Lack of Closure

Mom is in intensive care right now. For a woman who has cried wolf so many times she should be walking on all fours and barking at moons, it’s often hard to know which call from the hospital requires a response. Turns out this time it’s legit. Heart problems, not going to get better, and likely now just a matter of time. Of course, she could take some action and do something about that, but she’s not. How ironic that a lifetime hypochondriac finally has an opportunity to get the medical attention she needs and is choosing not too. Perhaps that’s her last “fuck you” to all of us.

It is impossible for me to know what to think right now. Or, more appropriately, what to feel.

She looks so tiny swallowed up by the hospital bed. While short in stature, she’s never been a small woman. Now she seems smaller and sadder. She’s confused and hallucinating off and on because her blood pressure dropped so low it sent her into shock. She sat up in the bed, fluttered open her eyes and said, “Someone’s at the door.” Now that freaked me out.

I walked into the room, and she was moaning a bit. I guess they can’t give her pain meds, again because of the blood pressure. She was fumbling to get her oxygen mask off and mumbling incoherently. I didn’t know what to do. So I did the human thing. I put the mask back on and tried to soothe her. I grabbed her hand, and even stroked her hair for a second. Which was simultaneously an odd and natural thing. In one sense, completely uncomfortable because of all the years of torment and pent up emotion. It didn’t feel right. It didn’t feel good. There was no tenderness in the gesture.

But yet, there was. Not for my mother, but for a human being that was suffering. The natural human response is kindness. And it’s occurring to me now, she doesn’t have that natural human instinct. She was never able to feel anything but her own suffering, her own anguish, her own torment. Someone broke that part of her. So she lashes out. At everyone and everything around her, including her children. Her check valve never existed. Her ability to see someone in pain, to feel compassion, to empathize, was never developed. She sees pain and wants to twist the knife deeper. I’m wondering now if that’s simply so she can stop feeling her own pain for that moment.

I stood over her, and I prayed. I prayed for her soul. “God, please make all of this pain and suffering stop. She has suffered enough. Whatever lessons I had to learn from all that she put me through have been learned. I am stronger because of the path that you laid out for me, and I am ready to do your work. I have no desire for vengeance or retribution. Perhaps instead I can receive a small glimpse of what she will be when she is held in your arms. The child she once was. The unbroken soul that you created. Yes, she has made many suffer, and there was no need for any of it. There is no excusing what she has done. But I forgive her, and if in my small way I am capable of that, I cannot begin to comprehend how powerful your forgiveness is. Underneath all of it I can feel her pain. Please take it away. Let her have peace. If it’s your will, for a time here on earth. If not, then for eternity in your presence.”

I have no idea how I’ll feel when she dies. As long as she’s alive, there is hope. Completely unfounded and unrealistic hope, but hope nonetheless. As long as she’s alive, there is a chance she’ll become the mom she never was. She’ll have a complete change of heart and suddenly become the antithesis of who she is now. Even if it’s only breaths away from her last, there is a chance that she’ll have that one moment of lucidity. She’ll be caught in between the angels beyond and the demons that keep her chained here, and as she starts to cross over, she’ll look back and have something beautiful to say.

I want to be there for that moment. I want to be there as she breathes her last. This is not morbid curiosity. I simply want to see her face untwist from it’s grotesque contortions and relax into a serene peace. I want to be there when the beast leaves her body. I want to see her finally happy. 

I understand this will likely not happen. It’s a long shot that I’ll even be there. If I am, it’s an even longer shot that something cathartic and beautiful will be part of the experience. But I still hope. That hope will die with her someday. I’m not sure what’s left after that. Probably just the guilt and the sadness and realization that none of this can be explained. That the human condition really is a tragic exercise, and anything you can to do make it otherwise puts you well ahead of the curve.

I’ve debated long and hard about posting this picture. I do not mean for it to be disrespectful. People close to me looked at it and said it is stark and disturbing and evil. The imagery, the out-of-context song lyric, it all feels wrong. It’s supposed to. What’s odd to me is that it’s just what it is. I didn’t create this for shock value or effect, but simply as an outlet for what some of my feelings are rummaging around in there. Make no mistake, this is not about wishing my mother dead — far from it. It’s about killing the beast that overtook her. The beast that destroyed her life and tried in vain to destroy others. I want that beast dead. I hope it she doesn’t have to go with it, but I understand that might be how it has to be.