Diary

Mother’s Day

Not everyone gets a nice mom. I understand that some people who knew my mom will read this and feel the need to reach out, please don’t. You’re feelings are based on the relationship you had with her or the one you had with your own mother.
We didn’t have the conventional mother daughter relationship. She was an alcoholic and started drinking when I was 8. I moved out on my own at 16 and helped her financially from 18 to 22. After my dad died some things came to light and I cut ties with her, it was easy. I said “don’t talk to me anymore” and she didn’t. So I went a few years without talking to her and she got diagnosed with cancer. I made up my mind that I wasn’t going to reach out but my sister called me, sounding lost about what to do. So I reached out and became her primary care taker. She knew and I knew I was the most capable to help her manage everything so when I went to her house after years of not seeing her she pulled out her paperwork and we went over her affairs. There was no joyous reconnecting, no talking about the years, it was business. I’m not sad about this, I’m glad it happened this way. After so many years of her not being my mom it would not have been easy to change things.
So I helped her file for disability, took her to chemo, manage her finances, clean her house. During the years that we hadn’t talked she forged my signature on a bunch of stuff naming me her power of attorney, emergency contact and cosigner on her cremation arrangements so all those ducks were already in a row.
She was not grateful for my help. There were no thank yous. She didn’t help me pay my bills while I missed work to take her to chemo so my savings got empty and my credit cards got full.
I stayed with her in the hospital on her death bed for 5 days. The most mothering thing she ever did for me was tell me she didn’t want me to be in the room while she died and I am grateful for that. I stayed as long as I could. And then she passed and I took care of everything.
So Mothers Day comes around and people tell me I am sad and don’t understand that I’m not. She wasn’t a mother. Birthing me does not mean I received love or caring. Again to the people who want to reach out and tell me how I should feel, don’t. You weren’t there, you’re not me, you’re not her, you only know what you know, you don’t know what I know.

Advertisements