Just finished a sweet memoir entitled, Not Becoming My Mother, by Ruth Reichl. I enjoyed another one of her previous books, Tender at the Bone. I find so many similarities between her mom and mine; it's comforting to read her work.
I've been pondering the title. In her memoir, Ruth talks about finding an old dusty box filled with scraps of paper, corners of envelopes and memo pads, scrawled with simple sentences. One read, "What do I really want to do?" Another, "I will never put my daughter through something like this." Heartbreaking insights into a woman Ruth never really completely understood. Her mother suffered from Bipolar Disorder, was often misunderstood, and felt like she was held back from pursuing her dreams.
It wasn't until long after her mother died that Ruth learned these things. She was so grateful to her mother, and realized that not becoming her mother was exactly what her mother wished for her.
So I started thinking about my own mom (Marmie). If I happened across an old box full of scrawled notes, what would they say? What would she want to leave me? What things disappointed her? Brought her joy?
I'm guessing:
1) She would express frustration with friendships and difficulty in articulating her feelings. Mom had Bipolar Disorder, too, and she did not process things/interactions the way others did. She was often misunderstood and puzzled by the complexity of relationships.
2) She would say that she found joy in creating things. She was the great innovator... substituting ingredients when she didn't have the right ones (not always a good thing); sewing her own version of a piece of clothing; creating displays for teaching and to use as a librarian at the high school.
3) She would feel sad that she could not live up to her mother's expectations. I love my Grandma, but until the day she died, she never completely understood my mom's illness. She felt it shed a negative light on herself, and she never accepted it. My mom always felt that she fell short. It was heartache for all of us.
4) She would wish that she had a more meaningful "inner life." We must learn to keep ourselves company. When she was alone, she was working on "projects." She did not find solace in books, films or writing. In her last few years of life, this caused considerable loneliness. She had difficult engaging in these solitary activities. Physical problems and chronic pain compounded her sadness and depression.
5) She would feel happy that she was proud of all of her children. None of us ever felt we did not live up to our parents' expectations. I am grateful for mom's constant encouragement and praise. We were happy in our own skin.
6) She would feel blessed to have my dad in her life. He advocated for my mom for 50 years. He knew early on that there were problems, that her mind was not "right", and that there would be dark days ahead. But just before he returned from his mission from Germany, he promised her he would always take care of her if she married him.
And he did.
I would say that I have not become my mother, now that I'm all grown up. But...who I am now is a result of my mom's influence. She would want me to be my own person, and I know that would make her happy.
I miss her.
I encapsulated my last visit with Carolyn in the poem read at her funeral. But perhaps I kept the most moving part of the visit to myself. I stopped at “The Ranch” after another appointment in Rexburg hoping to see Larry, but he had not yet come for the day. It was lunch time. I was invited to visit with Carolyn.
ReplyDeleteAs I sat down she said to the others at the table, “This is my friend, Don.” I realized that title as the best I have ever had. I don’t remember the menu (except for the grape juice), but as I watched her struggle a bit manipulating the eating utensils, wanting to help her, I knew a friend would not remind her what she could not easily do. So I held off. We visited awhile and recalled a few past events.
The glass of grape juice was a challenge to her. She raised it to her lips, but the angle of the glass wasn’t right. I said, “Just lean back your head,” which she did and finished most of the juice.
As I went to leave, she told me the code to manage the exit door. She had been lucid throughout our conversation that last Saturday. That’s how I always want to remember her, “My Friend.”
donny
It's beautiful Lora. Your writing echoes a deep sense of satisfaction and understanding of Mom as well as yourself. It's hard to believe that we are working through our forties and confronting the issues of aging and parenting (on many levels).
ReplyDeleteLove, Alison
Thanks for this, Lora. That picture of her just puts a knot in my stomach. I'm grateful every day that she is no longer suffering, but I truly miss mom. Now that I am teaching, I feel a strong connection to her. I have felt (and heard) her encouraging words in my mind when I have struggled with finding a balance. I will always be grateful for the amazing and wonderful teacher she was.
ReplyDeleteThis picture personifies the last years of Mom's life here on earth--Dad, ahead of her, pensive, waiting patiently for her as she dawdled behind him, struggling, uncertain, yet courageously moving forward and following the trail that he oftentimes blazed for both of them ...
ReplyDeleteAlthough Mom blazed many of her own trails during her life in various ventures like having her own kindergarten, traveling, and managing a small business, in her last years, she was content to quietly follow Dad's lead.
As Lora's blog describes, Mom's inquisitive and unsure words echo in my mind, both during sad and happy times, "Marc, I'm just not sure what I'm supposed to be doing right now." Most of the time I felt helpless when she looked to me for answers; we all did. Our answers had to be thought out ahead of time and they were often shared with her over the phone while tears ran down our own faces.
What was the correct answer? Mom, you should be delivering roses to those in the assisted care facility ... you should be reading the scriptures and listening to peaceful music ... you should be volunteering to serve yet somewhere else ... you should be sleeping, because it is only in sleep that you (and others) cannot feel your pain--or ironically ask yourself "what you should be doing."
Dad always described Mom's pain, not as physical, but as the spiritual and mental challenge of being a truly amazing spirit, filled with love, passion, and creativity, trapped in an unwilling body (and mind).
Like the majority of her life, she is now front and center, busy, busy working on projects--those that count. She's no longer quietly caught in the "thick of thin things" she is outgoing, friendly, well-spoken and extremely productive doing the things she did and tried to do here.
I miss her "too"