It is my hope and prayer for her that her next life will be happier. I probably saw her smile a half dozen times in the 51 years I knew her. I'm not talking about the canned smiles people often give for photos, but the genuine mirthful smiles they spontaneously display when no one's snapping their picture. And not once during the past two years that she's been in California did I see her smile. I don't believe I ever heard her laugh, maybe chuckle a few times, but never laugh. And what saddens me the most is that she never got close to anyone, not her husband, not her children, not her friends. She never knew emotional honesty, much less emotional intimacy. She was always standing outside the action, observing. She approached human interaction as one might expect a foreigner or a visitor from another planet to do so--hesitantly, uncertain as to the local customs, looking for cues from others. That's why, so often she would merely say what she thought the people around her wanted to hear rather than speak her own truth, from which she seemed cut off.
Throughout my childhood and most of my adulthood, I took her distance and lack of emotional availability as a personal slight. Her disinterest in me, I must admit, and others have noted too, was more acute than with others. She quite literally did not listen to me because as she once admitted, she wasn't interested. It was only a year ago, when she went through an assessment program for seniors at the University of California Irvine Medical Center that I first learned she had a personality disorder that prevented her from getting close to anyone. How tragic.
This has been a very rough two years, caring for someone who had so little interest in me. Add to this the extreme anxiety, the complaining, the passive aggressive behavior, and the self-pity, and it is easy to see why I always left her emotionally and physically drained.
My mother was never a happy person, except the two years she lived in Europe prior to marrying and having children. As Aaron said when we were going through her Europe photographs before we moved her to California, "I sure would have liked to have known this woman." In those photos, she was smiling, ear to ear. She was dancing and bicycling and exploring and flirting. In short, she was enjoying life. But that's not the woman I ever knew. Not when I was child. Not when I was a young adult. Not when I was middle-aged.
She seemed especially unhappy in California. She expected me to be with her every day, but I had to work, I had health challenges of my own (heart attack, onset of dialysis, triple bypass surgery, many ER visits and hospitalizations), and I needed breaks from her. So often she seemed only interested in my medical issues insofar as they impacted the time I could spend with her. Even though I told her that if I didn't take care of my health, I sure wouldn't be able to take care of her, this did not register. The question was never "How are you feeling, Heidi?" It was always "When are you going to see me? When are you going to get this or do that for me?"
So I pray that my mother who has been so incredibly anxious will know peace. That my mother who has not known intimacy will find deep and abiding love, a love that penetrates her very being and that she opens herself up to feel deeply and profoundly. That my mother who always stood outside and observed will be part of the action and a full participant. That is my wish for you, Mom. Goodbye.
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