It’s a wonderful record of a time I barely remember, except for the extreme highs and lows. I kept that journal from 1983 to 2000, on and off, mostly off during the later years. The journal is also proof that, as much as I want to push my mother away, I am indeed her daughter. As my sister and I roamed through her house recently, throwing away and weeding out, I happened on a cache of her own journals that went back years and years, some as far back as her teenage years and some written as late as two years ago, when her handwriting was deteriorating and her language didn’t always make sense.
This connection startled me. I knew that she wrote down her thoughts. She was an obsessive note writer. For years, throughout my childhood, she would write little notes that she hid under our pillows. “Have a wonderful day in school,” one would say. Or, if she was going out at night she would write, “Miss you much.”
She also included notes in our lunch bags. And on New Year’s Eve, when we slept at our grandparents, she would write long, long letters to us that we had to open on New Year’s Day. She would fill up the pages with hopes and dreams and tell us how much she loved us.
This connection means something. It means that she is not the alien I keep thinking she is; it means that, in spite of all the grief I remember from my childhood, she truly loved her daughters, she truly loved me, and whatever her failings as a parent, she tried her best. And that is what has to count for me as I negotiate the slippery slope of dementia and assisted living facilities and the eventual end to her life.
My son is probably the most important person in my life, sometimes even more important than my husband. I think he knows that, although we don’t speak of this. He knows that I would do anything in my power to ease him through his life, although I don’t believe in unnecessary coddling. I’m tough with him when I have to be. He is my life blood—and so is my mother. We are all connected by cords and bonds and sinew and flesh that seem to be stronger than memory, stronger than sadness, stronger than blame.
It is a constant sadness that the daughter is the mother of her son and her mother. There is great anger at these circumstances. But in the end it is better to be a good mother to all who need one. And I am trying to do just that. I don’t know how well I will succeed. My son tells me that I’ve been a good mother to him. My own mother can’t voice this, but tells me that she loves me, she loves me.
