionable and his girlfriend is sullen. He stays out past curfew one night and you do not sleep and instead, frantically text, call, and social-media stalk him and his friends to determine his whereabouts. You wonder if you should start texting other parents or maybe call the police, until finally, two hours late, he stumbles in, the stench of rebellion poisoning the air.  You know that you should wait until the morning, but you are tired and relieved and angry all at once, so you yell at him and he yells back. Your sweet baby boy punches a hole in the wall and in your heart and then slams his door while you think to yourself, “I can’t do this.” But you are doing it.

Mom, this is the hardest task you that will ever be entrusted to you. You won’t be sure of yourself and you will always feel guilty. There will never be a time when you think,  I’m doing a damn good job. You will always worry, wonder, and at times wish it away. As a single mom, the full mantle of responsibility rests on your shoulders. You are the good cop and the bad cop, the yin and the yang. You have no one to bounce ideas off of, to tell you when you are being ridiculous or to support you with an end-of-discussion Dad voice warning the whiner to “listen to your mother.”

It is a struggle: financially, mentally, and emotionally. There will be days when you feel confident and in control and nights when fear, the friend of darkness, pins you to your bed, paralyzing your body and stimulating your mind.  But when the sun comes up, and your phone alarm goes off in the morning, and you roll out of bed swearing that you will go to bed early tonight, know this: You are strong and beautiful. Your strength comes from adversity and your beauty comes from every challenge that you have faced along the way. These hard times are polishing you and preparing you for the day when your babies are grown and they show you off  like a young woman shows off her engagement ring. “Meet my Mom,” he will say, diploma in hand, his face alight, “I couldn’t have done it without her.” On that day, you, in a green dress, tissue in hand, standing back to let your baby have his moment, will be brought forth and your worth and brilliance will be on display for all to admire. You will finally know what your children have learned and what we bystanders have always known; that you are precious and that you did a damn good job.