For most of my life, my mother was a highly functioning alcoholic. She owned a home, kept a job and paid her bills. She even maintained a beautiful yard. But inside her neat and tidy home, she unleashed her anger, her hurt and her disappointments on me. Her name calling was a regular part of my day. She told me what I couldn’t do and what I wouldn’t be. Once I was in high school, I usually had to find a way to get myself to work and to meetings and practices. My mother acted as if she wanted me to fail.
When I completed college and law school and received a job offer several states away, I took it. I had no desire to stay close to my mother, physically or relationally.
Once I was a fully independent adult, I confronted my mother about all the awful things she had said to me. She didn’t exactly apologize. She said that if she did it, she must have been drinking.
One day, when I was in my early 30’s, my mother was about to light into me and call me names. I told her that I would no longer stand for it. I told her that if she couldn’t have a conversation with me without calling me names, we would never talk again. She never called me names again. Our relationship remained strained. I forced myself to call her once a month and I visited once a year. I still lived hundreds of miles away. My mother adored my oldest daughter, and I think that’s one of the reasons my mother and I maintained a relationship.
Late in life, my mother was diagnosed with dementia and began living with my brother. I knew my brother was not taking good care of her, and he was isolating her from friends and relatives. Although I became her legal guardian, my brother refused to release her to me, and the authorities would not remove my mother from my brother’s home. I hired a private investigator for protection and kidnapped my mother from my brother’s home. My mother’s dementia had progressed to the point that she didn’t know who I was. Shortly after she came to live with me, she was diagnosed with advanced breast cancer. Once she was on medication for dementia, she recognized me, but she forgot that she couldn’t insult me. I had to establish that our roles had reversed. With excellent medical care, my mother did very well for 18 months. She gained weight while she was on chemotherapy, and she reminded me that I needed to take care of her teeth. One night, I overheard her talking to my oldest daughter about some family business. My mother said, “I know Connie will take care of it.” It warmed my heart to know that she had confidence in me.
My mother seemed to have a conflicted relationship with the Lord. I took her to church a couple of times, but she was not interested. When my mother’s cancer spread to her brain, I asked her if she knew where she would spend eternity. She confirmed that Christ was her savior and that her sins were forgiven. The last few months of her life, she made a point of thanking me for everything I had done for her.
I played Motown music for my mother. Sometimes I would dance to the Supremes, the Temps and the Miracles while she watched with a big grin. She really lit up when I wore red dresses and twirled around her room.
My daughters and I wore red to my mother’s funeral. Taking care of her the last two years of her life was difficult because I had a teenager at home and I was working full time. But I’m glad we had those years of peace and reconciliation. I’m glad she appreciated what I did for her. I’m glad she smiled when I danced.
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