Oy.
I really despise being sick. I feel like I've been sick my whole life.
I miss my mother, even though right now she would probably be the absolute worst person to have around in this time. She would likely make me feel ten times worse instead of better. Nonetheless, I miss her, and wish I had her to call and talk to.
I miss feeling like I had a best friend I could just call and cry to. I'm scared. I don't know why my body keeps doing these things, without warning, totally impacting everything I do on a daily basis.
My job is not working out. I love what I do, and I wouldn't change my career for the world, but this particular place is just not a good fit for me. I don't know if I should try to stick it out longer before leaving, or if I should just cut my losses now. I know they depend on me for these new locations, but there is so little business coming in besides what I brought with me from my last office. How depressing is that?
My husband is tired of me being sick just as much as I am. I haven't been able to have sex in two months. That's an even longer break than usual, simply because I haven't been feeling well, and now I am understandably anxious about having anything happen in the region where I'm bleeding and have pain up my urethra. I mean, if sex makes one vulnerable to UTIs anyway, this condition is making that possibility even more likely since I'm on the steroids. He's losing patience with me, I can feel it, even though he says he's not. It makes me worried that the support line I have at home is running out.
I wish I could feel the steroids doing something. Since yesterday's cystoscopy, my bladder hurts worse and my urine is yet again changing more colors. I'm confident that I'm not imminently going to die or something, but it's very nervewracking to look behind you after going to the bathroom and seeing a very unnatural sight. It makes me want to crawl in a corner, sleep all day. But I have a kid and I can't do that. I wish my sister or family was here so they could help with the kid and I could get some rest.
I am grateful for my daughter, who snuggles with me in the morning, who wiggles her little bum when watching TV, and gets excited for little things like eating oatmeal. She is truly the biggest delight in my life. I get tired of having to constantly be moving around her, but I wouldn't change her for the world. For this I have to keep my head up and remind myself every second why it doesn't matter what I'm feeling - if I allow her to grow up well, it won't matter how I'm feeling now.
That's what I'm telling myself.
MSloan
Showing posts with label mother. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mother. Show all posts
Saturday, January 20, 2018
Tuesday, June 7, 2016
My Mother's Eulogy
For the occasion of my mother’s
memorial –
...
Before I begin, I must make one thing
unequivocally clear: I love my mother
very much.
It’s strange how the tenses of verbs change when someone
passes away. Do you say, “I love them,”
or do you say, “I loved them”? Does it
really make a difference? I suppose,
when all is said and done, that’s the ultimate truth about death: they will
still be gone tomorrow, so does your love no longer count?
I say “yes,” it does still count, as much as it ever
did. So I mean it when I say it.
I love my mother. And
that’s the most important thing you need to know.
It would be a lie to say we didn’t have
our troubles. I supposed every mother
and daughter have them. My troubles were
different from my sister’s troubles, and were different than those had by my
mother with her own. But our bond was
terribly special, simply because we were so much alike.
Or, are so much alike. See, there’s that tense thing again.
My mother was exquisitely talented in
many arenas. She didn’t express all of
them simultaneously, so they were easy to miss.
My mother liked to sew. My mother
liked to knit. She was a painter, and
once upon a time, liked to quill paper.
If you don’t know what quilling is, you should look it up on Pinterest –
one thing I think mom would have loved if she had the wherewithal to find that
website. I mean, can you imagine the
pins she would have on “lamps” alone?
Mom was a pianist. I would say that was a primary identity for
her. She was a musician and she loved
being a musician. If it wasn’t for her
own stage fright, I suspect she would have loved playing in great halls and for
many people. Instead she played
not-so-quietly in her living room, for her friends, for her family, and often
asked me to sing next to her even when I felt ridiculous trying to belt out a
Bach that I didn’t know the words to. It
was something we did together. And it’s
something I will likely never do again.
Now that she is gone, I am torn in so
many directions. I am torn in complicated guilt and grief for how much time we
lost the past two years. I am torn in
gratefulness that I spoke with her every day at the end. I am torn in relief that she is no longer
suffering. I am torn in despair knowing that she is just simply not around
anymore - either to laugh with me or cry with me or yell at me in disapproval.
I am torn in confusion over what happened and what could have been done. I am
torn in desperation to get answers that I know I will never get - and fear that
I will.
But there are things I am not torn
about. I know my mother loved me. And I know that I love her. I know that my mother felt a karmic quest to
create change, especially in our government.
I know my mother was passionate about paying attention to our
surroundings and reading the signs of the times, the stars, and within ourselves. I know my mother would have been horrified to
see her situation from the outside looking in.
And I know my mother would be proud of my contemplation to take legal
action to the state, on behalf of people suffering from mental illness
everywhere, so that we might prevent such things for other families in the
future.
That, I know, my mother would support.
I wish I could sing for you one of
Barbra Streisand’s classics – but I’m afraid I would turn into a burbling
mess. I have a newborn, so I’m pretty
much always a burbling mess anyway... good luck asking me to sing these
days. But I know one thing. If I were to sing, I would hear my mother
harmonizing in the higher register, as she always, always did. If I were to play piano for you, she would be
yelling out the notes from another room – even if the names she said weren’t
necessarily correct, she could come out to the piano and hit the note with her
hand like Marian from ‘The Music Man’ in that first scene.
Well, look at me now, I am definitely
my mother’s daughter – I have written 750 words and I feel like I’m just
getting started.
But for the sake of everyone, I will
quote Inigo Montoya:
“Let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up.”
We cannot kid ourselves that she was
all she could be at the end, because she wasn’t. The woman I will remember as my mother was
vibrant, exciting, funny, and tender hearted.
She was more trusting than she was suspicious. She answered the phone with a Julie
Andrews-like intonation. She liked to
quote movies, as I often love to do, as does my sister. Mom loved going to the movies, and she had a
sweet tooth just like me. She and I
loved to sing in the car together. She
enjoyed the mixtapes I put together for her just as much as I enjoyed making
them – most of them opening on a highly inappropriate song for a 60-something
year old woman to be singing (I think the last CD I made had “Blurred Lines” as
the opening number and she loved it). This
is the mom that I want to, and will, remember.
In short, I love you, Mom.
That’s all you need to know.
Wednesday, May 25, 2016
"Good" Grief
Okay, blog. I'm ready to talk a little, now.
My mother killed herself on May 5th of this year, just days after my daughter was born. I will never be able to forget the way my heart sank when I answered the knocking on my door to find two police officers and a chaplain. I knew exactly what they were going to say, but I didn't want to hear it. I was too afraid to admit to myself that I already knew what was going on; I had suspected it since the day before, when I called her, and received no answer.
My mom and I had a strained relationship over the past ~18 months or so, mostly because she was experiencing a personality change. I believe in my heart that she was suffering from early dementia or Alzheimer's. She was 62 years old. It was too early for that bullshit, but it was happening before my eyes. My mother, a master typist and pianist, was writing me hundreds (and yes, literally hundreds) of emails at least weekly, many of which were frighteningly banged out on her keyboard in all caps.
I reached out to family and her friends, begging, pleading for help. Clearly, something was very wrong. Many of them agreed, but didn't know what to do, and when I became pregnant they became all the more insistent that I distance myself from her - and when I lost vision in my eye in December because of an MS flare, they were even more assertive in their recommendations. I couldn't do it. My sister and my father always had a close connection that I never really could come close to - my dad and I just don't have the same kind of personality. But my mother and I did. It was one of the biggest reasons why I was terrified of turning into her (and still am). So even though it hurt me deeply, even though she said things no mother in her right mind would ever dare to say to their pregnant kid, I soldiered on and kept in contact through my pain and against my family's suggestions.
The last month of my mother's life ushered in a huge change. She was actually showing her house and wanted to move - this time for real. Though she wouldn't tell me where she wanted to actually go, which caused some concerns. At first, her communications with me via email tapered - then, the phone started ringing again. I hadn't been able to speak on the phone with my mother in almost two years - and I used to call her every day. Every day. Think about that. Suddenly I could keep her on the phone for 15 minutes, then 30, then 45. I only got hung up on once, and then they started getting better. It was like my mom was coming out of the fog, and the terrible "Mr. Hyde" that I had to walk on eggshells to avoid was disappearing.
But then it took another turn, and went from bad to worse, but in an entirely different sense. My mother apologized to me for what she had said. Said she was "horrified" by what she had said to me, my sister, her sister, and about us all... I told her that I appreciated her apology and I would always love her. We were making up for lost time, and I was sharing more things about my pregnancy. Was trying to plan a time for her to come and meet the baby. Was making plans for a future that would never manifest.
The last week of her life was terrifying. She called me the day I brought my baby home from the hospital to tell me she thought she needed to be institutionalized. She said she wanted to give me power of attorney and gave me the contact information for her lawyer (an old family friend, one of the many who told me to distance myself, and I did not obey). She said she had a plan for getting treatment and we needed to sell the house and put her in a safer place. Wanted me to plan for where her pets would go if she needed emergency treatment. Then she started hinting that she knew something was terribly wrong with her brain.
Mom taught me over many years that mental illness was nothing to be ashamed of, that it was just as real and just as valid as cancer, and should be treated. She took Prozac and self medicated with marijuana. My sister had to take St. John's Wort growing up, and my depression was so mild in comparison that it was largely ignored. As an adult, I have had my ups and downs, and chose to get treatment and never regretted that. But suddenly mom was very against the allegation that she had a mental illness, particularly over the time frame where there was this "personality change" - it was offensive to her to make the suggestion.
But when she called me that last week, she was insistent that something was wrong. She told me she had a diagnosis - Adjustment Disorder. Sounds about right - and might even be a further manifestation of Borderline Personality Disorder, which I am convinced my mother had. I always felt she had that, though I didn't know its name until about 7 years ago. She fit the bill. Monday before she died, she was lost not far from her home. I called her a tow truck because her car broke down. 30 minutes later, she called and said I needed to call her an ambulance. I talked her down, the tow truck arrived, and she made it home. Seemed all the better for it. I told her I was working on a home for the dogs - and I called my father. I didn't want to get him involved, but I had to.
That Monday night she and I spoke on the phone for a long time ... almost two hours. It was during this phone call that she made the first even remotely suggestive hints that she was feeling suicidal. It wasn't even something that she said - it was more a feeling that I had. She was talking about being a burden to the family, and how she felt that people who were getting progressively worse had a duty to die to help their loved ones. I reiterated that she was worth taking care of and that it was my job to do so - that how she felt about me as her daughter and how she wanted to take care of me, was how I felt about taking care of her. I suggested to Steve that she was sounding "awfully suicidal, and it's scaring me." He asked if she had any outright threats or suggestions - and I said no.
I asked her to write down affirmations that she was "worth taking care of" daily, in the same way I do on my Positivity Blog. She said she would do it. She kept mentioning that she had a doctor's appointment on Thursday and I said I wanted her to discuss all these concerns with her doctor and definitely get evaluated for more mental stuff, if it was due to medication or something else (while she did not tell me that she stopped taking marijuana edibles, she did tell her cousin this, and I worry that the withdrawal had as much of a negative effect as taking the drugs did. We'll never know).
The next day, Tuesday, she called me three times in an hour, I was getting my daughter ready for her first check up and we were already late and I had gotten no sleep. She said I needed to rehome the dogs "today." I couldn't process what she was saying and asked my sister to call her and help. No answer. She called about an hour later and said she was better and things were fine. I should have probed more.
Wednesday was the last time I spoke with mom. She called and asked me outright if I thought she had Borderline. I said, it's possible. But now that she was apologizing and being self-aware, that negated that suggestion. I told her that I was worried about her because she believed she was very sick, and gave me a reason to worry as well. I didn't ask her what gave her that impression. She kept saying that "it isn't curable, there is no treatment," and I said if she had a Personality Disorder that she did not need to be fixed - that it was more a characteristic of her personality if she was nitpicky (yet) and overly sensitive (yes). She was a Cancer sun and a Cancer moon - combination rife with over-emotion. I told her that I loved her, that she didn't need to be fixed. I kept saying that. I said I wanted her to get evaluated for memory issues and we would develop a plan. That there was no "right answer" here. That we would get her help and it would be alright.
She said her realtor was on the other line. I told her I loved her. And that was the end.
Thursday I got a box in the mail from my mom - the only thing I'd received in over a year. No birthday gift or card last year, nothing at Christmas, nothing when I announced my pregnancy. This box had our family photo albums and my baby things. A couple of dresses that she kept saying she was going to send to me as well as some random clothing from her closet. Shoes from when I was a kid.
Heartache and tears in a box, essentially.
I called after opening it, while sobbing openly on my way to get the rest of the mail (baby blues makes you cry at everything) and she didn't answer the phone. I didn't know if she was at her appointment or not. But I got no answer. I had a feeling I should have called a welfare check on her right then and there. But I didn't. And now I know she died on Thursday. I'm too scared to ask if they have any idea what time. If there was a chance that she heard the phone ring and chose not to answer. Or worse - if she could hear it while she was dying and couldn't answer me.
I am forever haunted by these thoughts. I can't stop thinking about it. It's all I can do to just get through my day without breaking down. I have a 3 1/2 week old daughter to take care of and I can't focus on a damn thing. I can't even focus on my precious girl. I hate mom for doing this to me when she did, just after my baby was born and three days before Mothers' Day. Way to fucking ruin it, Mom. Half the family thinks you did it on purpose as a final "fuck you" directly to me. But I know that it wasn't the case, I KNOW that it wasn't the case. I know you thought you were helping me. I know you thought it was best to do something while you felt you had the control to do so. But I didn't get to say goodbye. My daughter never got to meet you. And now she's starting to look like you and I can't keep it together. It's robbing her of real time and connection with me while I am still in "shock" and "denial" phases of this.
My sister is going to Colorado, as I am still in California and can't very well leave with an infant at home right now - either for me or for her or my husband. It just wouldn't work. But she is going to be dealing with her house and home. She is going through her closet, through her shed, deciding what to keep and how the hell we'll keep it. My dad is suggesting he move into her house and keep the dogs - and I can't let him live there. I couldn't visit him knowing that my mother died there. And I wouldn't be willing to deal with the haunting that would surely follow by allowing him to do it when I know how she felt about him in the end, haha.
I am mad that I can't be there. I was the one who was so insistent for the past two years that she was sick, no one believed me, my sister didn't even believe me when I told her that last week that something was very wrong and she wasn't just trying to take attention away from me and the baby. And now I can't help her when she really needs me to - I can't be there to put her things away, to make sure her ashes are spread with our dog Lucky's fur, or with my deceased sister's hair. I know more details about her passing from the detective than I want to know. And they haunt me. All these things just terrify me and won't go away. I am so mad that I can't be there to go through her closet and her bookshelf, even though she was such a heavy smoker that I likely couldn't keep anything anyway. That I have to trust my sister not to ruin anything or trash things I would otherwise keep.
I am so angry. I am so angry that I can't just do this one last thing for her. I can't even be there for her fucking memorial because I live too far away. It's just torture and it isn't fair. It isn't fair!
I feel guilty for feeling like she sounded suicidal on Monday, when I had never heard her like that before. But how was I supposed to know she was even capable of such a thing? Or had thought about it for more than a few days? I trusted her when she said she was going to the doctor. Everything was riding on that doctor's appointment. And I know she didn't go - her car, the one I called the tow for on Monday, was still in the shop on Friday when the cops came to my door. The bill was paid - and she had no intention of picking it up.
My mother always said it was cruel to have children too close together because then your kids don't feel like they got "enough of mom" before the next one came to take their place on the lap. She was very adamant about this. You have to give your kids a chance to feel like they got enough of mom. They have to be ready to be done with her before welcoming more babies.
I miss you, mom. I need you. I wasn't done with you yet.
So now what ... now I am still waiting for my MRI to evaluate my disease. I am having MS hugs again. My eyesight has gotten worse, confirmed yesterday, so new glasses it is. I am changing my hair on Saturday because I have to be in control of something - and my hair usually gets beat up when I feel like this. I don't know how to give my baby more of my heart because it feels so torn. I am so distracted. I feel like I'm robbing my daughter of my focus and attention because I can't stop thinking about this. How can I? I spent 28 years of my life in an abusive relationship with my mother - if I could turn it off, and go "no contact," even forced no contact like this, I would have fucking done it. She's gone, and I still feel the guilt, and still feel lost.
Now the few friends who know that she passed occasionally ask me how I'm doing. I want to be diplomatic and not sound too pathetic. I say I am "surviving," "doing ok," can't bring myself to say my usual response of "hanging in there" because it feels like a goddamned trigger. Which it is. Everything around me feels like a trigger. I thought my friend getting shot in the back of the head was the worst trauma I could experience - I was wrong, this is, the only thing worse than this is if something happens to my kid.
FUCK.
I don't want to be diplomatic about it more than I have to be, but it feels rude to tell people, "Oh, you know, my mother killed herself. And I have to go back to work in a week because I'm fucking broke and because my daughter was 10 days overdue that means I only got 4 weeks with her, so I am far from being ready. Oh, and my chronic disease is making me feel like my stomach is being turned inside out every few hours. So, you know, I kinda feel like dying, because I can't handle all my responsibilities." This was supposed to be a break that would allow me to focus on my kid and myself and healing. And instead, I'm having to mix bereavement, distance estate finances, struggle to actually communicate with my sister because there is obvious tension, etc etc etc., all with maternity.
The cruel part is my sister is taking care of this, and it's appropriate because she is the older one of us. But mom asked me to be her power of attorney. I feel like I'm being robbed of these responsibilities. It isn't my sister's fault. She didn't do anything wrong. I know she is stepping up now because she didn't when I kept asking her to while mom was living. And I know she is feeling guilty and won't talk to me about it. But I hate that I had to tell my sister, harshly, that she couldn't do this to me. I had to explicitly tell my own sister that if she commits suicide, I would never forgive her. How fucked up is this??
Wake me when this is all over.
My mother killed herself on May 5th of this year, just days after my daughter was born. I will never be able to forget the way my heart sank when I answered the knocking on my door to find two police officers and a chaplain. I knew exactly what they were going to say, but I didn't want to hear it. I was too afraid to admit to myself that I already knew what was going on; I had suspected it since the day before, when I called her, and received no answer.
My mom and I had a strained relationship over the past ~18 months or so, mostly because she was experiencing a personality change. I believe in my heart that she was suffering from early dementia or Alzheimer's. She was 62 years old. It was too early for that bullshit, but it was happening before my eyes. My mother, a master typist and pianist, was writing me hundreds (and yes, literally hundreds) of emails at least weekly, many of which were frighteningly banged out on her keyboard in all caps.
I reached out to family and her friends, begging, pleading for help. Clearly, something was very wrong. Many of them agreed, but didn't know what to do, and when I became pregnant they became all the more insistent that I distance myself from her - and when I lost vision in my eye in December because of an MS flare, they were even more assertive in their recommendations. I couldn't do it. My sister and my father always had a close connection that I never really could come close to - my dad and I just don't have the same kind of personality. But my mother and I did. It was one of the biggest reasons why I was terrified of turning into her (and still am). So even though it hurt me deeply, even though she said things no mother in her right mind would ever dare to say to their pregnant kid, I soldiered on and kept in contact through my pain and against my family's suggestions.
The last month of my mother's life ushered in a huge change. She was actually showing her house and wanted to move - this time for real. Though she wouldn't tell me where she wanted to actually go, which caused some concerns. At first, her communications with me via email tapered - then, the phone started ringing again. I hadn't been able to speak on the phone with my mother in almost two years - and I used to call her every day. Every day. Think about that. Suddenly I could keep her on the phone for 15 minutes, then 30, then 45. I only got hung up on once, and then they started getting better. It was like my mom was coming out of the fog, and the terrible "Mr. Hyde" that I had to walk on eggshells to avoid was disappearing.
But then it took another turn, and went from bad to worse, but in an entirely different sense. My mother apologized to me for what she had said. Said she was "horrified" by what she had said to me, my sister, her sister, and about us all... I told her that I appreciated her apology and I would always love her. We were making up for lost time, and I was sharing more things about my pregnancy. Was trying to plan a time for her to come and meet the baby. Was making plans for a future that would never manifest.
The last week of her life was terrifying. She called me the day I brought my baby home from the hospital to tell me she thought she needed to be institutionalized. She said she wanted to give me power of attorney and gave me the contact information for her lawyer (an old family friend, one of the many who told me to distance myself, and I did not obey). She said she had a plan for getting treatment and we needed to sell the house and put her in a safer place. Wanted me to plan for where her pets would go if she needed emergency treatment. Then she started hinting that she knew something was terribly wrong with her brain.
Mom taught me over many years that mental illness was nothing to be ashamed of, that it was just as real and just as valid as cancer, and should be treated. She took Prozac and self medicated with marijuana. My sister had to take St. John's Wort growing up, and my depression was so mild in comparison that it was largely ignored. As an adult, I have had my ups and downs, and chose to get treatment and never regretted that. But suddenly mom was very against the allegation that she had a mental illness, particularly over the time frame where there was this "personality change" - it was offensive to her to make the suggestion.
But when she called me that last week, she was insistent that something was wrong. She told me she had a diagnosis - Adjustment Disorder. Sounds about right - and might even be a further manifestation of Borderline Personality Disorder, which I am convinced my mother had. I always felt she had that, though I didn't know its name until about 7 years ago. She fit the bill. Monday before she died, she was lost not far from her home. I called her a tow truck because her car broke down. 30 minutes later, she called and said I needed to call her an ambulance. I talked her down, the tow truck arrived, and she made it home. Seemed all the better for it. I told her I was working on a home for the dogs - and I called my father. I didn't want to get him involved, but I had to.
That Monday night she and I spoke on the phone for a long time ... almost two hours. It was during this phone call that she made the first even remotely suggestive hints that she was feeling suicidal. It wasn't even something that she said - it was more a feeling that I had. She was talking about being a burden to the family, and how she felt that people who were getting progressively worse had a duty to die to help their loved ones. I reiterated that she was worth taking care of and that it was my job to do so - that how she felt about me as her daughter and how she wanted to take care of me, was how I felt about taking care of her. I suggested to Steve that she was sounding "awfully suicidal, and it's scaring me." He asked if she had any outright threats or suggestions - and I said no.
I asked her to write down affirmations that she was "worth taking care of" daily, in the same way I do on my Positivity Blog. She said she would do it. She kept mentioning that she had a doctor's appointment on Thursday and I said I wanted her to discuss all these concerns with her doctor and definitely get evaluated for more mental stuff, if it was due to medication or something else (while she did not tell me that she stopped taking marijuana edibles, she did tell her cousin this, and I worry that the withdrawal had as much of a negative effect as taking the drugs did. We'll never know).
The next day, Tuesday, she called me three times in an hour, I was getting my daughter ready for her first check up and we were already late and I had gotten no sleep. She said I needed to rehome the dogs "today." I couldn't process what she was saying and asked my sister to call her and help. No answer. She called about an hour later and said she was better and things were fine. I should have probed more.
Wednesday was the last time I spoke with mom. She called and asked me outright if I thought she had Borderline. I said, it's possible. But now that she was apologizing and being self-aware, that negated that suggestion. I told her that I was worried about her because she believed she was very sick, and gave me a reason to worry as well. I didn't ask her what gave her that impression. She kept saying that "it isn't curable, there is no treatment," and I said if she had a Personality Disorder that she did not need to be fixed - that it was more a characteristic of her personality if she was nitpicky (yet) and overly sensitive (yes). She was a Cancer sun and a Cancer moon - combination rife with over-emotion. I told her that I loved her, that she didn't need to be fixed. I kept saying that. I said I wanted her to get evaluated for memory issues and we would develop a plan. That there was no "right answer" here. That we would get her help and it would be alright.
She said her realtor was on the other line. I told her I loved her. And that was the end.
Thursday I got a box in the mail from my mom - the only thing I'd received in over a year. No birthday gift or card last year, nothing at Christmas, nothing when I announced my pregnancy. This box had our family photo albums and my baby things. A couple of dresses that she kept saying she was going to send to me as well as some random clothing from her closet. Shoes from when I was a kid.
Heartache and tears in a box, essentially.
I called after opening it, while sobbing openly on my way to get the rest of the mail (baby blues makes you cry at everything) and she didn't answer the phone. I didn't know if she was at her appointment or not. But I got no answer. I had a feeling I should have called a welfare check on her right then and there. But I didn't. And now I know she died on Thursday. I'm too scared to ask if they have any idea what time. If there was a chance that she heard the phone ring and chose not to answer. Or worse - if she could hear it while she was dying and couldn't answer me.
I am forever haunted by these thoughts. I can't stop thinking about it. It's all I can do to just get through my day without breaking down. I have a 3 1/2 week old daughter to take care of and I can't focus on a damn thing. I can't even focus on my precious girl. I hate mom for doing this to me when she did, just after my baby was born and three days before Mothers' Day. Way to fucking ruin it, Mom. Half the family thinks you did it on purpose as a final "fuck you" directly to me. But I know that it wasn't the case, I KNOW that it wasn't the case. I know you thought you were helping me. I know you thought it was best to do something while you felt you had the control to do so. But I didn't get to say goodbye. My daughter never got to meet you. And now she's starting to look like you and I can't keep it together. It's robbing her of real time and connection with me while I am still in "shock" and "denial" phases of this.
My sister is going to Colorado, as I am still in California and can't very well leave with an infant at home right now - either for me or for her or my husband. It just wouldn't work. But she is going to be dealing with her house and home. She is going through her closet, through her shed, deciding what to keep and how the hell we'll keep it. My dad is suggesting he move into her house and keep the dogs - and I can't let him live there. I couldn't visit him knowing that my mother died there. And I wouldn't be willing to deal with the haunting that would surely follow by allowing him to do it when I know how she felt about him in the end, haha.
I am mad that I can't be there. I was the one who was so insistent for the past two years that she was sick, no one believed me, my sister didn't even believe me when I told her that last week that something was very wrong and she wasn't just trying to take attention away from me and the baby. And now I can't help her when she really needs me to - I can't be there to put her things away, to make sure her ashes are spread with our dog Lucky's fur, or with my deceased sister's hair. I know more details about her passing from the detective than I want to know. And they haunt me. All these things just terrify me and won't go away. I am so mad that I can't be there to go through her closet and her bookshelf, even though she was such a heavy smoker that I likely couldn't keep anything anyway. That I have to trust my sister not to ruin anything or trash things I would otherwise keep.
I am so angry. I am so angry that I can't just do this one last thing for her. I can't even be there for her fucking memorial because I live too far away. It's just torture and it isn't fair. It isn't fair!
I feel guilty for feeling like she sounded suicidal on Monday, when I had never heard her like that before. But how was I supposed to know she was even capable of such a thing? Or had thought about it for more than a few days? I trusted her when she said she was going to the doctor. Everything was riding on that doctor's appointment. And I know she didn't go - her car, the one I called the tow for on Monday, was still in the shop on Friday when the cops came to my door. The bill was paid - and she had no intention of picking it up.
My mother always said it was cruel to have children too close together because then your kids don't feel like they got "enough of mom" before the next one came to take their place on the lap. She was very adamant about this. You have to give your kids a chance to feel like they got enough of mom. They have to be ready to be done with her before welcoming more babies.
I miss you, mom. I need you. I wasn't done with you yet.
So now what ... now I am still waiting for my MRI to evaluate my disease. I am having MS hugs again. My eyesight has gotten worse, confirmed yesterday, so new glasses it is. I am changing my hair on Saturday because I have to be in control of something - and my hair usually gets beat up when I feel like this. I don't know how to give my baby more of my heart because it feels so torn. I am so distracted. I feel like I'm robbing my daughter of my focus and attention because I can't stop thinking about this. How can I? I spent 28 years of my life in an abusive relationship with my mother - if I could turn it off, and go "no contact," even forced no contact like this, I would have fucking done it. She's gone, and I still feel the guilt, and still feel lost.
Now the few friends who know that she passed occasionally ask me how I'm doing. I want to be diplomatic and not sound too pathetic. I say I am "surviving," "doing ok," can't bring myself to say my usual response of "hanging in there" because it feels like a goddamned trigger. Which it is. Everything around me feels like a trigger. I thought my friend getting shot in the back of the head was the worst trauma I could experience - I was wrong, this is, the only thing worse than this is if something happens to my kid.
FUCK.
I don't want to be diplomatic about it more than I have to be, but it feels rude to tell people, "Oh, you know, my mother killed herself. And I have to go back to work in a week because I'm fucking broke and because my daughter was 10 days overdue that means I only got 4 weeks with her, so I am far from being ready. Oh, and my chronic disease is making me feel like my stomach is being turned inside out every few hours. So, you know, I kinda feel like dying, because I can't handle all my responsibilities." This was supposed to be a break that would allow me to focus on my kid and myself and healing. And instead, I'm having to mix bereavement, distance estate finances, struggle to actually communicate with my sister because there is obvious tension, etc etc etc., all with maternity.
The cruel part is my sister is taking care of this, and it's appropriate because she is the older one of us. But mom asked me to be her power of attorney. I feel like I'm being robbed of these responsibilities. It isn't my sister's fault. She didn't do anything wrong. I know she is stepping up now because she didn't when I kept asking her to while mom was living. And I know she is feeling guilty and won't talk to me about it. But I hate that I had to tell my sister, harshly, that she couldn't do this to me. I had to explicitly tell my own sister that if she commits suicide, I would never forgive her. How fucked up is this??
Wake me when this is all over.
Saturday, February 27, 2016
Two Years Is Not Very Long
Good morning readers,
Today marks 2 years to the day that I woke up and could not feel my left leg. Technically, yesterday was, but this marks the day that I really 'knew' what was going on. I had an inkling the day before, but when I woke up for the second morning and still could not feel my left leg and my right foot, it was confirmed.
Something was wrong ... and I knew instantly that it was MS. I had known deep down since January of 2010, but two years ago today I had no more room for uncertainty. I had mentioned it to my coworker, who had MS, and she nodded at me in a knowing fashion. I had hoped to keep it under wraps, but my boss walked in on us talking about it and she also knew what was going on. It was a sad and oddly supportive time. I called a neurological group close to where I was working, and got no answer - I was not sure what to do, or if it was safe to wait.
Two years ago tomorrow, I received the official diagnosis from the emergency room (though they would say they gave me a 'tentative diagnosis,' we all know what really happened). I had Multiple Sclerosis. I read the report describing several 'foci of restricted diffusion,' the title of this blog.
Today, in juxtaposition to this memory and scary time, I am having a baby shower for my impending child. I am 32 weeks along and she is kicking away today. I am just as scared as I was two years ago, but for entirely different reasons. I have a new reason to be excited for the month of March, and it isn't job interviews and trips. It's getting ready for my Tesla.
I wish I could say that in these last two years that I have really learned a lot. I have, but so much of it has been negative that I choose to try and focus on other things. My mother has declined into a complete state of paranoia, frequently. I am now reading a book on healing from a narcissistic parent, and I'm finding that helps a lot. Makes me feel less alone, though I know I have a long way to go before I will be really mentally and emotionally capable of caring for my daughter the way I should.
Wow, February seems to be a big month for me - two years ago tomorrow I was diagnosed, today is my baby shower, Monday is my 8 year anniversary of being with my husband. It's a lot of things to take in!
Love to all, MSloan
Today marks 2 years to the day that I woke up and could not feel my left leg. Technically, yesterday was, but this marks the day that I really 'knew' what was going on. I had an inkling the day before, but when I woke up for the second morning and still could not feel my left leg and my right foot, it was confirmed.
Something was wrong ... and I knew instantly that it was MS. I had known deep down since January of 2010, but two years ago today I had no more room for uncertainty. I had mentioned it to my coworker, who had MS, and she nodded at me in a knowing fashion. I had hoped to keep it under wraps, but my boss walked in on us talking about it and she also knew what was going on. It was a sad and oddly supportive time. I called a neurological group close to where I was working, and got no answer - I was not sure what to do, or if it was safe to wait.
Two years ago tomorrow, I received the official diagnosis from the emergency room (though they would say they gave me a 'tentative diagnosis,' we all know what really happened). I had Multiple Sclerosis. I read the report describing several 'foci of restricted diffusion,' the title of this blog.
Today, in juxtaposition to this memory and scary time, I am having a baby shower for my impending child. I am 32 weeks along and she is kicking away today. I am just as scared as I was two years ago, but for entirely different reasons. I have a new reason to be excited for the month of March, and it isn't job interviews and trips. It's getting ready for my Tesla.
I wish I could say that in these last two years that I have really learned a lot. I have, but so much of it has been negative that I choose to try and focus on other things. My mother has declined into a complete state of paranoia, frequently. I am now reading a book on healing from a narcissistic parent, and I'm finding that helps a lot. Makes me feel less alone, though I know I have a long way to go before I will be really mentally and emotionally capable of caring for my daughter the way I should.
Wow, February seems to be a big month for me - two years ago tomorrow I was diagnosed, today is my baby shower, Monday is my 8 year anniversary of being with my husband. It's a lot of things to take in!
Love to all, MSloan
Sunday, February 14, 2016
Keeping A Record
I have been on a path of healing.
My MS symptoms have somewhat come and gone for the last week because I got a cold, but I am fortunate that the signs haven't been worse than some general annoyances with numbness. It's been well over 10 weeks now with distorted vision in my right eye, and some days are better than others, but because I haven't been able to treat the inflammation I am trying to come to grips with the likely fact that my vision will never be the same again. As an artist, that's very painful. But I'm trying to move forward, and not stay stagnant with my feelings.
Facebook can be an excellent record keeper, did you know that? As I have been getting older, I have become less whiny in general over my circumstances. But six years ago, I wasn't as disciplined, and I wore my hearing on my social media sleeve, as it were. Today I went through late 2009 and early 2010, and found a lot of my 'initial symptom' complaints that I keep speaking of - struggles with near constant headaches that felt like migraines, getting glasses, feeling moody and irritable, and as the semester began in early 2010, the nausea. I used to go through my facebook to find the last time I had complained about my period, only to find I hadn't had one in five months! As annoying as you might find your 'friends' complaining, keep in mind that it's a way to keep a record. And it can end up becoming very important if your persistent symptoms lead to a diagnosis down the road.
I started reading a book yesterday called "Will I Ever Be Good Enough?" about daughters with narcissistic mothers and learning to heal. This book describes me and my experience to a T. I feel that much more blessed to have found it, and to be able to acknowledge my issues head on before my own daughter makes an appearance.
I hope you find your healing as well. Love to all,
MSloan
My MS symptoms have somewhat come and gone for the last week because I got a cold, but I am fortunate that the signs haven't been worse than some general annoyances with numbness. It's been well over 10 weeks now with distorted vision in my right eye, and some days are better than others, but because I haven't been able to treat the inflammation I am trying to come to grips with the likely fact that my vision will never be the same again. As an artist, that's very painful. But I'm trying to move forward, and not stay stagnant with my feelings.
Facebook can be an excellent record keeper, did you know that? As I have been getting older, I have become less whiny in general over my circumstances. But six years ago, I wasn't as disciplined, and I wore my hearing on my social media sleeve, as it were. Today I went through late 2009 and early 2010, and found a lot of my 'initial symptom' complaints that I keep speaking of - struggles with near constant headaches that felt like migraines, getting glasses, feeling moody and irritable, and as the semester began in early 2010, the nausea. I used to go through my facebook to find the last time I had complained about my period, only to find I hadn't had one in five months! As annoying as you might find your 'friends' complaining, keep in mind that it's a way to keep a record. And it can end up becoming very important if your persistent symptoms lead to a diagnosis down the road.
I started reading a book yesterday called "Will I Ever Be Good Enough?" about daughters with narcissistic mothers and learning to heal. This book describes me and my experience to a T. I feel that much more blessed to have found it, and to be able to acknowledge my issues head on before my own daughter makes an appearance.
I hope you find your healing as well. Love to all,
MSloan
Sunday, October 25, 2015
About Something Else
I don't want to make my mother suffer. That isn't what I want.
But I can't feel sympathy and compassion for someone who sends me these things in the middle of the night, but refuses to acknowledge that she needs help:
"monswters," "unrelenting evcil," "demon death to alkld humans," "died iun ny9our samddorasl msewage," "dlalkl oifd them murdsere3rklesdg."
I AM DIRECTLY COPY/PASTING HERE. My mother is a master typist. This person... needs help!!
I can't get her help if she won't seek it herself. I can't get her to stop sending me the hate mail and I worry too much for her safety to stop checking on it to make sure she ISN'T claiming to have hurt herself. Because just minutes after the last, obviously banged-on-the-keyboard message, was this very clear one:
"the best one is this and it is SO TRUE that in my nightmares I KNOW THIS TRUTH. there is NOTHING you people will not do to ruin my poor little life. and I mean there is NOTHING TOO LOW for you TO DO."
These messages are NOT being instigated by anything at all. I haven't written her back in days, because they upset me so - most of my responses are answered with barrages of nasty messages in return instead of just replying to whatever it is that I said. My mother is the only one who's never seen an ultrasound of my baby. She doesn't know my doppler came in, because she wouldn't answer even if I would call. But at 4 AM, I got a string of disgusting, disorienting, misspelled and disturbing messages about how myself and my sister are putting her in danger by having a relationship with our father. Who, by the way, she thinks killed his friend, her grandson, and a random old woman who lived near his regular bar.
My father is not a murderer. I can't get her institutionalized without calling the police, but nothing changed and I mean NOTHING changed after her last 72 hour hold. It has only gotten worse.
What... what do I do?
MSloan
But I can't feel sympathy and compassion for someone who sends me these things in the middle of the night, but refuses to acknowledge that she needs help:
"monswters," "unrelenting evcil," "demon death to alkld humans," "died iun ny9our samddorasl msewage," "dlalkl oifd them murdsere3rklesdg."
I AM DIRECTLY COPY/PASTING HERE. My mother is a master typist. This person... needs help!!
I can't get her help if she won't seek it herself. I can't get her to stop sending me the hate mail and I worry too much for her safety to stop checking on it to make sure she ISN'T claiming to have hurt herself. Because just minutes after the last, obviously banged-on-the-keyboard message, was this very clear one:
"the best one is this and it is SO TRUE that in my nightmares I KNOW THIS TRUTH. there is NOTHING you people will not do to ruin my poor little life. and I mean there is NOTHING TOO LOW for you TO DO."
These messages are NOT being instigated by anything at all. I haven't written her back in days, because they upset me so - most of my responses are answered with barrages of nasty messages in return instead of just replying to whatever it is that I said. My mother is the only one who's never seen an ultrasound of my baby. She doesn't know my doppler came in, because she wouldn't answer even if I would call. But at 4 AM, I got a string of disgusting, disorienting, misspelled and disturbing messages about how myself and my sister are putting her in danger by having a relationship with our father. Who, by the way, she thinks killed his friend, her grandson, and a random old woman who lived near his regular bar.
My father is not a murderer. I can't get her institutionalized without calling the police, but nothing changed and I mean NOTHING changed after her last 72 hour hold. It has only gotten worse.
What... what do I do?
MSloan
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)