My Mother Knows Nothing About Me

Over the decades I have told a few friends that my mother doesn't listen to me and knows nothing about me. Of course, this seems like so much hyperbole. How could one's mom not know anything about her child? And it's not like she had a dozen kids; she only had two.

Plus, I have been the dutiful daughter and have remembered her on her birthday, Mother's Day, Easter, Christmas and Thanksgiving, have sent flowers to cheer her, and have called at least two or three times a week for my entire adult life. Certainly one would think she'd know a little something about a woman who has spent so much time and energy on her as I have. Even if I had been a neighbor or a coworker or someone who went to her church, you'd think she would have known something about me!

Last weekend my mother read aloud from her journal, as is now our custom. Before she started journaling, our visits were for the most part silent, as she gave only one-word answers to my questions, and she asked no questions in return. Now that she's journaling, she reads aloud from her journal, and I ask her questions about what she's written. This has improved our visits tremendously.

Last weekend she read what she had written about me. Her account was filled with inaccuracies. Actually, none of it was accurate. She said from the get-go that she knows nothing about me, and I told her this is remarkable, given that I lived with her for 18 years.

This is in contrast to what she read today about her long-time friend Marianne. She didn't know where or when I had graduated from college. She wrote that I received my bachelor's degree in Illinois when in fact I had only taken a few classes while living in Chicago. I graduated with my first bachelor's degree in 1984, three years after I had moved to California. She didn't know in what areas I had received my degrees. In contrast, she knew that Marianne had graduated in 1969 with a degree in sociology and had gone on to receive a master's degree in social work from the University of Wisconsin, Whitewater.

My mother did not know when or under what circumstances I had contracted diabetes, and it was obvious from what she wrote that she knows nothing about the disease that has shaped the last 37 years of my life. When I was a kid, she never attended a single doctor's appointment with me or read any book or pamphlet about the condition. She never once talked to me about my anger and depression about having a chronic disease. Yet she knew about Marianne's cancer in detail.

My mother did not know the name of my boyfriend of four years, the man who, by default, was the love of my life. And she didn't know that Mike had died in 2006. She wrote that Mike was a skiier, not a surfer. Now if you think this is just her forgetfulness or dementia, why then did she know about Marianne's sex life in detail? She knew that Marianne had not had sex until she was 29 and that her first affair with a married man was in Aruba on the beach. She even knew the exact year when Marianne tired of sex.

My mother remembered the names of the restaurants she and Marianne had frequented and the menu items they favored. She knew the first and last names of Marianne's coworkers and the streets on which she had lived. In contrast, she does not even know what I do for a living, even though I have worked at Cal State for more than 20 years.

And it's not just Marianne. She wrote accurately about my ex-husband's profession and about her sisters and brothers and her friend Julie.

Worst of all, she wrote that I had abandoned my son. I couldn't believe this! When Rod and I split up, we shared custody, and I chose to be a freelance writer and editor, primarily so that I could spend as much time as possible with my son, rather than away from him, commuting to a corporate job. So my mother is clueless even in regards to the bond I have always had with my son, perhaps the most significant aspect of my life.

I told her that she should continue to write, that writing is very good for maintaining her mental functions, that writing is the best thing she has done all year, but that she should stick to subjects she knows something about. For some reason, all the things I have ever said to my mother about my life have gone in one ear and out the other because, as she told me about five years ago, she is "just not interested."

I also told her that this is what makes caring for her so difficult. "It's not like we've ever had a relationship," I told her. "If we had had something when I was a child or if we had had something during my adult years, it would be different, this would be easier. But it's really hard for me sometimes to put so much time and energy into taking care of you when you were never there for me, even as a child, when you were never interested in anything about me."

To this she said nothing. I guess all I can say is that this is the stuff of a great short story.

As Aaron said, "I don't know why, but your mom has always had a block on you."