Soon it will be my mother’s first Yahrtzeit, the anniversary of her passing, and I’m honouring her by writing a tribute in her memory.
At her core, my mother, Estelle, was a beautiful, educated woman. In her twenties, she worked as a medical social worker in Montreal. She got married just shy of 27, and from that moment on, was a full-time mom. She made hot lunches for my sister and me every day; entertained for her and dad’s friends, and kept a lovely home. It hits me now that we never considered that work. Shame on us.
My mom was a complicated woman. Without comparing her to my father, let me just say that my relationship with her was complex. Until she started suffering from dementia.
As I write the word “suffering” I wonder how aware she was of the ways in which her life was transforming. To the rest of us, it was plain as day, but being the one with dementia is a whole other story. The slipping memory and unusual behaviour happened over the course of years. As I’ve said before, we lost mom by teaspoonsful. It was a slow and heartbreaking process.
As the date of mom’s Yahrtzeit grows closer, my heartache increases. The poignancy of her loss takes hold of me in a way I’m not ready for. I miss the daily visits, the light of recognition in her eyes, and the occasional unprompted “I love you.” Despite our decades-long discord, détente prevailed during the last ten years.
Our relationship became closer as mom’s dementia got worse. Being her primary caregiver (outside of her care facility attendants) wasn’t easy, but it was my sole way of connecting with her. I had lost too many years to selfishness. In hindsight, I think I might have unwittingly had a compassion bypass during my 20s, 30s and 40s.
Capacity for love didn’t come easily to either of us. And now the guilt niggles at me. But in the end, a mother is always a mother. And my sadness is a cloak around my heart.
Visiting mom’s grave recently, I had a long talk with her. I asked forgiveness for all the mean things I said and did in the past. I told her that I hope she’s in heaven now, happy, healthy and maybe even in love with dad again. At the very moment I said “in love with dad,” a truck passed by and blasted its horn. I’m not sure whether that was my mom or my dad saying, “Don’t push your luck, kiddo!”
But I know for certain it was one of them.
