2015-2019 A whole new life
Virginia became a time that appears to have given Mom fun in life. Closer to family, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, it was a time she was still healthy and active enough to do things.
Sometimes, especially when she first moved from Pennsylvania, she was kind of grumpy and refused to participate in things, even things she loved. I suspect that was payback for moving her. And…I can appreciate that after Dad died, she was living on her terms in Pennsylvania. While it was life, age, and health that forced this change, I can understand if she just folded her arms and refused to be happy about things. And no doubt being closer to one of us probably cramped her style…which also no doubt worked both ways.
But gradually, she did begin to make her peace with things and found her new normal. She LOVED IHOP and their crepes. Right to the end, we could always get her to eat crepes, even as she wasn’t interested in other things anymore. Frozen yogurt was another favorite, and she was never without a crossword puzzle book. The day she died, she was still trying to work a puzzle even as she just stared at the page. There were hours working jigsaw puzzles until her eyes started to fail her, and her back hurt too much.
She ferociously rooted for her New England Patriots – and we knew never to call her if they lost. And we even got her out to Colonial Williamsburg for old times’ sake. She even climbed up into the carriage to ride around the grounds. I could see her joy as she just watched various things go by, and periodically she would remember something about a family trip from the past.
“Frozen detente”
Yet, it was still difficult.
Sometimes she would give the staff a hard time. After a nasty interaction between her and a staff member, I had to call the regional manager. Even though Mom was partly in the wrong, I needed to advocate for her treatment by the staff member. The manager and I both danced around the fact that each of our respective parties played a part in the problem, and that we would speak to them. But still, I had to let him know someone was watching out for her. THEN, I had a firm talk with Mom.
And our relationship? Hers and mine? I had hoped that with Dad gone, maybe we could have an honest, open conversation about the past…about how it had been for her…what he did to me…why I had to fight him. I wasn’t looking to blame her for not protecting me. And I still felt terrible about all of it, like it had been my fault and I somehow betrayed her.
Also, she wasn’t going to live forever. We had always had HIM between us. Could a reconciliation of sorts be possible?
But anytime I neared the subject or tried to talk about the past with her, she shut down, hard. She would suggest Ed and me go out and do things, and not worry about spending time with her. It hurt.
At a loss for how to connect with my mother before she died, I decided to write her. She might refuse to answer, but before she died, I so wanted to reach her with love and understanding. So I put it all out there…
2017 – The letter…
1/2017
My dear Mommy,
I need to write you to share with you all the things in my heart. To tell you I love you. To offer to walk with you as you eventually make the transition from this life to the next. My heart wants to be sure to share these things with you before it is too late. It may yet be a while before you leave us, yet the things that have gone on this week indicate to me that it is vital to say what’s important, and to leave no unfinished business between us.
First, I have carried many precious memories of you – as the young woman in a photograph on Dad’s dresser, as the daughter looking after her parents as they grew older, and as the Mom telling Grandma that “Ma, they have to learn,” when Grandma would say “daj mi pokoj.“ I remember you as the younger sister losing Sister Luke – I have ALWAYS remembered that phone call from Uncle Johnnie the morning she died. I remember going with you to Newtown when Grandma was in the hospital. And I remember so many wonderful summer mornings walking “downtown” and having lunch at Woolworth’s with you and my sisters. I loved those walks and lunches. And I remember being older, and driving with you on my days off up Route 7 into Massachusetts and having lunch.
There are many wonderful and deeply loved memories: I remember you sewing dresses for us and making us stand on the kitchen table while pinning the hems. I remember you standing at the stove making doughnuts…and us sneaking into the pantry to eat them even as you were still making them. And yes, even you yelling at us to stop snitching them! You made the best doughnuts. I remember you cleaning Dad’s ham radios for me before he got home, after I had scribbled all over them in white crayon. And I remember many nights when I was afraid to walk to the bathroom in the dark. I would call your name and wake you, and you would shine the flashlight down the hallway for me.
As an adult woman looking back, I have pondered the hard times too, and wondered how it was for you – growing up with your Dad and Mom fighting on Sundays because he had stayed too long at the club. The times when your Mom wasn’t there emotionally for you because she had her own problems. What it was like to be a hopeful young mother and lose your first child. I wondered how it was for you when Dad hit you, and wondered how hard it must have been that first time he hit you, and what you must have felt. For the record, even if he said it was your fault, it wasn’t. Those things were his fault — his inability to control himself; his unresolved anger with his mother. There were times I was angry you didn’t leave him, because I wished he would not hit you anymore. I also wished he would stop doing things to me. I was angry that you couldn’t save me. I have thought about the fact that, as a Catholic wife, you were expected to put up with whatever he did, and that your parents or anyone else would not have given you any support to leave him. I used to listen at my bedroom wall when he hit you in the bathroom. I was terrified that he would kill you. I remember worrying that I would lose you when you had to go into the hospital a few times for breast biopsies. I have wondered how hard it had to be for you as you watched your brothers and sister and parents go before you. And then your husband. As an adult woman, looking back, I have pondered all these things.
There were years we barely spoke during the times I had to confront Dad. Know that through it all, I always loved you…. and him. But I had to confront him. He always taught me that family mattered and to look after my sisters. To challenge him to change was to remind him that he had taught me to take care of them, that others in the family mattered too, and he couldn’t act that way anymore. He had many good qualities. But he also had bad ones. I had to confront him in the hope that he would treat you and all of us better. None of it was ever done with malice, but with the hope of protecting the grandchildren and making yours, his, and all of our lives better.
Through it all — good times, anger, silence, and return — I have always loved you. I have not always done things the best way they could have been done, and I know there were times I hurt you. For those times, I am truly sorry and have regretted them. There were times when you didn’t do everything the best way it could have been done, and for those times, I have forgiven you. For the gifts you gave, I am grateful. For the pain you suffered, I have hurt for you. And for the time together and the chance to reconcile with you and give back support as I can, I am grateful.
I love now your enjoyment of crossword puzzles, and your excitement at getting a pretty jigsaw puzzle and seeing it completed. I love taking you to Starbucks, and out to eat, and I especially loved the carriage ride in Williamsburg. That, most of all, was a gift — seeing the joy on your face as you looked around, and remembered our past visits there. In all of this, I have never stopped loving and caring about you. And now, I care that you not be in pain, and that your life has no worries. I cannot assure those things, but I can try to make them as real as possible.
I know our time together is growing short. When we leave after a visit, I always hug you when I say goodbye, treasuring that moment and knowing not to take it for granted. I wanted to be sure to say all of these things, so that we have a clean slate between us. When the time comes for you to go, I want there to be no unfinished business that either of us might regret.
I think about what it is like to make the transition from this life to the next, and how each person must do that on their own, in their own way. But though you must do it alone, I want you to know I will walk by your side through this.
If there is something you need: something you need to say and to be heard, a presence to sit with you, anything, I want to be able to give that to you. Whether time and life will give us that chance, I can’t say, but know I offer you my willingness to give you that. I will do whatever I can to make this process as easy and love-filled for you as possible. I am not afraid to walk with you on your final journey in this life. And I would give that to you with total love. When the time comes, I have asked our brother to be there to meet you. I have asked him to greet you, welcome you, and help you cross over to the other side. I know Dad, too, will be waiting for you. So Mom, whatever I can do to help you in this, know I will give it if it is in my power. Know that I love you, Mommy – I always have and I always will. I am here for you. I am sending you all my love, Mommy.
The answer
After a few days, I finally called and asked if she got my card and letter.
She said yes, and that she liked the card. “What is that bird on the card?”
I answered with “Hummingbird,” then drew a breath and just put things on the table: “Was the letter okay?”
No matter how old we get, it is always intimidating to try to break through a parent’s wall. They still wield that “parent power” over us.
Her tone shifted to a flatter one. “Yeah. Long letter.”
“I wanted to speak to what I felt…say it, I figured I could say it better in a letter than over the phone. Our time is growing short. I want you to know I love you.”
“I know you do. And I love you, all of you, and am proud of you all.”
“Was the letter okay?”
“Yes. I’m tired.”
She really had nothing else to say. No response to any of what I wrote in it. And in that moment, I knew she never would.
I felt 2 reactions. First, I wasn’t surprised at all and acknowledged Ed was right. He had said he didn’t think she would answer. Second, despite knowing he was probably right, I still had to try. You never know what is in a person’s heart unless you try.
Her response, or lack of one, left me hurt. Disappointed. Angry….and freed. It was a mix. I felt like, well, fine. If that’s what she feels, why am I caring about her? For that matter, why am I even going up to see her in VA.? Why bother?
But I also knew I still would. I wrote the letter not just for her, but maybe more for myself as anything. I reached out. I tried. And now, when she died, I wouldn’t be left with any “What-if” regrets. But still…if only…
A return to EMDR
Not long after that, I made a decision for myself and my own healing.
I had been working with the trauma therapist regularly for a few years now. Almost nine. We had made a lot of progress. I wouldn’t have been able to handle all the things that had gone on with Dad and Mom without that progress.
But now, I felt deeper emotions surfacing. Things I’d not felt before…my mind probably knew I wasn’t ready. However, I felt like now, there was no running. And I asked my therapist if we could try using the EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing) techniques again.
She was careful and considered it carefully. When we had tried in 2009, it had set off major anxiety in me. So she did not want to see me regress. However, now, I felt in my gut that to avoid it would be the mistake. I just knew it needed to happen.
So we carefully planned out a session. Ed came along for support. We took it very slowly. And this time it was a tremendous comfort to me. And it would be the beginning of a number of these sessions over the next several years, sessions that would help me confront long-buried trauma, harmful messaging, and brainwashing, and start to restore inner strength and healing.
I will write about these insights in the next section of the book.
2019-2021 – The beginning of the end
By this point, Mom was moving more slowly. She was more vulnerable and in pain, physically and emotionally.
“Why am I here? Why can’t I just go to sleep and not wake up?” she would ask with such sorrow.
There were more trips to the doctors. More testing for her health issues. And her mental clarity was declining because she was starting to have mini-strokes. And new heart issues started, which were kept at bay only with medication.
Yet, she seemed the softest she had ever been. That feistiness, while still there to a degree, had changed. She could show more joy in the simple things. She would play with Legos. She actually went to all the exercise classes and for massages, things she refused to do in the past.
And, she was a joy to be around. I think the past was slipping away from her memory. And now it was just “the present moment.” She actually enjoyed time with us. And the simple things gave her the most joy – Ice cream, coffee, and cereal in those little boxes. I would send her cases of all three, which she loved. And…it was the only way left to love her.
Where’s my DNR? Do you have my DNR?
At this point, the only thing Mom cared about was that whenever we took her anywhere, we had two things: her DNR (Do Not Resuscitate) form and the phone number for the priest. She made it fiercely clear not to call an ambulance and not to take her to the hospital. Just call the priest and let her die.
And she would often say that she hoped to see my brother again when she died.
Her confusion continued. She hated the emergency call bell around her neck, even though when she would accidentally trigger it, she would say, “Those are really good-looking firemen who came!”
And for the last year or so of her life, she seemed obsessed with confession. She went EVERY week. What could a 90-year-old woman have to confess? But she was adamant. So, we honored that.
Death and beyond?
I will share the story of her death in the next post. It is a repost of how I started this memoir, for those who never saw it.
Her death would not be easy. But I believe she ended up in peace, and I hope it was my brother who came for her at the end.
And while she had said not to bother with an obituary or eulogy, I fiercely insisted on both. She was NOT a NOBODY. She LIVED. She was a person. She deserved to be remembered and honored like everyone else.
To this day, I have treasured things of hers. Her Patriots T-shirt. A handmade rosary that she assembled, and that my uncle blessed. Her crossword puzzle books. Some of her art. That DVD we got at the Walmart truck stop at midnight.
And, I have kept one of her last voicemails in my phone…I’ve never quite been able to delete that, or the phone contact entry there, even as that phone of hers…and she, are long gone.
Note:
I am seeking financial support to complete my memoir, work with an editor, and return home for fact-checking. Your help would mean the world to me as I take this step toward healing and giving voice to my journey.
Please like, comment, and share this post to help spread the word. The link for my fundraiser is on GoFundMe. Thank you for your support.
Soul Mosaic 
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