It has been 2 years.
Two years ago I sat next to my mom in her hospital bed as she lay there sleeping. She had not spoken in a few days and I knew this would be the end of her cancer battle. I told her that I loved her, that I was sorry that she had lived such a difficult life and that it was okay to go now. I walked out of the hospital room around 9:00 pm and went back to my parents house to pack and get ready to fly back to the west coast the next morning. I had been in New York for almost 2 weeks and I needed to get back to work. At 2:22 am, my dad came in the room and said, “It happened.” Mom had died alone in her hospital room at 2:15 am although my sister had asked the nurses to leave the light on for her so she wasn’t in the dark. We went back to the hospital and met my sister and uncle to see her finally laying in peace and out of pain with the light on and the stuffed dog we had given her from the gift shop.
My mom lived a pretty tough life as she suffered from bipolar disorder. And growing up with a parent with severe mental health issues was tough. For the longest time, I felt like a victim and wondered, “Why did this happen to me? Why did I have to have her as a mom?”
I started doing the work to unpack the pain around this in the early 2000’s. The work to understand that my mom was in pain. It wasn’t about me. It was about understanding her. She didn’t want to be on a cocktail of drugs, have a stay in a mental health facility or do electric shock treatments. She didn’t want to have stretches of time where she could barely get out of bed because the depression was so debilitating. She didn’t want to be angry. I began to realize that bipolar disorder was not what defined her. Her efforts to fight it did. And when I was younger I thought she wasn’t fighting. I had a “Why can’t you just see the good in things and be happy?” attitude. The thing is- she wanted that. She wanted to be happy. The depression often made that very difficult. It wasn’t her fault.
Mom had a huge heart. She wrote handwritten letters on birthdays and holidays, usually in some cheesy Hallmark Card. She made sure that Christmas was a gift giving extravaganza every year and that my sister and I got exactly the same amount of gifts. She made sure that the Easter Bunny knew where my dorm room was in college. She walked the fairways of golf tournaments to support me for years until she couldn’t. Then we would be kind to the head golf pro so she could get a cart to ride along until there was that “I thought that was the brake” incident that ran her into a brick wall, literally. Dad drove the cart after that.
On my wedding weekend, I had tiny bits of fear that came up as I thought she may say or do something embarrassing or that her depression may add a small gray cloud over the celebrations. It was the exact opposite. She and my dad walked me down the aisle and she looked beautiful and happy. She was kind and patient the whole weekend and genuinely had a good time. I realized that weekend that over her life, that was the mom and person she wanted to be. Supportive, loving, caring and kind.
The last few years of her life were different for me. I was really starting to understand her mental health, had more empathy for her and stopped being so angry at her. I stopped trying to figure out where the depression ended and she began. It is more complicated than that. She was a whole person who had ups and downs, good times and bad times and worked to do the best she could. I stopped defining her by her depression and started seeing her for who she was- a woman who wanted things to be different, wanted to be happy, wanted to be supportive, not intrusive and truly cared for others. A woman who believed in equality, was angry at our politicians, loved her dog more than anything and liked her marshmallows in her smores burnt just like me. For over 20 years, she was a nurse who cared for others and worked hard doing it. When she worked in labor and delivery, she offered up the idea that a lullaby play in the hospital every time a baby was born. And it did. The lullaby played in that hospital for years even as she lay in that same hopital hooked up to tubes for several weeks until she passed. At the end, she was in hospice and could have been transferred to a different facility but the nurses kept her there because, “she is one of ours” and they knew she only had days left. She died in that hospital. The same one that she walked into for 20 years to help others.
I have learned a lot from my mom. To have strength. To keep fighting. To love fiercely. To stand up for justice. To write to-do lists. To create traditions. To make deviled eggs on holidays. I learned from her that it is okay to ask for support. Most importantly, that the toilet paper goes over, not under.
I am stronger because of her. I had the opportunities to play in golf tournaments, soccer games and basketball games through my childhood because of her. I was able to go away to college and earn my degree because of her. I moved away from home at 21 to pursue my dreams with her support. I understand the importance of family and traditions because of her.
When I shifted my mindset from anger to compassion, my life changed. My relationship with my mom changed. My relationship with myself changed. I could breathe more deeply. I sat more comfortably in my own skin. I looked forward to going home for family gatherings. I enjoyed showing her how to use the like button on Facebook. I laughed with her and the family as our gingerbread houses fell apart at Christmas. When dad misread a line from ‘Twas the Night before Christmas, I knew she would get it on camera as my sister, nephew or I corrected him. “It’s Dash Away All, Dad!”
What I would give to get another one of those Hallmark cards, another camping trip with her macaroni salad, another golf tournament where she placed her little chair on the side of a hill and tipped over rolling down the hill while I tried to hit a golf shot from the fairway in tears from laughing so hard. What I would give for another walk down the aisle seeing her glowing.
It took 20 years. 20 years of really hard work. Therapy. Coaching. Perspective. Breath work. Crying. Anger. Laughter. Frustration. And finally acceptance. Acceptance that she is my mom. And I am proud of her. I think, perhaps, she is proud of me, too.
In memory of Judy Doell 3/1/47- 4/4/19