My Mom's Death Released Us Both — 'My Life Is My Own Again'
Death is an emancipation for the living.
Murillo Molissani | Pexels, jeffwasserman | Canva “There’s a lightness about you.”
“You look great.”
“You radiate happiness.”
These are only a few of the compliments I’ve received lately. Did I get a makeover or glow-up? Was I released from prison or quit a job I hated? Nope, my mother died.
Death has upsides, and for me, it’s feeling as if a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders.
For years, even before my mother was dying, her presence in my life was oppressive. Not fully aware of my actions, I made decisions with my mother in mind, like not getting too experimental with my hair or swallowing my emotions rather than getting into a fight with her.
I no longer have to be the dutiful daughter — I can live my life for myself. Death isn’t only a sweet release exclusively for the dying; it’s also an emancipation for the living.
I was not my mother’s caregiver.
During the last year of her life, I wasn’t with my mother twenty-four hours a day, nor did I feed, clean, or calm her when she couldn’t do it for herself. It wasn’t me who pushed her back into bed when her dementia convinced her she could walk. When her throat narrowed, I wasn’t grinding her food into mush so she could swallow it.
Her caregivers were the ones in the trenches with her, waiting for the final ceasefire, not me. But I was connected to her enough to feel her pain and confusion.
I was always ready to help her in any way I could. When she could still hear and see, I visited her as much as possible, called her daily, and advocated for her health needs. I got her into hospice and talked her into staying in it, which was good for both her and her caregivers.
As the breakdown of her body and brain accelerated, communication became challenging. She was often incensed because she believed her street, and only her street, was targeted for a flood because the bad people were punishing her for imagined crimes. I listened to her and did my best to assuage her worries every time the subject came up, which was frequent.
However, as she weakened and my mother’s senses departed, she held onto her anger like a shield and made minimal interactions exhausting. During one visit, I brought her some expensive liverwurst, which she’d loved a few months previously. This time, she turned her head away from me and said, “This tastes like ugh,” and refused to engage with me.
My mother and I disagreed on most things and got on each other’s nerves at the best of times, but her lingering life weighed heavily on me. I was always on edge for when the call would come that she no longer needed me.
She was a mother who rarely mothered.
My mother passed off her flaws in middle age as admirable personality traits. She wasn’t self-obsessed; she was independent, and her strange ideas weren’t signs of mental illness but proof she was a creative thinker.
I spent years biting my tongue, keeping myself small, and praying to avoid being the focus of her “honest opinion” of me and my character. But no matter how much I tried not to be the focus of her anger, I still got letters about how I failed as a daughter. I hung in there.
People who knew of my fraught relationship with my mother advised me to cut her off, but I couldn’t do it. She was still my mother, and she wasn’t always awful.
When I see how my friend's parent, or an example of a loving, present, and supportive mother, I can’t relate; my mother didn’t do nurturing or loving. I didn’t keep her in my life because I expected her to change, but because I couldn’t abandon her, and while she wasn’t a good mother, I could still be a good daughter.
My mother was ready to go.
Everything changed for my mother after she turned ninety-three. She was still living independently, without help, and still mobile, but the healthy, active life she was used to was no longer possible.
Once she realized things wouldn’t get better, she began to wish for death and would express these wishes to me. I felt conflicted as I didn’t want her to be in pain, but wanting her dead felt wrong.
There were many close calls when I was told by the hospice nurse it wouldn’t be long, but then my mother would rally. For a short time, she’d feel better, but there’d be a dip or a crisis around the corner. My mother had the gift of longevity, but that included both a long life and a prolonged death.
Her life ended peacefully.
The closer my mother came to death, the more she slept until finally, she didn’t wake up. It was the best way for anyone to go, and I was relieved she never needed the morphine provided by hospice as she was anti-drugs and that she didn’t need to go to the hospital as she was strangely afraid of being driven on the highway.
Her house has been sold, her estate divided, and her burial and memorial services are over. Both were beautiful and thoroughly appropriate for her.
Now, my life is my own again, and though I mourn for her, I feel free.
I can dye my hair pink, get a tattoo (probably won’t; I don’t like pain), and never have to feel as if I don’t measure up again.
No matter how long it takes to get there, we all need to know we’re in charge of our own lives and that whether we make good or terrible decisions is up to us. Don’t delay following your dreams or impulses because you may not get another chance.
My mother had a mostly wonderful life, and the best way I can honor her good qualities is to do the same. So, yes, that is joy you see radiating from me and a new zest for enjoying every minute I can of life.
Christine Schoenwald is a writer, performer, and frequent contributor to YourTango. She's had articles featured in The Los Angeles Times, Salon, Bustle, Medium, Huffington Post, Business Insider, and Woman's Day, among many others.