Spectacular Bougainvillea
My mom passed away in August of this year. I started this blog a few weeks later in September. It was a birthday present to myself. My mom would have hated it. She would have wrinkled her nose and shook her head in distaste. She would have asked, “Why?” or “What for?” through the phone (she was in Canada and I live in California) but I wouldn’t have had to see her in person to get the look and that distinct head shake. It would have been there. I know it the way one knows their own mother.
My mother was pathologically secretive; I suspect it was something born of fear, disappointment, and unhappiness, and the walls that she built around herself were impenetrable. My mother was diagnosed with lung cancer and lived well past two years from her first diagnosis. This was her last big secret and she burdened her daughters with it. Of course, I told everyone I knew (“Pssst, don’t tell anyone but my mom is dying…”) but my mom carried on in her regular life as if nothing had changed at all.
She went about her daily routine, volunteer work, bingo nights, crib nights, her almost daily trips to the Legion that she lived just across the street from. To talk about her condition was taboo. In fact, the question, “How are you feeling?” would be met with an indignant response of, “I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?” Oh. Of course. Then we would move on to a more benign discussion of the weather. I gathered as much information from my sister as I could.
I made several trips to Canada during the two years that my mom was dying and each time was a visit much like any other. Gambling (oh, I hate it so), short road trips, and talk about nothing. She never made any emotional declarations (not to me, anyway). She never told me that she loved me or that I had been a good daughter or that she was happy to have known me, but in all fairness, she also didn’t say anything to the contrary (not directly to me, at least). My attempts at a sincere farewell were quickly rebuffed.
Whatever she was feeling she kept secret, except for her impatience and general disapproval. That was never a secret. In the last weeks of her life, she went to a hospice. In a meeting with the hospice Director, I asked, “Can I expect a big emotional ending with my mother?” “Generally, people die as they lived,” was her reply. I wasn’t there when my mother took her last breath; she died quickly and suddenly. No funeral, no service, no fanfare, exactly as she wanted. And that was that.
Among other things, I felt liberated. It was the opposite of what I expected. I started my blog knowing that my mother would have completely disapproved and I was quite happy that I didn’t have to face that disapproval. I felt secrets that I had kept for years falling away from me and I felt lighter, braver, and happier. I love blogging and for the short time I’ve been doing it, I’ve felt a huge sense of satisfaction and enjoyment. Such freedom!
Shortly after I started my blog, I had a dream about my mother. In my dream, I walked into my back yard to find that my mom had cut my Bougainvillea tree down to nothing. “What have you done?” I cried in distress.”It was too big, too messy.” my Mom replied. I couldn’t believe it; I was in a dream state of shock and horror to find my big, gorgeous, grand tree cut down to a stick. I woke up from the dream but my distress lingered.
I told my husband about my dream and he thought about it for a minute. “Funny you would dream of that tree, what does it matter, anyway? The thing grows like a weed.” And suddenly, just like that, my perspective changed. He was right. It wasn’t that big of a deal. It wouldn’t take long and that tree would’ve come right back, just as big, bold, and beautiful as ever. I reflected on that dream, what I know of my mom, and what I know of the Bougainvillea.
What I got from it is this: that anything I think my mother “did” to me, to cut me down or clean me up, never really stopped me from blooming and growing as big and bold as any Bougainvillea. Also, I realized that it’s okay to let others in on the “secret,” whether it’s that I’m miserable or happy or somewhere between.
In particular, I don’t have to keep happiness a secret. My propensity to look at the dark side, to deny the reality that my life is actually something pretty wonderful is a secret I keep; it’s heavily guarded for fear that someone wants to take it from me. I isolate myself with my secrets. I’m reluctant to share myself with others.
So, that’s my resolution this year, not to let it all hang out exactly (baby steps, please), but to prune away fear and secrets. In 2013, I will let go of my fear of happiness, I will be less afraid to get bigger and bolder, less afraid of the big mess, and far less afraid to be spectacular.
Thank you to my many blogging friends for your encouragement and support!
Happy New Year!
The Rules
The State of Motherhood 