My mother has been negative for as long as I
can remember. She has also grown up as
an atheist, despite her father’s faith.
Yes, she has invented reasons to worry her entire life, but there were
legitimate reasons for it. Now, I see
how much of it was simply a personality trait.
Despite her neurosis, my mother was a
workaholic and a survivor. She always did the job of seven men, and she managed
to raise a child with physical disabilities as a single mother.
A few years after we came to America, both my
mother and me went through Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s of her parents. Because she is the first-born and a woman,
mom was the one to take care of them
most. Now in retrospect, it was a lot
easier to “Honor thy father” with my grandparents. They were in love till death did them
part. Most importantly, they were
grateful for what they had and wanted to give it away to help anyone who asked
for anything. It would also never occur
to my grandparents to consider the sin of suicide.
Whatever you study, read, or discuss, whatever
you prepare yourself for, I doubt anyone can be ready for the transformation
that my mother went through.
My mother wants to die. She does nothing but waiting for it to
come. Based on her ancestry and current
state of heath, she will wait a long time.
Unlike her parents, she criticizes absolutely everything, isn’t
appreciative of anything done for her, and is scared of any changes.
I have two friends battling cancer. They have
little in common, but they both do it with hunger for life and a smile on their
faces. Meanwhile, my mother is wishing
for death, and waiting for it to come.
She is 76 and, aside from needing pills for borderline cholesterol and
diabetic levels, is in perfect health for her age. She can walk up and down stairs with
ease. She can take the garbage bag from
the kitchen to the dumpster, she can carry a toddler, chop, peal, boil, and whatever
else you need to do in the kitchen. She
can do these things but she doesn’t do them.
She stays in bed till noon or 2 pm.
Then she comes out in her nightgown, without a shower, uncombed, and
barefoot.
“I didn’t do anything, I tried to die and I
didn’t.”
“Mom, take a shower, dress and then come to
eat, you are scaring the baby.”
“Не могу!” (Ne mogu) is the Russian
phrase for “I can’t.”
“Why can’t you?”
“Because I have nothing to wear, because the
water is cold, because nothing fits and nothing works.”
NE MOGU! is what I hear in response to
everything. After living in Soviet
Union in an apartment with one bathroom, lighting gas in the burner to heat the
water for her bath, suddenly, my mother can’t figure out how to mix hot and
cold water in the shower.
Yes, some old pieces of clothing don’t fit
after she lost about 30 lb in a year.
However, many relatives and friends, me included, have bought her cloths
that fit. In her mind they are too
colorful for an old woman, too hot, too cold, too synthetic, too fancy….. and
it never ends.
Yes, we moved from a house we built ourselves
with new appliances to a house built in 1970.
The linoleum tiles in the kitchen bulge up in places, the countertops
are made of mystery material, the gas stove makes a clicking noise if the
levels are a bit off, the dishwasher racks are plastic, the three bathrooms we
have all have limited storage space, and shower heads could be replaced. But no, not everything is broken and we can
make it fit.
It will be difficult to make that kitchen
kosher. But, I don’t even mention my
plans to do so to my mother. That is a bit far down the line on my to do
list. Right now, I am happy when I have
dinner on the table and my daughter has survived another day.
Yes, I chase a toddler, or the dog for half a
day. My daughter opens cabinets and
throws things out. The dog has accidents
when she is neglected. I turn to Disney
Princesses to babysit my child, instead of reading Russian Nursery Rhymes and
putting her down for a scheduled nap.
Yes, I occasionally order dairy treif pizza, because I chose to unpack
another box. But this is not a
catastrophe.
Miraculously, my family eats complete meals
made from kosher products and they have laundered cloths. It is a miracle, because bubby is unable to
watch her granddaughter for 15 minutes.
She also can’t wash dishes, peal or chop onions, or turn on the
microwave. “I don’t’ know where anything
goes IN YOUR KITCHEN.”
Yes, in this house or in the one before, for
the past three years, it’s my kitchen.
My redheaded, year-and-a-half sunshine, which others
call a doll, is the reason for this “long good bye.” The birth of my daughter is the onset of my
mother’s anxiety and depression.
“The baby is cold, why is she barefoot? This
food is too salty. You are doing this
all wrong. The baby can’t eat this, it
needs to be ground for her. I can’t eat
your American “mishugane” food, it’s too cold.
Why can’t we have simple potatoes and salted herring?”
When, for reasons unknown the food is edible,
she eats a double portion and follows it with “Where did this come from? This
is very good, but I shouldn’t have eaten it.
I should just die.”
I don’t tell her that my American husband will
never eat salted herring, or that the baby is too old for formula. In fact, most of the time I ignore her, but
it is no always easy.
Was this in some ways predictable? Were there steps to be taken?
Somehow, when this “energizer bunny” found out
that my IVF worked and I will actually have a baby, she had a gradual breakdown. Grandparents wait and dream for their
grandchildren, yet my mother decided that from it I am going to die. Then it changed to “I can’t hold the baby I
will drop it.” The baby that wasn’t born
yet that is.
After the baby came, she changed it to “I don’t
know anything in your kitchen. I can’t
go grocery shopping, and I can’t drive anymore.”
Now, she can’t take a shower because she
doesn’t know what to put on after she gets out.
So instead, she stays in bed.
I have herd from psychiatrists, who changed her
anxiety meds three times with no
effect, that I should have changed her
environment at the onset of symptoms.
Family members advise me to be kind and patient. Yet, nobody can tell me when the onset
actually was, and family can tolerate this maximum for an hour. After an hour, her brothers would say, “I
tired. I can’t do anything.”
So, I let her be and procrastinate. Her new non-driver ID, new Power of Attorney,
and research on affordable options is pending. I was advised to use Mental Health Intake or
community resources. After answering an
anonymous questionnaire, based on her symptoms and behavior, I was advised to
call the Suicide Hotline. Something
tells me; however, that actually committing suicide will be too much work for
my mother.
Her first primary care visit is coming up this
week. I do not look forward to getting
her showered and dressed for her appointment.
It may involve some shouting and even some force. But, the safety of my daughter comes first,
and I hope Ha-Shem will understand.
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