Some thoughts on death and dying
This was written in response to a piece elsewhere, in which the author was talking about the recent death of their mother. I decided I wanted to keep the response for myself, since I include a bunch of stuff about my own journey with my mom’s decline into dementia and her waning years.
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I am so sorry for your pain, [name]. All of it, throughout your life, and right up through the present moment. You never deserved the pain, no matter what your mom or anyone else might have said (or may say in the future.)
I am still in the midst of dealing with my own version of this. My mother was toxic and evangelical, and gradually became more and more anxious and even paranoid. Nowhere near the level of yours, and without the Munchausen’s. But enough to be painful and confusing and yes damaging. I agonized over the things she’d send to me, and to my daughters. Good parental advice mixed up with sly undermining or outright accusations that we were all going to hell, or that I’d no longer have allergies if I just would “stand against the devil.” I was finally able to make a mental separation when she told me that “curly electricity” from compact fluorescents was what was causing my daughter’s ADHD and learning challenges.
In more recent years, the tables have turned, and she would end up asking me to explain scientific things, or to reassure her about some of her fears. Which I would do, but always while worrying about and expecting (and sometimes getting) the criticism around my choice not to attend church with her, for instance.
And now she’s in assisted living, and dementia is getting progressively worse, and we are clearly approaching the end. She’s 87, the same age her own mother died after a decade of “Alzheimer’s.” And the staff all think she is “so sweet.” And I can see it. She must have been such a sweet child, before her own sexual abuse at age 4 at the hands of a neighbor boy.
But it doesn’t stop me from feeling conflicted that I am not out there (also in TN, by the way) giving my life away. Still. Again. Because isn’t that how you “honor your parents”? It’s what she did, after all.
More than half my lifetime away from her church’s teachings and I still find myself thinking these thoughts and feeling guilty. It’s insidious.
Fortunately, my sister and I are both good friends and good partners to each other in this journey. We’ve got each other’s backs, and are able to work through these challenges together, and/or spelling each other. Because the other day, the same day I got my admission to grad school, mom fell again, and is in the hospital again. So it’s a good thing I chose a school that allows me remote classes, and will continue to do so even “after the pandemic” (if that ever comes. *sigh*)
All of which is a really long way around to say that I get it. Deeply. And I am sorry for your pain, and I support you doing what you need to do to care for yourself and your daughter in whatever way you can. I wish you what comfort there is in knowing that this time the end is real, and that eventually, things will be over.
You were the very best daughter to her that you could have been. You deserve peace. You aren’t perfect, of course, but you ARE good. Eventually, I hope you’ll even be ok.
((Hugs)) from an Internet stranger if you want them.
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I am so sorry for your pain, [name]. All of it, throughout your life, and right up through the present moment. You never deserved the pain, no matter what your mom or anyone else might have said (or may say in the future.)
I am still in the midst of dealing with my own version of this. My mother was toxic and evangelical, and gradually became more and more anxious and even paranoid. Nowhere near the level of yours, and without the Munchausen’s. But enough to be painful and confusing and yes damaging. I agonized over the things she’d send to me, and to my daughters. Good parental advice mixed up with sly undermining or outright accusations that we were all going to hell, or that I’d no longer have allergies if I just would “stand against the devil.” I was finally able to make a mental separation when she told me that “curly electricity” from compact fluorescents was what was causing my daughter’s ADHD and learning challenges.
In more recent years, the tables have turned, and she would end up asking me to explain scientific things, or to reassure her about some of her fears. Which I would do, but always while worrying about and expecting (and sometimes getting) the criticism around my choice not to attend church with her, for instance.
And now she’s in assisted living, and dementia is getting progressively worse, and we are clearly approaching the end. She’s 87, the same age her own mother died after a decade of “Alzheimer’s.” And the staff all think she is “so sweet.” And I can see it. She must have been such a sweet child, before her own sexual abuse at age 4 at the hands of a neighbor boy.
But it doesn’t stop me from feeling conflicted that I am not out there (also in TN, by the way) giving my life away. Still. Again. Because isn’t that how you “honor your parents”? It’s what she did, after all.
More than half my lifetime away from her church’s teachings and I still find myself thinking these thoughts and feeling guilty. It’s insidious.
Fortunately, my sister and I are both good friends and good partners to each other in this journey. We’ve got each other’s backs, and are able to work through these challenges together, and/or spelling each other. Because the other day, the same day I got my admission to grad school, mom fell again, and is in the hospital again. So it’s a good thing I chose a school that allows me remote classes, and will continue to do so even “after the pandemic” (if that ever comes. *sigh*)
All of which is a really long way around to say that I get it. Deeply. And I am sorry for your pain, and I support you doing what you need to do to care for yourself and your daughter in whatever way you can. I wish you what comfort there is in knowing that this time the end is real, and that eventually, things will be over.
You were the very best daughter to her that you could have been. You deserve peace. You aren’t perfect, of course, but you ARE good. Eventually, I hope you’ll even be ok.
((Hugs)) from an Internet stranger if you want them.