To Be A Better Daughter

Sometimes, we get so caught up in how WE feel and how hard something is for US, we forget about those around us. Or worse, we cast blame and aggravation on them for our stress, overlooking how they may feel. And then, sometimes, something happens that puts the proverbial mirror in front of your face, and you don’t much like what you see. That happened to me today.

After a fun and celebratory weekend at the Apple Blossom festival in my hometown, I spent an extra night with my Mom to take her to the Doctor the next morning. After all, she’s confused and forgetful and probably won’t remember what to ask the Doctor or what he says in return. I dutifully agree to take her. It’s what good daughters do.

We leave early (2 hours before her appt) to ensure her lab results will be ready in time. On the way, she tells me again to avoid this one stoplight, which exit to take, where to turn and where to park, even though I already know. Sigh. Her lab work is completed quickly and we have 90 minutes to kill. We grab breakfast in the coffee shop. She offers me half of her sweet roll, three times. I decline, three times. Sigh.

The nurse calls us back – weighs, measures, checks BP, etc. – all the while conversing pleasantly with Mom. The Doctor examines Mom, reviews meds, asks questions, and then turns to chat with her. This (and the 3-word test) is obviously an important part of assessing her mental health and well-being.

It’s direct and it’s raw. Watching your mother become emotional (and, yes, cry) when she responds to the Doctor’s question –  “How is Tom doing?” – is a humbling thing. In that instant, I saw her not as my fretting and forgetful mother who can exasperate me; rather, I saw her as an aging and tired woman who is deeply saddened and stressed to see her love in such an awful state. She is scared and lonely and hates getting old. I now understand this on a deeper level than I did just an hour ago.

Daddy’s infirmity has, subconsciously, superseded my concerns about Mom’s health. His obvious physical decline overshadows Mom’s mental state because, truly, she seems fine – a little flighty and forgetful, but fine. She’s not. She is watching the man she loves, her partner of 50+ years, fall prey to a horrific, insidious disease. The stress must be unbearable. She compensates by being pleasant and funny, and doting on her dog, and engaging anyone who will speak to her.

What the hell is wrong with me? How can I not see her challenges? How can I possibly twist her eccentricities into something that’s all about me? While I may not intend it to be awful and selfish…there it is.

Watching other people interact with my mother – treating her with kindness and patience – illuminates for me some unflattering shortcomings as a daughter.  Seeing her profound emotional reaction at her Doctor’s appt, yanks me back to where I need to be for her. I need to be present and kind and unyielding in my support of her. I need to clean out her fridge without admonishment. I need to purge her closet with jovial reminiscings. I need to be grateful for my time with her.

So, we go to lunch. We have a glass of wine and sit in the sunshine. We have a lovely, lovely afternoon together. I have the same conversation with her multiple times and smile; I answer the same question 3 times without changing the cadence of my voice; I listen to familiar stories with renewed engagement; and, I thank the Lord that she is still with me, that she knows me, and that she loves me, in spite of my dumbassery.