The Dismissed Parent

I came into this world with my mother holding me in her arms. She left this world as I held her in mine.

My mother died at 95 with the same grace and dignity that defined her life. In her final years, there was no distasteful loss of facilities, no unseemly deterioration of mind or body, and no complaints, fear, or regrets. She didn’t burden us with neediness although she was desperately lonely after my father passed. She did all she could to be self-sufficient, always grateful for any assistance we provided. She expressed her appreciation for the good life she had led and was gracious about her children’s loyalty and commitment to her comfort and well-being.  And yes, she remained judgmental and continued giving me her opinion about what I should and shouldn’t do until the end, which came abruptly.

She was swimming in the cool, blue pool water at a Cancun resort, having been a sport about the uncomfortable logistics of getting around through airports and trams with a walker to join a family trip. We badgered her into coming, urging her to “live a little.” Early on, she started feeling ill, but we attributed her “off-feeling” to the energy traveling takes out of anyone, not to mention a 95-year-old. She also confessed she had stopped taking vital medicine because it made her have to use the restroom, which is inconvenient when lounging on a beach or by the pool. She didn’t want to be a bother to the rest of us or slow down our fun. Due to shortness of breath, she went to her room to rest.

The next day, she again tried to swim, eat in the restaurants, and enjoy the company of the grandchildren in attendance. But on day four, her body gave out. We took her to a Mexican hospital, learned she was gravely ill and possibly dying, and airlifted her home to the States. She was apologetic as we struggled to arrange a plane transfer and fund the trip home. But she also was worried. She knew, at 95, this was likely the end, and she wanted desperately to come home so she wouldn’t die in Mexico. Luckily, we acted fast on her wishes. She was gone 24 hours later.

The family all returned home ill with COVID-19 or an equally virulent intestinal problem. My brother and his family were in Georgia, too sick to stand up; my sister had COVID and a broken foot, and I had an intestinal illness that lasted for months. My mother also had COVID, complicating her illness and visitation. Nevertheless, my sister and I stayed with Mom in the hospital, hoping to be a soothing presence and to make those hard decisions one is required to make as someone is dying.

Waking from her intermittent slumber, she witnessed my eyes welling with tears and lovingly reassured me that I’d be OK without her. She made my sister and me promise to care for each other and our brother. Over and over, she said she hoped she had been a good mother, explaining that she knew she wasn’t perfect, but she had done the best she could. “All we can do is the best we can do,” she said several times.

She seemed to need validation from us that her sacrifices were acknowledged and her failings understood. We assured her she was a perfect mother, and we wouldn’t have wanted her any different.

My sister was far more exhausted than I was. She had been in transport with Mom, who, delirious from medication, spent the duration of the flight kicking, yelling, and mumbling as she tossed about in the tiny passenger compartment. My sister needed sleep, so she went home, intending to return later in the day. 

I stayed, claiming the role of sentry.  While I was growing up, Mom mentioned more than once her regret that she wasn’t at the hospital when her own mother was dying. She claimed no one should die alone, so I was anchored into that bedside chair with numb conviction. On an intellectual level, of course, I knew that my 95-year-old mother wasn’t going to be in this world much longer, yet I also naively felt as if she would be in my life forever. I hoped she would rally. Denial of the awful truth that our parents have a shelf life is every child’s delusion, I suppose.     

My mother’s impending death was complicated by my status as a dismissed parent. My mother had always been a witness to my life. I shared everything with her, including many heart-to-heart conversations about my frustration with my daughter’s latest period of ostracization. Mom had a unique perspective of the situation thanks to years of watching my child grow and interact with others – from babyhood through the teen years and as a young adult. She always gave unsolicited advice (which irked me, and I usually ignored it), but that didn’t stop me from talking about my life and weighing her perspective on things like family, marriage, womanhood, and love.

As my Mom’s life was ebbing away, family was all she thought about. She talked about what she believed was important. So, of course, the subject of my estranged daughter came up.

“What do you think she will think of all this?” my mother asked in a feeble but loving voice.  I knew my mother missed her grandchild and was hurt by the senseless, escalating fight that brought separation to us all. Knowing she was at the end of her life, all she wanted was for everyone to love one another. 

“She will be devastated, Mom. She loves you. She will also be furious that I didn’t call and tell her what is happening. Do you want me to call her? Do you want me to call any of the other grandchildren?  Do you want to see anyone?”  

She shook her head. “I don’t want anyone here but you and your sister. Please.”

She rested for a few minutes, then added, “She’s going to be mad at you no matter what you do. That is just who she is. She will always blame you for everything. Just accept that. You’ve done everything a mother can do.”

Was my mother saying this to protect me from the pain of raising this particular child, the one who had been filled with animosity towards me from the start? To appease any guilt that could arise if I entertained the idea that I hadn’t done my best? Or did she really want the family to stay away? Was it my duty to notify my daughter that her grandmother was soon to pass, or would going against my mom’s wishes be an act of selfishness because I’d be making decisions for her when she was vulnerable and I was in charge? I didn’t want to diminish my mother’s right to ask and get what she wanted.

There was possibly time enough for my child to rush to the hospital to say goodbye. But she hadn’t seen or reached out to her grandmother in over a year, except for dropping an orchid off at her assisted living place on Mother’s Day months prior. She never thought to bring her new baby to visit her grieving, lonely grandmother, nor did she bother to see if her grandmother needed anything, like a ride to the doctor or help getting groceries. She didn’t check in on her after a hurricane, even after learning both her daughters were indisposed, one with a broken foot and the other having had her property decimated. My son had told his sister about Grandma’s declining health and hospital stay due to congestive heart failure some four months prior, and even then, she hadn’t reached out to ask how she was doing.  My daughter was so busy being mad at me that anyone who disagreed with her version of our fallout was dismissed and condemned for not taking “her side.” Grandma was simply a casualty.

I struggled, wanting to do the right thing. My mother would be gone by the end of the day, but my relationship with my daughter would continue on for years, one way or another. Perhaps calling would be the olive branch needed to soothe out some of the animosity. Witnessing the death of a family member might also serve as an important reminder that we were wasting time with a squabble because she, too, would someday lose a mother. I knew beyond a doubt that not calling would throw logs on the fire. Do I dare stroke her ire and make our situation worse? Might Mom be glad to see her missing grandchild one more time?

I imagined my daughter rushing in and tearfully saying goodbye. She would act tender towards Mom, ignoring me or cooly acting as if there had been an agreed-upon ceasefire. The awkwardness of all that would shift my focus from my mother to my relationship with my kid. What was most important here?  More than anything, I wanted to keep the sacredness of my mother’s passing the focus of the moment.  

I was a daughter long before I became a mother. For 65 years, I’ve nourished a connection to the woman who gave me life and whose DNA soars through my being. I’ve only been a mother for 38. Going against my mother’s dying wish to appease a problematic child just didn’t seem right. My instincts urged me to stay committed to keeping the final moments with Mom loving, intimate, and filled with trust.

So, I didn’t call.  I had an online writing class I was scheduled to teach that night, so I took a moment on my phone to visit the private Facebook page where notifications were sent to the students. I let them know I couldn’t be there because I was in the hospital and my mother was likely passing.

Apparently, someone in the class forwarded that announcement to my child, who was incensed to find out Grandma was dying from a social media announcement. (Let me point out again that this wasn’t a public post but a message for eight students about a canceled class, which was not made public. I don’t share my personal life on social media.) Even so, my daughter was indignant and furious.

She didn’t text me or her aunt with concern or ask about what was happening, and she didn’t inquire as to whether there was anything she could do to help. Instead, she decided to rush to the hospital without an invitation despite me. How dare I keep her out of the loop at such a critical moment! It was her right to see her dying Grandmother!

For one reason or another, she never showed up, and I was grateful for that.  She would have been too late anyway since, 45 minutes later, my mother took her last breath. Had she come, all my daughter would have found was her own mother collapsed over grandma’s corpse, sobbing, because I remained that way for an hour. I contacted friends and family about Mom’s passing a few hours later, when I could answer questions and accept condolences. The next day I sent a message to my kids describing her passing and sharing our last conversations.

Later, I was told by a relative that my not calling was the final nail in the coffin of my relationship with my child. She would never forgive me. The day after Mom’s death, my child wrote a heart-wrenching post about her grandmother and their close, close relationship on Facebook, an expression of grief that people “liked.” Family members just lifted an eyebrow quizzically.

“She was the favorite grandchild and closer to her than I was?” my other daughter said, clearly not amused that she and the other grandchildren were portrayed as second-string players in the game.

Words speak differently than actions, and while I have no doubt my daughter grieved her grandmother’s passing, the dramatic essay (no doubt an impulse post of self-expression at a confusing time) seemed attention-seeking and insensitive to a family who wanted to keep their profound loss private. Thrusting the event into the public domain made the event about her grief and this resulted in my having to answer calls and texts to assure friends I was fine (and justify myself when customers and business acquaintances read her essay and wanted to support her by attacking me). I turned off my phone and ignored e-mails to simply sit with my sadness.

Later, cleaning out Mom’s home, I contacted my daughter and asked if she wanted any of her grandmother’s possessions. She chose several oil paintings my mother had painted and a keepsake she remembered admiring as a child. I sent these things and included some of my mother’s fine jewelry, having divided it between my daughters equally. I also sent a little of my small inheritance in respect to one of my mother’s spoken wishes during one of our talks.  

“I just wish I had more money, like a thousand dollars, for each of my grandchildren. But when you live this long, you don’t have much, if anything, in the end. I love them all so much and wish I had more so I could leave them something from me and your dad,” she off-handedly said one day. So, I took care of that.

I sent a text to my daughter that said, “Do you have time in the coming week to meet privately with me for a conversation? I have some things of my mother’s I’d like to give you, and I’d like to share some of what I am feeling. I’m experiencing profound grief that I want you to understand. We will be having a service for grandmother when your siblings come down for Christmas, and I would like you to be a part of it without there being any undercurrent of awkwardness or miscommunication that might distract from the moment for all of us. Let me know when you might be available and if you are interested.”

She sent a response.
“I’m not interested thank you.”   

Since my daughter refused to see me, I found a mutual friend to drop off her requested items. The person who delivered them for me described being uncomfortably attacked in the driveway as my daughter and her husband shot the messenger.  “We don’t want anything from them!” they screamed, tossing the requested items into their garage while complaining about me. My friend said she was “traumatized” by the scene and declared that I owed her one.

Hearing this simply added to the stress we were all under. My mother’s passing took me to my knees and also forced me to reflect on family, children, and the preciousness of family connections. Like her, I just wanted everyone to love one another.  But apparently, such a simple thing is complicated.

So how do I feel about all this now, months later?

I’ve pondered and ruminated and come to a conclusion. Given a second chance, I wouldn’t change a thing. I’m glad I didn’t call. That would have been a coward’s attempt to avoid the blame and fury I knew I’d be subject to. It took strength to put guilt aside and hold space for my mother’s transition. It takes strength to be on the receiving end of animosity and not kowtow to pressure.

My mother’s death was the best and worst moment of my life, the quietest and the most tender memory I have of her. Being a good daughter is no less important than being a good mother.  Mom expected me to be both, and I’ve tried not to fail in either respect.

My other two children have been loving, supportive, and sensitive about my grief. They’ve called many times to check on me, carefully expressing their appreciation and love for me. They say Grandma’s passing makes them cherish me more because I’m now the oldest generation in the family and, therefore, the next to go. My impermanence unsettles them.

None of us wants to turn into our mothers, but despite our differences, I’m much like her, especially in the lineage of motherhood.  When my time comes, I will no doubt want validation from my children too.

“I hope I was a good mother.” I’ll say.

I’m guessing two out of three of my kids will assure me I was wonderful even though I’ve annoyed them plenty in our years together. I’ll tell them, “All we can do is do the best we can do.”

What loving and losing my mom taught me was that intention, not perfection, is what counts in the end. I’m only sorry my daughter isn’t around to learn this truth with me.