I stopped talking to my parents in January 2007 (I think, I don't remember exactly). At least, that's the last time I ever called them. And they just never called me back.
But since then, I'd been wondering whether they'd ever try reaching out, try making amends. I thought that on my mother's deathbed, she might find God—truly find God, not that fake cult crap she put us through—and finally apologize.
I've thought about her death a lot over the years, mostly because I've always known she always wanted to die. She constantly threatened death—either in a passive way, that ol' "Since this may be my last Christmas..." gag, or in an active way, openly fantasizing about drowning herself in the bathtub.
After all, her physical health was pretty terrible—something I was acutely aware of as far back as third grade. And her mental anguish? Way before that, as far back as I can remember.
So I couldn't help but be curious as to when it would happen, how it would happen, how I would feel, what my dad would do.
How would I even find out that she had died? And what would happen if my dad died first?
My parents eating cake at their wedding reception, May 4, 1973*
Well, many of those questions have now been answered. My mother died on March 3, 2025. I found out on March 11, when my cousin called me after the funeral service.
My first reaction? Relief.
I hadn't realized how scared I'd been of my mother, still. The fact that she was still out there, somewhere was terrifying to me—but it was a terror I was so used to, I never really acknowledged it. And once she was gone, I felt an enormous weight lifted off of me.
I was kind of happy for her, too. This is what she wanted for so long. The pain was finally over.
She didn't, by the way, die by her own hand. It was a much more mundane and tortuous story of falling, going into a nursing home, and catching an infection there that would finally take her down. I don't know the exact timeline. I don't know what she injured when she fell, or how or where she fell. I don't know what kind of bug she caught, or how it ultimately took her down.
There are people in my life who think that my mother's death means that a door to repairing my relationship with my father has opened. But I think the fact that he didn't reach out to any of us when my mother first started to decline—whatever that timeline was—and didn't even try to tell us when it first happened makes it very clear where he stands.
I'm so glad to not have so many "What ifs" hanging over me now. And the best part is, I haven't had one of those recurring nightmares where I'm back at the house and packing up, trying to get out of there, wondering how I got sucked back in.
In fact, I've only had one dream about my parents since I found out my mom died. It was back at the old house, but it looked totally different, and it was just my dad there, with a bunch of people who were strangers to me. I was glad he wasn't alone.
A photo taken by Maria of my mother taking a photo of me at my college graduation, May 1997*
In my waking hours, I'm grateful for the life I have now. I don't mourn what could've been, because it could never have been—not with her. Not with her baggage. Not with her illness.
Fortunately, I've had a few surrogate parents to take care of me along the way—like Nicki's and Maria's and Chrissy's, who all took me in at various times after my parents kicked me out. Jon's and Tony's parents let me spend holidays with them when I had nowhere else to go. Michelle's dad still helps me out at times when I'm jobless and broke.
In fact, one of the first people I called when I found out about my mother's death was Maria's mom, who's shown me time and again how wonderful having a mom can be.
She always tells me she loves me when we talk on the phone. The last time my mother said "I love you" to me was on 9/11. I don't remember how long it had been before that. Years, certainly.
I never understood why my mother hated me. (I know that she did because she told me she did.) I always felt so much contempt from her, it was overwhelming.
I even felt it from afar—for the remainder of my time in New York City, and even after I moved to the other side of the country. I wasn't running away from her when I moved, but I always kind of felt like I was looking over one shoulder.
All of this had been weighing on me more than I ever realized—until I was released from it.
I have lots more feelings about all of this, about my mother, my father, my history, my identity. And I'm kind of mad it's getting dredged up now, when I was perfectly fine not thinking about it all the time.
So maybe I'll write more in the future.
But this is all for now.
*I only have four photos of my mother—two from her wedding (which my aunt and uncle sent me in a packet of family photos) and two from my college graduation. One from each are above.
Related Posts:
Thank you for sharing this experience about your relationship with your mother. I understand that feeling of relief finding out that your mother died. I know that is not a socially acceptable norm after your mother dies. To have your mother direct hate toward you must have been painful. Dysfunctional mother/daughter relationships are only relatable if you have on too. Others simply do not understand and possibly judge. My mother was addicted to drugs, suffered from mental illnesess, ultimately turned into a untreatable drug induced schizophrenia. My sister got a call she was found dead after neither of us seeing her in over a decade. So, we could claim her but we needed to pay for the cremation and come clean a bodily fluid mess in an squatted apartment.
ReplyDeleteMost have always said "you need to repair your relationship with your mother or you will regret it when shes dead" "why dont you talk to your mother". When i finally found her before she died she was in a mental health facility talking incoherently. I tried messaging on FB, but she never tried for me. She was so far gone that it was too harmful for me to try. My sister did try to take her in but she was taken advantage of by stealing and lying.
Truth is the mom you had or i had was not really our mom. Biologically they were your mother but, not spiritual/mentally. Mother figures were there for you that filled that role. I do not know why my sister spent the $$ for cremation, or why i went and cleaned her guts off the walls and furniture for this landlords property she was squatting in. I guess we felt responsible for her existence. It was good closure to know she isnt still out there not able to get help. Unreachable paranoid homeless drug addict that is missing 98% of the time as my mother was unnerving. Now i know where she is... in this body of water in washington.
Thank you for sharing this -- it is a hard topic that is very difficult to open up about honestly. Sorry for the over share.
Not an over share from my POV. I'm so sorry you went through this, and although my situation wasn't as severe, I can relate. My mother was a dry drunk and addicted to pretty much everything but illegal substances and cigarettes - and therefore also a liar and a manipulator. I couldn't figure out why I had been so obedient throughout my childhood, why I tried so hard to make her happy after I moved out and started my own life. I can't explain why I continued calling and even trying to see her for as long as I did. And I wondered what would happen if my father went first and my sister or I were have to deal with her death and body. I was really scared to don't have to do that.
Delete