Dreams of My Mother

As many of you know, my mom died in September last year--the 26th. As the anniversary of her passing approaches, I've been dreaming about her--every night.

When my dad and grandparents died, the dreams I'd have afterward all portrayed them as happy, at peace, and healthy.

When I dream about my mom, she's still sick, still dying, and sometimes sad.

I realize on a psychological level there can be more than one reason for this, and the one that fits best is that I was my mom's caretaker in my home for six years before she died, and another three years before that living nearby, but in separate homes. When my dad and grandparents died, I was younger and living in different towns.

It was hard, especially for me-- a homebody who doesn't talk much--to bring my mom into my home. I felt it was my duty. The Bible tells women to care for their widowed moms, and I took that duty seriously, despite my brothers and sister-in-law advising me not to do it, for my own sanity.

My mom could really be a handful. She was vain, selfish, and a little paranoid. She'd been that way ever since I could remember, and being her only daughter, she leaned on me when she couldn't lean on anyone else.

Now that she's gone, I'm glad she did, but at the time, I could get pretty annoyed with her antics. My friend and former boss, Karen, was a great ear to vent to, because she helped me understand the medical aspects of my mom's craziness--terminal COPD patients often didn't have enough oxygen in their brains and as a result, could be some of the toughest patients. They tended to be "ornery" (Karen's word), and they couldn't be reasoned with.

In the last year or so prior to my mom's death, Karen's knowledge helped me be a little more compassionate, a little more sympathetic, a little more empathic toward my mom. Karen, I know you still read my blog, so thank you, my friend. (And text me so we can plan a get together with Karen K!)

But man, my mom knew how to push my buttons--over and over like an Alpha male rams the elevator button when he's late for a meeting two floors up.

I don't yell often, but there were a few times she tweaked my last nerve. I wish now I hadn't yelled, but that's in the past. The last several months of her life, I think it finally sunk into my head how much she was suffering, and how many regrets she had.

She opened up her very private thoughts a little to me in the last year. For example, the love of her life wasn't my dad--it was a guy named Jack McBride. My mom treated my dad pretty terribly--my brothers never forgave her for how she behaved when my dad was dying. It wasn't nice at all, but she's still my mother--she birthed me, raised me, and now it was my turn to take care of her.

Anyway, my mom wanted me to find out if Jack McBride was still in Palm Beach and what had happened to him. I did a search for him, and found out he was a manager of a 7-11 in West Palm Beach. My uncle confirmed that was the right Jack McBride (there were several). I gave my mom his address and phone number. She said she wrote him a letter, but I didn't see it. I vaguely remember her saying he wrote her back, but I didn't see that letter either. I wonder what was said, because he didn't come up much in conversation after that. I have a feeling her lingering interest in him dwindled when she realized how much more successful my dad was, and that my dad provided her with a very comfortable life. Vain, I know, but there had to be some other reason she stopped talking about Jack McBride.

A couple years ago, when I was really frustrated with her behavior (I couldn't even go out with my friends to the local neighborhood restaurant without her making me feel guilty, and then, if I did go, she'd call every five minutes to ask when I'd be home), I vented some of those frustrations with a friend. He recommended asking her questions about her life, since she wasn't forthcoming on the subject of her youth and earlier years.

I thought that was a good idea, so I started asking questions. Some she liked to talk about, like how my dad would take her for drives in his rumbling sportscar. On other subjects, she remained pretty vague. She liked to talk about my grandad, who was the coolest gentleman I've ever met. My grandfather and grandmother had the perfect love--the perfect marriage. There was something about my grandad--a certain charisma--that one couldn't help drawing close to. My mom also liked to talk about her friends and how they'd sometimes go to stores to shoplift little stuff. I've never stolen anything in my life, so some of her revelations were eye-openers, for sure.

My mom and I were almost polar opposites. She liked to call me a "Plain Jane." I was a tomboy who wore tee shirts and sneakers. She never wore a sneaker in her life. She loved Final Net hair spray that made her weekly salon-styled hair stiff as concrete. I don't get salon styles (I can't sit still long enough), and I don't use hair spray, ever. My mom was a make-up queen. I never wear make-up, and when I do, it's minimal. We were very different people, and that sometimes ( well, often) strained our relationship.

Just before my mom died, she said she never had her "pink daughter." I think that's going to be etched into my memory forever. I heard that part very clearly, and her voice started to fade after that, but I'm pretty sure she said that I was better than a pink daughter. That brought tears to my eyes, and still does.

Growing up, I could've wrote this every day:

But, when she said I was better than a pink daughter, a lifetime of not meeting her expectations vanished like a shadow in a moment of cloud. And the timing was so...right...that shadow will never return, and the sun continues to shine.

I think that was the moment of atonement, the moment of acceptance and forgiveness, those words. And maybe it was at that moment she realized that despite our differences, I loved her VERY much and was there when she needed me.

So why is she still sick, still dying, in my dreams? Last night, I dreamed that I was younger, and I was hanging around a much younger Forrest. Him and his dad came over to our house, and Marvin showed me and my younger brother how to dip chocolate and vanilla wafers in melted chocolate to make them even yummier.

I took a handful to my mom, who was in bed. She was very weak, very...dim. I said, "Look, Mom, these cookies have been dipped in chocolate. Would you like one? I have chocolate and vanilla wafers. Which would you like?"

She replied, "Chocolate syrup?"

In my dream, I was ecstatic, because she wanted to eat. For days before she died, she had lost all appetite and wouldn't eat anything.

I said, "I'll find some chocolate syrup," and proceeded to bust through the pantry, tearing apart the shelves to find the chocolate syrup that would make her happy, even if putting chocolate syrup on a cookie was a sorta weird request.

And then my dream shifted as I began to wake up. Outside the bedroom, Zuri was playing in the thick carpet as she does sometimes, and the last seconds of my dream was Zuri pushing a small stuffed car around on the floor like she was "driving" it.

Go figure. Here's what Zuri's doing right now:

But the dream was both sad, and a shred hopeful, because it was an improvement from previous dreams. Maybe that's one of the stages of grief, I don't really know. I'm thankful that I got to tell my mom how much I loved her before she passed, and thankful for those moments of atonement.

But I miss her.