DNA does not mean you are connected

 

Whether brothers or sisters, in our lifetime no one person will ever have more of the same DNA makeup as we do than a sibling. Whether we share both parents or only one, that genetic bond is unbreakable. Sadly, though, the same cannot be said of the relational bond; from birth and throughout childhood, sibling relationships have to be nurtured by parents. When a family has more than one child, each child must have equal love and equal time and feel equally as important as their siblings without being treated the same--each one must be loved and accepted for the individual each one is But when the kids leave home and strike out on their own, it is up to each of them to keep that relationship alive and growing, through open communication, visits, and acceptance of each others' differences, discounting those separated at birth or otherwise growing up in a different geographic location, 

That doesn't always happen. In my world, it rarely happened. 

On being a family

What is a family? Over the past sixty plus years, I’ve had my beliefs about family shaken to the very core. I used to believe family was more than just people related to me by marriage or blood, more than just the basic unit in society that social scientists define, more than just a household, or a common last name. I used to believe family was always there, always ready to support you, to stand behind you, beside you, and with you, no matter what happened. I believed a family shared more than a name or parents or a gene pool. A family would love you unconditionally in spite of you, in spite of any shortcomings or sins; a family was loving and supportive, even when no one else would, when it was not easy to do; a family “had your back.” Blood was always thicker than water. Family sticks with you, even when they disagree with you.

Sure our life hasn’t been easy—no one’s life is. We have had our ups and our downs, our successes and our failures, our agreements and our fights.  We are all so different—different values, lifestyles, beliefs, political stances, personalities.  Yet that one tie, the one thread holding us all together, was our past, our heritage, our memories, our shared joys and sorrows. That tie has been bent, tangled, nearly unraveled, and stretched, sometimes to the point of tearing in half, but it has still been there to hold us all together.  

Until now.  

Now that cord, that family tie, is no longer the tie that binds.  It has been severed, completely, cruelly, with a finality that breaks my heart. I have reached out, held out my hand and my heart, and have hoped for healing and mending of our broken family, all to no avail.  Things hoped for, but never realized—a reunion that will never come, a reconciliation that will never materialize, and a kinship that is now forever lost.  When Dad died last December, I heard the death knell of our fractured family and with the loss of Sheila, our fragile family disintegrated, broken like glass, into a thousand little pieces.  You have all effectively and thoroughly shunned me and mine. You have made it quite clear that you do not want to be associated with me. You no longer identify with me as family.  You have pushed us completely out of your lives, and you want nothing to do with me, with my children, my grandchildren—your nieces and nephews and cousins.  

If you meant to hurt me, you have. If your intention was to make me cry, again, you have succeeded. I have spent countless hours praying, reading, lamenting, and remembering, sometimes bitter and angry, but more often than not, mourning for the loss of not just people we loved—Dad, Sheila, Karen, Patrick—but the loss of a shared grief and a desire to heal together.  

But you have not destroyed me. For you have helped me realize what true family is, what it really means to stand behind and with and beside someone. I have been knocked to my knees, and it was there that I looked up and saw where my true family lies.  My faith has been the catalyst to heal, to understand why I had to be broken to be made whole. God reigns supreme in all things, and He alone knows where all this will lead, and how it will glorify Him. I now know that family is not merely a DNA connection, or made up of individuals who we are related to by name or blood.  Family is that wonderful group of people that God has placed in my life, whether through birth or marriage or by chance.  Family is there when I need them, providing support and love and help, grieving with me and rejoicing when I rejoice.  

And when I think about who will be here in October to help remember and celebrate Sheila’s life, and Dad’s legacy, I realize that every single one of those individuals are part of my family. They are family not because of a choice someone else made, but they are family because of a choice they made.  

And God blesses our family, and He will continue to watch over us.

You are welcome to join us, and celebrate, and grieve, and cry, and be, well, family.  But should you choose to stay away, know that I do not resent you, or think ill of you, or regret the past.  

You were my family once.  Perhaps you will join us again.

Mother's Day Musings

Mother's Day.  Ugh.  Like I've said before, my least favorite holiday.  For me, Mother's Day has always been a fake holiday, an attempt to cover up the ugliness that was there the other 364 days of the year.  Buying cards and gifts and flowers to celebrate my mom was hypocritical and unnatural and made no sense to me whatsoever.  But my sisters and I, we played the game and shored up the facade of our seemingly happy, normal life, tiptoeing around the minefield day-to-day, and searching for the perfect card with the perfect verse that would defuse some of those mines, or at least buy us time off for good intentions.  And yes, I know the saying is "time off for good behavior" but we knew we never behaved well enough for that to happen. So we just papered our relationship with our mom with lies from Hallmark and American Greetings and the FTD flower delivery guy. Not just on Mother's Day, mind you, but finding the right card on Mother's Day was always the hardest challenge--just the right amount of cuteness, stirred up with the perfect artwork, preferably with lots of purple (her favorite color), and topped with whatever amount of praise and compliments the giver could stomach.  And not too early, and NEVER late. Oh, and NEVER make the mistake of sending the mother's day card intended for your stepmom, to your crazy real mom.  

I carried that baggage into my adulthood and my own life as a mother, where I practically exuded insecurity over my value and worth as a mother, and later a grandmother.  I have gotten better at accepting my life, especially the reality that my mother could not, or would not, love me, or perhaps love anyone else; but I still hate Mother's Day.  Probably always will.  Because it celebrates the idea of the perfect mother, who does not exist.  We place moms and motherhood on this ridiculously insurmountable pedestal, as if all moms, just because they have a uterus are somehow magically endowed with all the skills and instincts and feelings needed to nurture and raise healthy, well-balanced, and grateful offspring.  Even worse, we place this burden on the shoulders of girls and young women without providing any suitable preparation or instruction, except that handed down by, you guessed it, their mothers.  Society expects, no demands, perfection from mothers, and if a mother does not fit the mold designed by society, oh well that mother is cast out, cast aside, locked up, and hated as "unnatural" and "cold."  Hollywood, television, marketing and advertising campaigns, literature, music, art...all of it depicts motherhood as some sainted, heavenly assignation bestowed as soon as a woman is given a child to nurture.  Maternal instinct, mothering, Mother Nature, Mother Teresa...all of these conjure visions of women who can soothe any ache, calm any anxiety or fear, kiss away any pain.  Mothers are saints, mothers are holy, and mothers are off limits when it comes to the blame game.  Sure, we kid around about it, make mother-in-law jokes, complain about our mom, but God help the child who tells anyone in his world that his mother was anything but "a good mom."  

No one, especially a child, wants to believe a mother is capable of harming her offspring.  No one, especially a child, has the ability to fathom the pain and angst this will wreak in the child's life.  No one, especially the child, can grasp why he is not loved when his sibling is.  No one, especially the child, can understand that the fault lies not in them, but in the mother and the expectations of society.  So the child lives in a world of fear, of hate, of self-loathing, of guilt, of conflict avoidance, of seeking to please, and in an endless quest for someone to love her as she is.  And if that child speaks up, cries out, that child is not believed.  So the child continues to live in a world of lies, of paradoxes, of confusion and contradictions, wanting his mother to love him, because the world says that is what mothers do, all the while knowing that she does not.  But he has no way to prove that, because the world, society, even those in the child's family, say this is not possible. And the child grows up believing she is at fault, she is damaged, she deserves the punishment and the hatred and only if she would try harder, be nicer, act nicer, be prettier, be a good girl, do the right things...only then would her mother love her.  

I know...pretty dark stuff.  Remember this on the next Mother's Day--that having a functioning uterus, or being given the responsibility of nurturing anything, especially a small human being, does not automatically qualify one to nurture.  Bad mothering lies not just in the lap of the mothers--it belongs to all of us.  Mothers do not have some supernatural power or instinct that is born into them, or implanted in them when they give birth. Mothers need guidance and love and understanding and more guidance and more love.  Mothering is painful and difficult and joyful and excruciatingly sad and anxiety-filled and so many other things.  It is learning by trial and error, by practice makes imperfect, by example, and it is not easy.  It is wonderful, but it is definitely not easy.   Motherhood is one role assigned to some women, not all, and, like any other role in life, God has given us instructions to follow to be the kind of mother He designed us to be. 

Mourning the Lost

About a month ago, my phone rang. Not an unusual occurrence in and of itself, but the caller was unusual—it was my sister.  The same sister who lied to the courts, who filed false police reports.  The same sister who was the driving force behind a painful (and expensive) frivolous and entirely fabricated civil lawsuit.  Needless to say, I let it go to voicemail.  Couldn’t even bring myself to listen to it.  Alex listened to it—supposedly my mother was in renal failure.  Ok.  What’s new?  I figured it was just a ploy for attention.  

Then, two weeks ago, I get a text.  Informing me mom died.  Yes. A text.  No voicemail.  No card.  No info on services.  Just a text. A sterile, four word line, “mom passed last night”.  When I spoke to my dad that weekend, I mentioned the little kernel of news, trying to feel him out, to ascertain if he’d heard anything.  Nope.  He was shocked.  I thought, well, maybe another cruel hoax.  Then a week later, another text, this time to both me and Alex.  Same message.   I mean, seriously? She has not called, texted, emailed, written, or sent smoke signals in two years.  No news of of any kind, no word of hospitalizations, address, surgeries, state of mind.  Then, boom—a texted death announcement.  I didn’t know what to think.  Or believe.  I heard nothing else from anyone.  Called the nursing home.  Nothing. Checked FaceBook.  Googled for funeral home announcements and obituaries in the general vicinity of her last known address.  Again, I drew a blank.   

WTF?!?

Now what?   How did I feel?  How should I feel? Was I sad the woman who gave birth to me was dead?  Did I hurt for the ones who said they cared for her?   Was I irritated that less than 30 days prior we’d settled our lawsuit?  Was I angry about the thousands of dollars it had cost ?  

I thought I’d forgiven them all.  I thought I was beyond being hurt anymore.  I thought, foolishly, I was over it, safe, immune, in my little cocoon, my mountain home.  Then this.  Another slap in the face, another reminder of the depth of the dysfunction of our family.    Just when I thought it was safe to go back in the water.  (Don’t worry.  No shark metaphors). 

The enormity of it all, the sheer finality of the death of my mother, the societal expectations of how I should feel at the revelation of this news—it hit me like a ton of bricks.  And keeps hitting me like some crazed game of out-of-control Tetris.   How do I mourn the loss of a relationship I never had?   If you’ve followed this journey with me at all, you already know my life was anything but normal.  This isn’t about that though; it’s not a cry for sympathy.   I’m just trying to figure out how I’m supposed to feel.  To react.  To move on.  I want to scream at my sisters, to ask them Why?   To make them say they were wrong and to beg my forgiveness.  

After nearly three years of no real communication.  A text.  

I realize I haven’t forgiven them.  I haven’t moved on.  Yeah I’ve learned a lot about me and I’m growing, I’ve healed some of the hurts, and many of the scars are fading.  But some still have scabs, and bleed when the scab is bumped.  

Human forgiveness, unlike divine redemption, is not a one time, over and done event. It’s a process.  A process of healing.  And bleeding.  And scarring.  

And healing.   

Lots and lots of healing

Insecurity: Identity Crisis

When a child spends her entire life trying to earn her mother's love, and is constantly rebuffed, that child learns the lie that she will never EVER be good enough, that no one can love her because, well, she just is not lovable.  She knows from infancy that her mother does not, cannot, and will not love her.  How sad, how tragic, and how utterly regrettable!  Most tragic of all is not knowing who she is, and why she was born. Her identity is tied to to her mother, and since her mother finds her wanting, she is a bad daughter.

The child matures physically, but never really emotionally, because she is constantly seeking approval and love of the one person who should love her but who does not.  As that little girl grows up into an adolescent, then a young woman, she tries to prove she is lovable, and tries to earn the love of anyone and everyone, but really trusts no one.  She makes bad choices--really, really bad choices--and those choices only serve to underscore her insecurity, and her sense of worthlessness.  And, if by some chance she makes a good choice, and finds herself in a relationship with someone who truly DOES love her, well, she does everything in her power to sabotage that relationship.  I mean, seriously, no one really loves her or values her, right?  That person must be using her, or must love someone else more, or must have some evil, ulterior motive.  Her identity is tied to her friends, or boyfriend, or husband. Who is she really though? Is she a friend? A girlfriend? A good worker?  Like a chameleon she changes her identity to reflect the people who give her attention.

So this young woman bumbles through life, trying to earn love, trying to feel loved, trying to be lovable, and, just when she thinks it is hopeless...she becomes a mother. Oh sweet joy!  She immediately adores her children, and knows, without a doubt, those children love her. She basks in their need for her, revels in their happiness, cries when they are hurting, and sacrifices her own identity to them.  They are her life. After almost 30 years of searching for someone to love her, she has found it.  Her children grow, and thrive, and she tries oh so hard to be the kind of mother she wishes she would have had, but it's hard when you have no example, no blueprint to go by.  She reads and watches other mothers, and she vehemently promises she will NEVER repeat her mother's mistakes with her children, but alas, some of the behaviors are so ingrained, so much a part of her psyche, she stumbles. She recovers her balance, but always ALWAYS in the back of her mind is the litany, "you are not good enough, you will never be good enough."   She is a mother.  Her children define her.  

Then her children leave home, as children often do when they grow up, and they go to school, fall in love, get married, and become mothers themselves. The woman, now middle-aged, experiences the ecstasy of being a grandmother, and it is love at first sight when she meets first one, then two, then more children of her children.  Oh happy day! How wondrous! She is a grandmother and a nana! She has so much love her heart is bursting, and her grandchildren love her oh so much! But wait. What if she is not good enough? What if her children resent her? Maybe they wished for a better mother, just like she did (and still does). Maybe she isn't a very good grandmother.  

So on and on it goes, and the woman, now growing older, feels helpless in her search for an identity, in her quest for feeling loved, for deserving love. All throughout her life, ever since she was 7 or 8, she felt love, love not of this earth, and she clung to that feeling with every morsel of her being.  It was her safety net, her life jacket, her parachute when she felt like she would never be loved, never feel love. And no matter what she did, or how hard she tried to ignore it, that Love was always there, warming her, reminding her she is loved, even if she didn't always feel loved. And it is in the sunset of her life, the woman finds and holds onto her true identity. Yes, she is a daughter, a friend, a wife, a veteran, a mother, and a grandmother. But the golden thread holding her together is the realization she is beloved, fearfully and wonderfully made, a child of God.  

This identity has been there all along, trying to be THE identity, the one that matters. But these other identities are strong--they are selfish and vie to be on top.  They tell her, "you are not a good daughter, you are not a good friend, you are not a good wife, or good mother, and you could be a better grandmother, so give up on this child of God thing. You are not worth it."  The woman has to constantly push these feelings down, call them what they are...lies.  

It's exhausting.  Frustrating.   Emotionally draining.  

She is loved.  She is good enough.  

Isn't she?

Practicing Forgiveness

For so long, well, actually for my entire life, I have tried to prove myself worthy of my mom's love. Every time she hurt me, crushed me, abused me, I would stoically accept the blows, until I had been practically stripped of my identity. At the last possible moment, my sense of self preservation would kick into high gear and I would back away, vowing never to go back to leave my heart and psyche open to her barbs. But I always crawled back. I had a need to be wanted, to be loved, to feel like my existence was not an accident. Opened myself up to ridicule and hate and ambiguity. Thought as I grew up things would change.  

Things did not change. But I did. I grew farther away from my past, and clumsily embarked on my growth as a Christian. Of course, in my naive, immature understanding of God's grace, I thought being a Christian meant to let the blows just hit me, to keep my hands to my side, and get beat up, all the while praying and waiting for God to affect my mom's behavior and treatment of me. Same with my sisters, and anyone else who mistreated me...and there were a lot...I would reach out over and over again, giving them my time, my money, my heart, apologizing for any imagined (yet nonexistent) slights. I turned a blind eye to their sins, foolishly thinking I could just set an example of Christ-like behavior and they'd stop in their tracks, instantly realizing they were wrong. That they would abruptly do a behavioral about face. Yeah, not so much. No repentance means no chance at reconciliation. A hard pill to swallow, but over the past 2 years I have begun to more clearly see how, in taking their abuse, I was a participant in my own wounding.  It was as if, as they would run toward me with a razor sharp sword, I would just open up my shirt and close my eyes and run right into the blade, and then act all surprised when they pierced my heart. That is not forgiveness...that is suicide. And condoning their sin.  

I need a lot more practice...

The Good Daughter

All of my life I have been vying for the title of the good daughter, the good wife, the good mother, the good ____________ (insert role here).  Achievement of these lofty titles has always been completely subjective and capricious, as prerequisites and requirements have no basis in anyone's reality other than my own. The yardstick for measuring "good" is not stable; rather, it is nebulous and mercurial, and completely dependent on my mood and state of mind at that particular moment.  If I am feeling self-righteous, and need to be vindicated, then I am "good," while if I am wallowing in the quicksand of self-pity and self-loathing, everyone else is "good" and I never will be. Regardless of where I am on the emotional spectrum, though, I can never achieve permanent goodness, or complete all the tasks and master all skills to be crowned good mother, or adored as the good daughter. There is always something: some thorn, some scab, some ugly fault or mistake, and yes, someone who is oh so much better and deserving of the title.  I could have done more, been a better person, yelled less, been more understanding, said the right thing, said nothing at all, spent more time, listened better, cooked more, smiled quicker, slept less, worked less, worked harder...the list goes on and on.  

It's exhausting, trying to achieve perfection.  

And it is impossible. Because I am not good, and no matter how hard I try, I never will be, not on my own merits. I am sinful, and selfish, and will never achieve perfection, at least not on my own. The more I struggle to achieve goodness, the more unreachable the goal becomes. Strive as I may for perfection, I can only realize frustration in it always being out of reach, with that ugly, cloudy reflection of my ego looking back at me, the wall of self blocking the finish line.  Heck, just the act of trying to be good pushes me farther away from it, because I am fooled into thinking my futile attempts at goodness (as defined by me) are worthwhile.  They are not. For goodness can no more emanate from my sinful, selfish core than clean water spring from sewage.    

Ironic that trying to be good only reinforces that I am not.

How liberating, and wonderful, and praiseworthy is that realization!

Wait a minute...what?

Yes, that's what I said. Trying to be "good" is a waste of time--only God is good, the God who created me, the God who sent his Son, also God, to redeem me, the God whose Spirit dwells within me. And I cannot be God, so therefore I cannot be good.  Only through God and His grace and His death and resurrection can I ever hope to achieve goodness, in Him. God is good. Always. In all things. Not because He does good things.  

Because He is God. God is good.  

Me? I am a mother, a daughter, a wife, a woman, a child of God. Not good. Not bad.  

Just God's.

All in a year's work

A year ago my sisters begged us to pick up mom's belongings and move them to our place; a year later they are harassing us to take her belongings back to a storage facility

A year ago Mom made me her power of attorney; a year later she and my sister revoked same power of attorney 

A year ago mom was ill and had no money but lots of bills; a year later her health and finances are stable--for now

A year ago we were looking into affordable senior housing and had mom all but moved into it when my sisters sabotaged it; a year later my sisters are looking into affordable senior living near them 

A year ago both sisters were more than happy for me to be mom's caregiver; a year later both sisters are convinced they should take over 

A year ago we were on our own. No support, no help, except from God; a year later all our support is from God, our church, and our friends and children 

A year ago I couldn't see the way forward or figure out how I'd handle this new responsibility; a year later I am breathing s sigh of relief as I transfer this responsibility to someone else 

A year ago I just knew it'd only be a matter of time before Mary Beth would undo all our work; a year later Mary Beth has moved mom in with her undoing all our work

Funny the difference a year makes 

Overcoming bitternes

 I live in a family of bullies...

It started with my mom when I was little; I was never good enough, smart enough, quick enough, nice enough, or capable enough. As I grew up, I believed her--all of her lies and hate and insults. I was the black sheep, the bad daughter, the difficult one, the "you will never amount to anything" one. I still remember this framed saying hanging our wall, called "Children Learn what they Live." It was as if my mom was trying to prove every word of the first half of that...my sisters were prettier, more intelligent, better behaved, and better daughters. I learned to avoid and escape confrontation at all cost, and to never look her, or anyone like her, in the eye. I learned to lie to protect myself, and to guard that kernel of self deep inside me by building walls around it. I moved away, but the shame, the torment, and the derision followed me. Growing up with that negativity affects children in so many ways, and that negativity threatens to follow us all into adulthood, but I was tired of being a victim, sick of being bullied, fed up with being a slave to my insecurities, and weary of the bitterness of it all.  

I have struggled to overcome these circumstances for the past 40 plus years, but every time I thought I had it conquered, something would happen to bring it all back up again. The bile and bitterness and resentment would bubble up, leaving me with the proverbial sour taste in my mouth. I would shove it back down, or try to placate it with something sweet, or bland, or numbing, but it was only a matter of time before that sour taste would surface yet again. And, like acid reflux, it was damaging me more and more, every time--no Prilosec, no Nexium, no Mylanta would help me. Ignoring it didn't work, and feeding it made it worse.  

So I began to pray, to talk to Christian counselors and friends, to immerse myself in God's Word. I called out that bitterness within me, pulled at the long, sinewy branches entwined around my spirit and my heart, tugged at the deep, thick roots embedded in my soul. With  each piece, each tiny sliver I pulled out, I felt lighter, more at peace, less angry. Situations and people that previously would make me cry, or sad, or even shake with uncontrollable rage, now bounce off me like water off a duck's back. Oh sure, there are still times when I feel that bitterness welling up in me, an almost irrepressible urge to lash out, to hate, to feel sorry for myself.  Especially lately, with all that we are going through with my mom and my sisters, things I cannot even begin to comprehend, let alone explain to someone, the desire for validation and for them to believe me, if not love me, is so strong it takes my breath away.  

But thankfully, I come to my senses...and give it BACK to God. I realize He is Lord, He is worthy, He is in control, He loves me, He comforts me, and He is sanctifying me. It is HIS approval I desperately need, HIS love I so hungrily yearn for.  And that love can never grow, let alone flourish, in a garden where the tree of bitterness lives.

So I get out the tweezers and pick those tiny, little splinters of resentment and anger out of my heart. Even as my sisters slander me on FaceBook and with other family members, and tell lies to my mother, and believe the lies she tells them.  Ouch!  That was a deep one!

I no longer am afraid of the bullies in my family--I don't even hate them. I pity them, I am sad for them, and I pray for them. For now, though, I no longer talk to them--their bitterness is too potent, too pervasive to be exposed to, for fear it would poison my soul. 

Most of all, I forgive them. 

Considering what Jesus suffered on the cross for me, it seems only right.  

Two steps forward, three steps back

SIX 

years ago Alex and I transferred to Florida and helped get my mom and her husband settled in a safe, independent living facility, with the objective of eventually transitioning them to assisted living and even skilled nursing should it be necessary.  

THREE     

years ago my sister suddenly swooped in to "rescue" them from us and moved them back to Tennessee, undoing all progress.  Mom wanted nothing to do with me.

TWO AND A HALF 

years ago same sister is blowing up my phone stressed out from the rigors of trying to keep our mother happy.  Seems Mom wanted to move back to Florida--she no longer wanted anything to do with that daughter.

TWO 

years ago, Mom was driving both of my sisters crazy with unrealistic demands, emergency room visits, falls, surgeries, and abusive phone calls.  Mom wanted my phone number and began calling me to save her.

ONE  

year ago, Mom's husband died, the bottom fell out of her safety net, and she had no money and nowhere to go.  Alex and I moved her in with us temporarily.  I was the "good" daughter.

FOUR 

months later, it became painfully obvious I could not keep her safe or healthy, let alone happy.  Her doctor referred her to a skilled nursing facility.

FOURTEEN  

days ago, Mom convinced my sister to come take her away from here.  She went on a four day visit back to Tennessee, and came back (albeit probably temporarily) that weekend.

TWENTY-FOUR 

hours ago, Mom threw us out of her room and threatened to call the police if we came back to visit.  

FOUR  

hours ago, I contacted the nursing home and told them while I am still the power of attorney and health care POA, I would perform these duties from a distance to avoid strife.  

FIFTEEN 

minutes ago, God touched my heart with a peace surpassing my feeble understanding.  

ONE   

God

THREE 

persons

It's a numbers game...

Stirring the pot

What the heck is it about an aging parent that makes siblings act like a bunch of four year olds? I have been trying to figure this out...have read articles and books, talked to counselors and eldercare experts, attended caregiver support groups.   Emotionally charged, being in denial, disagreements on care decisions, guilt, helplessness. All these terms might explain the reactions, but they do not make it any easier to deal with the pain. When the aging parent is a model mother, much loved and respected by her children, even-tempered and Christian, always the center and the heart of the home, it makes sense for her adult children to have trouble accepting mom is frail and needs more help than they can give. They want to keep the idea and image of their sweet, strong, capable mom alive.  

But in our case, Mom has always been difficult, to put it mildly. Confrontational, mercurial, with serious mental health issues, most of us had no delusions about the person Mom really was. Her life was littered with failed relationships and a look at her past showed dozens, if not hundreds, of failed attempts to escape reality. She thrived on rancor and strife, loved playing the martyr, and would frequently stir the pot of sibling rivalries, pitting one against the other, so much so that we grew up laughingly wondering who was the "black sheep of the month." So it was natural for me, as I came to grips with the fact she would never change, to believe my sisters and I would be on the same page when it came to agreeing she needed help. That the biggest issue would be deciding which one of us would be stuck with it.  

I realized about eight years ago that my mom could no longer care for herself--she needed help with finances, cooking, healthcare, transportation, hygiene, and nutrition. My two sisters agreed, and they willingly stepped aside to let me carry the load. Or so I thought. Four years into the first attempt, sister #1 stepped in and whisked Mom and her husband away to another state, just as I had gotten approval for Mom to receive state-funded assisted living. No discussion. Mom had stirred the pot. Called her and told her how awful I was. Pleaded for "rescue." Alex and I vainly tried to change their minds (my mom's and my sister's), all to no avail.  

Fast forward 18 months--Mom was widowed and out of money. Bills were piling up.  Her health was horrible. She had a permanent colostomy. Neither sister #1 or sister #2 were equipped to help. We took it on. Again. Moved her here. Realized she needed 24/7, skilled nursing care. Got her settled. Made a few false steps with my sisters--old habits die hard so I fell into the sibling rivalry squabbles as, you guessed it, sweet little Mom stirred her Cafe Vienna and the pot. Pitted one against the other. Then two against one.   

Not fair, I said. Please understand, I'd say. I am doing what Mom needs, I'd cry.  Please support me in this, I begged. Silence.Then accusations. Bitter texts. Horrible words. Hateful shouting matches. Secret keeping. Against each other. Got so bad I blocked them from my phone, my social media, from my conversations with my dad. Because even though my dad HATES my mom, my sisters are constantly whispering in his ear how I am being a "dictator," and a horrible daughter and sister, exaggerating my missteps.  

Mom just got back to the nursing home from a short stay in the hospital, a result of going on hunger strike to get attention. After weeks of no word from either sister, I still let them know Mom was okay but hospitalized. Foolishly followed Mom's wishes of only having Alex and me allowed to get medical info. What followed was a flurry of nasty texts, ranting and ravings, and false accusations from sister #1, and a painfully loud silence from sister #2.  And all the while, Mom is asking me to fix the relationship with my sisters. Asking me innocently if I had talked to them, when she knew all the while she had stirred this pot. That she tells them things that will get them upset with me. That will put me alone against the three of them. I feel all alone. Helpless. Sad. Why can't they see she is using us all? That this is her way of coping with the inevitable?  

I will drive myself insane trying to ascertain the answers to those questions. So I will rest on the assurance that God is here with me, that although I will get relief from only some troubles in this life, I will find relief from ALL troubles in the next life.  

"Fear thou not, for I am with thee; be not dismayed, for I am thy God.  I will strengthen thee; yea, I will help thee; yea, I will uphold thee with the right hand of my righteousness."  Isaiah 41:10

Mother's Day

Two weeks ago was Mother's Day...probably my least favorite holiday of the year.  I actually hate Mother's Day. Always have.  I never understood what all the fuss was about, why there was so much advertising dedicated to selling flowers, candy, and cards for mothers. From the ripe young age of five, school activities in late April were centered on that one day-- we were told to make Mother's Day cards or coupon books or decorate little flower pots for our moms, so we could present these handmade treasures to a grateful, loving, tearful mom. Hollywood and Hallmark alike portrayed the scene like this: Wearing an apron and a pretty dress, she'd bend down and ooh and ahhh over her darling child's gift, clutching her heart, eyes welling up with tears. Her darling husband would surprise her with a beautiful necklace, her kids would serve her breakfast in bed-- burnt toast and runny eggs on a tray with handpicked flowers in a vase--and she'd love it.

Yeah, not in my world. And no, I am not seeking pity or sympathy or validation. I had a crappy childhood.  My mother is anything but the doting sweet apron-wearing lady I would see on cards and TV and billboards. I have grown up wondering what it is like to have a mom for a friend, to have someone who always has your back no matter what, who will always love you, who will always put you first. As a child, then as a teenager, a young woman, a mother myself, and now a grandmother, I still have no idea what it must be like to look forward to seeing my mom, to trusting my mom with secrets, asking her advice, letting her watch my children. I have watched this mother-daughter relationship in countless homes of friends, and it baffled me. I hated shopping for cards for my mom--it was anathema to think of NOT getting her a card--but trying to find one that was loving but not too loving, sweet but in a neutral way, praising her but only with vague praises, was exhausting. I would pick up card after card after card, reading lie after lie after lie, saying "nope" and putting them back, until I happened on just the right, "generic" card with pretty purple flowers that I wouldn't feel like a hypocrite to sign.

Then I had my own children. I loved them from their conception, and have never stopped. I poured my whole being into them, into keeping them safe, loving them, teaching them. I celebrated my own Mother's Day, year after year, and gladly and lovingly received precious handmade cards and gifts. Then as they grew older, and they realized I was no longer the center of their universe, I was afraid I had not been a good enough mother. That my children hated Mother's Day as well, that they struggled in the card aisle looking for the right card. I would read the cards, handwritten or store-bought, over and over again, looking for a hidden message, something that said they really just bought me the card or gift out of obligation, out of duty. If one of my daughters didn't get me a card, or called their mother-in-law "Mom," or did anything to even hint that I was not the central mother character in their lives, I would be a mess.

Then my children had children. And are celebrating their own Mother's Days now.  This year I received a beautiful handmade photo of my youngest daughter holding her newborn baby, with the words "The best moms get promoted to grandma" written on the side of the photo. And I got a darling, hand-written card from my oldest, written while she was watching her girls play in a mud puddle. And I did not get either of them a card this year, for their Mother's Day. And when I mentioned this to the oldest, she said "Mom, its okay...I am not big on cards at all. I know you are, though. That's why I made you one." And I felt ashamed and elated at the same time

Ashamed for all the times I second-guessed their intentions. Elated that their intentions were innocent and sweet and done out of love

Ashamed for making such a big deal out of a piece of paper. Elated my daughters loved making gifts and cards sparing no ink penning the right words.

Ashamed for wearing my mother's sins on my sleeves, for thinking I had to pay the penalty. Elated I could finally break free of the bondage of guilt I had worn for 60 years.

Ashamed for transferring my neurotic need for validation as a "good mom" to my daughters. Elated to have been blessed with such beautiful, wonderful Godly women who honestly love their mother

Ashamed of how I used to resent my mom, how I used to wish I had a different mom. Elated to fulfill God's purpose in my life with the mother He gave me.

Brothers and Sisters

I am sitting here trying to think of clever, witty, and insightful things to say about taking care of aging parents, but all I really want to do is cry and then sleep. We are in the middle of a perfect storm right now...Alex is down in Florida (again) and he and his brother are dealing with life changing decisions for their parents, both of whom are currently in rehab facilities. Here in North Carolina, I am dealing with the same issues for my mom, sans the sibling support from my two sisters. I hear it from everyone who has gone through this, is dealing with it now, or is in the eldercare field--it is "normal" for one sibling to take on most of the responsibility. But just because it is "normal" does not mean it is easy. Or right. Nor does it make it more palatable.

Alex and I have seen the inevitable on the horizon for our respective parents for years now, and have gone through the process of denial, anger, rejection, and acceptance.  We moved my mom here to try (again) to get her a quality of life with safety and health, knowing full well this move was merely a stepping stone to 24/7 care in a licensed skilled nursing facility. I knew mom would be a handful, not just physically but mentally. Dealing with her caustic comments and passive aggressive communication has never been easy, but add ostomy care and frequent falls and you have the recipe for disaster. I also knew that, at some point, we would have to transition Mom to that facility. I just didn't realize how soon. Less than six months after moving her here, caring for her has become impossible for me. Frequent falls, refusal to eat, confusion, staying in bed 18 hours a day, limited mobility, dizziness, poor hygiene, verbal abuse, to name a few, made it painfully obvious something had to give. Either my sanity, or her living here. God took that decision out of my hands, thankfully, but that doesn't mean it is easy to live with.

I feel guilty, overwhelmed, overloaded, alone, and abandoned. Alex is overloaded with his own parental issues, and dumping my worries on him only makes his life harder. His brother calls me and texts me, and thanks me constantly for sending Alex there. They talk, they discuss options, they are on the same page. I am jealous of that. My sisters are not here for me. They are resentful, accusatory, hateful, and mean. I am not surprised. But I am saddened. My sisters may be my siblings, we share the same parents, but we do not share the same values or sense of duty.

But God in His wisdom knew all this would happen, before I was even born. He placed us here, led us to Cornerstone PCA Church, urged me to volunteer at a local store, put other women in my life to be my sisters who have different parents, and I count on them for the emotional and spiritual support lacking from my own sisters.  Marianna, June, Melissa, Andrea, Christina, Denise, Brandy--I lean on these women and gain strength from their strength, encouragement from their words and actions. They support me, help me with my decisions, pray with me and for me.

A letter to my family

Today was the second hardest day of my life.  The first was the day my daughter was diagnosed with cancer.  Today I put my mom in a skilled nursing facility.  It has been a 9 year process getting to this point.  I wrote about that already.  And yes, I know it is the right choice, the safe choice, the best choice, the healthiest choice.  But that doesn't make it easier.  And I could not have accomplished this without you.  So this is a thank you letter to the two of you.

To my sisters, Nancy and Mary Beth, THANK YOU:

• For making it so hard to talk to either one of you about Mom and Bill's care eight years ago when they lived in central Florida and we moved them to independent living
• For not helping us provide a consolidated front for their care and well-being
• For being totally unaware of their financial straits and defaults on car and home loans, and for leaving all those legal matters up to us
• For turning a blind eye and a deaf ear to our pleas for help and support
• For not realizing in 2012 I was suffering from clinical depression and had to be hospitalized for 10 days due to the stress, and for adding to that stress by undoing all our hard work we had done to set the stage for Mom and Bill's eventual transfer to assisted living and fully paid eldercare, and then...
• For sabotaging our efforts by moving them out of independent living up to Nashville TN, instead of convincing them to stay
• For having them incur even more debt by driving them to buy a car
• For constantly complaining about how hard it was to have Mom and Bill in Nashville
• For complaining about each other to Dad and Sheila every chance you had, for putting each other down, and saying hateful things about each other
• For being unfeeling and cold during Bill's memorial service and not acting like a family
• For not caring enough to realize Mom's financial predicament of being nearly $11,000 in debt to her residence, and for offering ZERO constructive suggestions for care
• For being cold and mean and dare I say, bitchy and self centered, when we tried to meet and discuss things
• For not bothering to help with finances or logistics of moving her belongings four times, and for insisting we drive 6 hours each way in one day because Mom's belongings in your house were "stressing you out"
• For totally ignoring repeated letters outlining options, the situation, and requests for help, and then replying with acid-tongued text or emails
• For not offering to help move an 88 year old mom nearly 300 miles, but leaving it up to us
• For not having the common courtesy to check in with us routinely to see how it was going, or if we needed anything
• For asking if we had cable because "Mom loves HGTV" but when I asked for help to pay for it, crickets
• For constantly bringing up the past, and getting irrationally upset on phone calls, only to hang up or to harangue me so much that I had to hang up
• For not providing any financial or even emotional support during the transition
• For accusing me of convincing Mom to have unnecessary surgery when her hernia was about to rupture and was causing problems with her ostomy
• For getting me to listen to you badmouth each other
• For not understanding what Mom has been going through for the past nine years, and not caring enough about them to see the signs of an elderly couple needing more help than they would admit
• For accusing me of exaggerating Mom's health and mental state
• For allowing us to absorb nearly $7,000 of extra expense to get Mom here
• For not coming to help when we had a triple crisis of both of Alex's parents in the hospital in Florida, and Mom in the hospital here
• For telling me I always control things and make the wrong decisions and don't give you voice, even though you only have that voice after all the decisions have been made
• For offering no respite or relief, not even emotional
• For calling Mom at the hospital when she was sick with heart arrhythmias and high blood pressure and a concussion and telling her what I asked you not to tell
• For being completely and blissfully ignorant of all the paperwork and steps we have to take to make sure Mom's health and welfare are taken care of, including paying her bills and selling her car
• For focusing on yourselves, not what was best for our mother

For all of these things, I thank you, because it made me realize how much I need God, how I can rely only on Him, not on you.  Without you, my faith would not have grown, and I would not have felt His warm embrace. Without you, I couldn't have done it. Or appreciated His grace

Lamentations 3:25-26  The Lord is good to those whose hope is in him,  to the one who seeks him; it is good to wait quietly for the salvation of the Lord

Talking to the wall

We have all experienced the sheer frustration of trying to explain ourselves or a situation to someone who just does not get it.  We try and try and get nowhere, only more frustrated. And it is ESPECIALLY irritating when we are trying to talk to those who have known us the longest, who think they know us the best: Family.  Like I said previously. Ties that bind. And sometimes gag. Folks that think they know us the best (namely parents and siblings) see us through the lenses of the past, sometimes rose colored, but more often than not, some other unflattering color, like grey or brown. Or a sickly green.  

Especially when we become changed by God's grace, and are being sanctified. Past wrongs and hurts and faults are seen as blemishes and scars never to be removed.  Despite us being made a new creation, to those we grew up with, we are the same old selfish, mean, shy, bossy, childish, overbearing person we were decades before.  And in some ways, we contribute to that perception by expecting a less than supportive reaction. (Even if we are right)

My mom has to be moved to a skilled nursing facility when she leaves the hospital this week. She has been living here, but her health and spirit are declining quickly. She is no longer safe here. Her doctor filled out the form last week, and I took all the appropriate steps to get her Medicaid and pay her bills.  Found a room for her at a nice facility nearby.  Talked to friends. Prayed.  Prayed some more. Tried to figure out how to get her there. Prayed some more. Then it was (thankfully) taken out of my hands. Actually I gave it back to the Hands that created the earth. He can handle it. 

I'm heating up Mom's dinner Friday night, blissfully ignorant to what is going to happen in the next 30 seconds. BAM! Down she goes. Out for the count. Blood. Calling 911. Holding her down until the paramedics arrive. Calling the dispatcher back because I am downstairs and they are banging on the door upstairs and won't come in the house. Twelve emergency workers in my basement. They take over. Under God's guidance. Even something as scary as a fall and calling 911 to your house works out according to God's plan. Because when she got to the ER, that is when the doctors found her kidney and heart problems.  And confirmed what the nurses have been saying all along. She needs 24/7 care. Now she will just be transferred to the nursing home. Where she will live out the rest of her days. Hopefully in peace and dignity and without further stress.  

So I called my family-- my two sisters and my dad and stepmom. I was not going to because I knew the reaction I would get.  I got it 7 years ago when Alex and I tried to intervene in Mom's care. I was foolhardy, silly, a glutton for punishment. One sister actually swooped in to "rescue" Mom, undoing any and all progress we had made. Anyway, I was not surprised when tonight turned out as it did.  Mean words and accusations and anger thrown at me. Me in tears. Unable to counter their accusations. They hear but do not listen.  One sister refuses to believe any of it.  My parents insist they have been nothing but supportive, even though they put conditions on it. My other sister only wants to talk about her problems, or how hard she had it that year when Mom lived near her.  

We find ourselves right now going through a lot of trials, but these trials are so light, so easy to bear, because of Christ's sacrifice, the Father's guidance in His Word, and the encouragement of the Holy Spirit. For months we have been incredulous that folks we've known for only a few years, or even a few months, are praying for us, pulling for us, supporting us, while some who have known us for a lifetime keep us at a distance, or completely shut us out, refusing to understand. Not even praying. Or even listening for that matter.  

Because they cannot. They have eyes that do not see, and ears that do not hear.  They are not worse than me and I am not better than them. But we speak a different language. Even Solomon couldn't get through to the people, for "the words of the wise are as goads, and as nails firmly fixed are the collected sayings," (Ecc 12:11).  

So I am left talking to the wall, my words falling on deaf ears, getting nothing but crickets.  

I give up. I am going to talk to folks who listen, and to Someone who always, yes ALWAYS hears me and knows what I mean, if without me uttering a word.  

"The end of the matter, all has been heard. Fear God and keep His commandments, for this is the whole duty of man."  Eccl 12:13