Finding Mom, November 2, 2004 (written 2008)

Ugh! Light! What time is it? I pry my eyelids apart to look at the clock. 7:30.

You should probably get up, my responsible conscience tells me, ‘and get ready so you can go vote.’ It’s November 2, 2004 and all of the Political Science classes have been cancelled for the day to encourage voter turnout.

I should get up, I think, even as my consciousness slips under. I know our government requires responsible citizenship to function at its best. I know it’s said that you can’t complain if you don’t vote. I know there are many third, and even second and first world countries that do not have the political freedoms we have available to us in the United States of America. I know. Too tired. I can go after school. And so I sleep for another hour. After all, you don’t have to be first in line to be responsible. I have been excited to vote, though – this will be my first presidential election.

An hour later and I make myself get up. I’m still exhausted, but that’s nothing new: 15 credit hours at the University and either burn-out or let-down in every other part of a life can do that to a person. Fiddler on the Roof had ended mid-September and that had been my escape.

‘Escape?’ you ask. ‘Escape from what?’ Escape from the responsibilities of the eldest and the unreachable but still required expectations of the father. Escape from the diagrams keeping track of how much of the house still needed painted. Escape from keeping the house immaculate for sale so that we can move to a house that doesn’t have so many stairs so Mom can use her wheelchair. Escape from the sale that fell through taking my hopes of relief with it.

Escape from the schedules compulsively drawn by a psyche overwhelmed with responsibility placed in the same time restraints all others must live under. Escape from a mother’s many debilitating illnesses, her resulting dependence, anxiety, and depression, and the strain of being the dependable turn-to for everyone needing something and everything needing done. Escape from my dependability being expected, demanded, but never appreciated. Escape from Mom’s whimpering and moaning when the pain was too much and knowing there was nothing I could do to take it away. Escape from the panic that I wouldn’t be able to maintain it all taking the rest of the energy I didn’t have to keep the panic at bay.

But the show was over and there was no escape. Religion brings enough relief to continue, but Dad’s attacks lessen what relief it could give. I am an active member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, more commonly known as LDS or Mormons. So is my Dad. But where I took refuge in going to church, activities with my singles' ward (read 'geographic congregation' for 'ward'), and would spend what free hours I could at the Institute building (a religious education system the church provides as companion to higher secular education), Dad sees my activity only in regards to and as intended commentary on his own scattered attendance. "You think you're better than us because you go to all your meetings, but you're just a self-righteous, hypocritical Pharisee and you know what the Savior thought of them!"

No, there was no escape. While Mom was sick, my personal purpose, and therefore my identity and resulting satisfaction, would be found in knowing I was doing everything I could to limit Mom’s difficulties so she would have the energy to fight on. Meanwhile, I too must fight on.

I take a quick pit-stop in the bathroom and then head downstairs to grab some breakfast. J’s already up and watching cartoons from the daybed Mom used to occupy before she moved upstairs permanently. J’s ten and the youngest of the four girls. Her track is off in the over-crowded year-round school system remedy which means I don’t need to worry about getting her there.

I head back upstairs to take a shower. I glance into Mom’s room and notice she’s sleeping. It looks like she fell asleep while stretching her back – mid-twist. I consider waking her since her position is sure to cause soreness later, but decide against it. Sleep has been difficult for her to come by of late and if she’s able to sleep, it is best to let her. And so I shower.

I love showers. I love the feel of the water in constant rhythm against my skin, washing everything away. I love the smell of the soap that makes me imagine I am somewhere far away myself. I love the smell of the shampoo and conditioner, too: ocean breeze. I’ve only been to the ocean once, but I remember how big it was, the smell, and the feeling that I was on the edge of the world and that all I had to do was step across that edge and I could be anywhere. Yes, I love showers. It is good that the water heater is limited in size for life cannot be lived in a shower.

The shower’s over and I finish getting ready. Mom’s still sleeping. I go downstairs and pull my backpack together. J’s watching Scooby Doo. She’s wearing her purple bathrobe and her Scooby Doo slippers. She says she’s already eaten. I ditch my bag on the piano bench by the front door to wake Mom before I leave. She’s been in the same position for too long – she needs to move so the pain will be limited. Hopefully the pain won’t be too bad, but she needed the sleep.

I stand at her door and call a few times. She really must be tired. I negotiate my way to her side of the bed and gently shake her shoulder. She is twisted to the right with her left arm stretched across and her face hidden in her right arm and under her hair. She does not respond.

“Mom? Please wake up – you’re scaring me.”

I’ve had CPR and First-Aid training many times. I know that you’re supposed to try to get a response. If they don’t respond to normal sound, you try physical touch and calling more loudly – in their ear if need be. I choose proximity to decibels, mindful of J downstairs. No response. My pulse quickens even as it runs chill. I circle to the other side of the bed to try shaking more directly. Still nothing. My mind catalogs the details that she’s cold and stiff and maybe even blue but I force them under lock and key: I am not a doctor and I know high anxiety can be the cause of mistakes. I search for a pulse and find none. It was never this hard to find during certification, but then again, I was never trying to find it under mounting pressure.

I spend a minute debating inside whether to bother Dad or not. He left early this morning to go back to Jackson Hole to finish his repairs. I’m wary of calling 911 for the same reason. What if I’m missing something? What if I make a big deal out of a little thing and add more stress to everyone’s life – be it in bothering Dad or an ambulance and emergency room bill and then find out it isn’t anything to worry about? Heaven knows we have enough medical bills. I decide to call Dad and let him decide.

He answers and I tell him I can’t get Mom to wake up. He says to call 911 and to call G. When he asks, I tell him I hadn’t before because I was afraid I was missing something that meant it was ok. I think he hears the repressed panic in my voice. He says, “Call G, call 911.” I am confused. Which one do I call first – he gave different orders. Dad is frustrated. “Call 911 first, then call G.” He hangs up so I can call 911.

“911, what’s your emergency?”
“My mom won’t wake up.”
“Where is your location?” I give my address. “Is she breathing?”
“I can’t tell. She’s rolled over. I don’t think so.”
“Roll her onto her back.”
“I can’t. I never could on my own. She always had to help.”
“Is there anyone there with you?”
“My little sister’s downstairs.”
“Have her help.”
“No. She’s only 10.”
“Well, if you’re not going to cooperate, there’s nothing else I can do. The ambulance is on its way and should be there shortly.” She hangs up.

Now to call G. G. One of Mom's friends. She had been, and maybe she still is, Mom's visiting teacher (read a buddy-system in our church's women's society) and is one of the few who have been at ease with Mom and her sever illnesses, having one herself. She's a tiny little woman with a whole lot of heart. Call G. I don’t know her number. I can’t find Mom’s ward directory by her bed. I look in the kitchen and at the desk and still I can’t find it. I ask J if she knows where it is. She looks, I look. I freeze when I see her coming down the stairs with it in her hand. I can’t tell her – she’s only 10. I can’t tell myself – this is my whole identity.

I call G. I tell her Mom won’t wake up. I tell her an ambulance is coming. Can she come over? She says they’ll be there in a minute. I call Sister F, too. She brought her puppy over once to visit with Mom. I think she’s the Relief Society President. She’s not, but she says she’ll get a hold of the people who need to know.
I hear a knock. It’s the first EMT guy. That was fast. It had only been a few minutes. I hadn’t heard a siren. J’s still watching Scooby Doo and doesn’t even notice as I lead him to Mom. He throws the bed-side table down the walkway so he can get to Mom uninhibited. I crouch to pick up the laptop and get everything out of harm’s way. I stand in time to see him roll her over. I see her face and the lock-down is complete. Her mouth is stretched into a grin and there is a purple pooling around her cheeks and nose as though blood had settled underneath the skin. The EMT sees my face and makes me leave. I have to stay downstairs, he says.
More EMTs come up as I go down. G and her son, Z, squeeze past with the group. J is starting to notice and wants to know what is happening. Dad calls back and wants to know what is happening, too. I tell him the EMTs are upstairs with her. A police officer is there and I pass the phone to him. He tells Dad that there is no word yet. Dad is coming home. I don’t know what G tells J. Maybe the officer talks to her.

G asks if she can get me anything. I tell her I want my quilt. I tell her they said I can’t go up there. She sneaks up and gets it for me. I wrap it tight.

More people come. Relief Society sisters, the home ward Bishop - Bishop S. Sister F must have called them. Uncle S and Aunt T show up, too. Dad must have called them. My Bishop - Bishop U - and his wife come. I called them.

The EMT comes down. “I’m sorry,” he says. “We did all we could. She was already dead.”

Somebody holds J.

The police officer tells us they have called the mortuary. We can go see her one last time before they come for her body. I am afraid. The church support group says I should not be. I want them to see the death mask so they will understand. We go upstairs. Mom is lying on the floor next to the bed. A blanket covers her so that only her face shows. The blood pool is gone. They don’t understand. The mortuary comes and they make us, me and J, stay downstairs while they take the body. Someone stands in the way so I won’t see anything through the railing.

G asks if I want to sleep. I don’t want to close my eyes. Dad calls back. I think Uncle S tells him, maybe Bishop S. Bishop S decides to take Z to go meet Dad so he’s not driving alone. The Relief Society sisters ask what they can do to help. My mind is blank. We’ve taken care of everything for so many years and we’re good at it. Nothing much needs done. I remember the potatoes I’ve been meaning to harvest for weeks but haven’t had the time or energy to get to. The sisters are pleased to have something to do. I get the garden tool box from the garage and they go out back.

The police officer is about to leave. I think he gives his contact information to G. He gives me a hug and says good-bye.

I’m on the front-porch. My blanket is around me. The day is as calm and unruffled as the blankness inside. I wander across the yard to look through the fence. The potatoes are small but numerous. The bright sun is warm through the blanket.

Uncle S and Aunt T take J and me to the high school. We have to tell M and S. Lunch has just started. S had said her locker was upstairs. I go and see her coming. My face tells her before my voice does. We look for M but can’t find her. We go back to the office. They let us use a back conference room. Someone brings us simple snacks while we try to determine where M is. I go to the choir room – sometimes she spends lunch there. They don’t know where she is. I go back to the office. I stop at the attendance desk. Since Mom’s dead, she can’t be the emergency contact. I have them put me down instead. I go back to the conference room. Somebody found M and now it’s time to go. The secretaries tell us not to worry about the rest of the week.

S and T take us home. The others get their blankets and then S takes us to their home. The sisters sleep. I pretend to. Grandma has come. Maybe I do sleep. Dad comes. He laughs that Bishop’s van broke down and he ended up giving them a ride back. The night is dark. Eventually we go home. Exhaustion conquers all.

***
I had known that Mom would die. It only made sense. As the stress on her systems was magnified by the layered illnesses, it was obvious that, at some point, it would be too much for her body to maintain. I’d just thought it would take two more years. It was months before I finally realized why. There was no logical cause for the connection, but it held. I remembered that cause when I revisited the J. K. Rowling web-site. That summer I had read her autobiography that she has on the site. In it, I had been stunned to learn that Rowling’s mom had also had Multiple Sclerosis. She had died at the age of 45. Mom was 43. I remember thinking, 45. Two more years. I can’t go on forever, but I can do two more years. I was trying to fortify myself to face it.

***
It has been nearly four years. Mom’s death has become the time-central event in my life. Just as history is marked forward and backward from Christ’s birth, so I mark time with Mom’s death. “When did (this) happen? Mom was alive, so it was at least this long ago.”

***
I remember asking Dad what my new role was supposed to be. He was confused. I explained that before, it was to take care of Mom. Dad got mad. He said that it had been his responsibility to take care of Mom. He seemed angry that I should have any right to that claim. He did not give me an answer.

For years I saw myself, my identity, as broken, shattered. I am now learning to be myself and have been happily surprised to find I enjoy it and others seem to as well. It has required I stop talking to Dad and that I not let him talk to me. There has been much difficulty, but I sense that things are now as they should be. And I am coming to know hope. Sometimes I am still tired, but now there is hope.

***
Mom’s parents are still alive. Dad’s parents are still alive. My step-mother’s parents are still alive. Most people’s are. Instead, I have pretend moms. They are women who have known me and somehow love me. None of them are always there, but between them there is almost always someone. There isn’t the strength of blood, but it helps to pretend. And I have found family in church: siblings, parents, now even grandparents. Perhaps I can never return to the home that was and was not, but I have found welcome in many hearts around me. Perhaps they can be home.

I still spend many free hours at church and Institute. It is no longer serving double-duty as a life preserver, but has returned to its standard place as center of my life. I have learned that it is unwise to take Dad's pronouncements of the Savior's opinions of me as factual, and have found great relief in simply living my own life as best I can and trusting Him to see and judge fairly.

November 2, 2004 was a death blow to a floundering child's prayer for a happy, healthy home and family life. But it also cut the strongest string tying me to an unhealthy situation. What was is dead, and at times I still mourn that death, but I would not give up the life I have found growing in its place. Mom's life slipped beyond the mortal realm that day, but now, here, mine is just beginning.

***

November 4, 2008 is coming up. I am excited: it will be my first Presidential Election.

Mirrors

The year after I moved away from home, I was at a friend's house for the holidays and came across The Pretender, a TV series from the late 1990s, while browsing their story collection. Since my work had an automatic week off built in between Christmas and New Year's, I had ample time to devour this new story.

With food for the body and food for the mind, I tend to go through a sort of seasons. At one time, I may always crave cheese, or tuna salad, or my veggie concoction... Then I'll hit a point where that item is no longer fulfilling and I'll rarely eat it over the next year or so. I suspect it has to do with particular nutritional needs at any given time. The same applies to stories. When I come across the right story at the right time, it become integral to my diet until whichever insight need has been fulfilled. This explains my pre-occupations that were so focused on Merlin a couple months ago and The Avengers a couple months before that. (I have long been aware of this pattern, I simply explain it for the reader's understanding.)

In the case of The Pretender, the most obvious connection is found in the back-story of a hero who had been held captive since, being discovered as a genius, childhood who finally escaped the people who only wanted to use and control him while learning and experiencing the normal life elements he had missed in captivity. Being in the process of breaking with home and extricating my identity and will from the messed-up manipulations and expectations and demands that kept me bound to it, the literal fight for understanding and independence and the joy of being free resonated deeply in my spirit.

The were many specific parts of the show that also left deep impressions, but the one that was most important was in an episode about identity. I do not remember the particulars, the season, episode title, episode details, etc... What I do remember is that Jarod, the hero, had reason to remember back to his time in 'The Center' (where he'd been held captive) when he refused to solve some puzzle because he'd become aware that he had never even seen his face in a mirror. He didn't know who he was or where he came from, where his parents were, even his last name. He knew they wouldn't give him any other information, but at the moment, he needed to know what he looked like - to see what/who he was.

During this same time period, I'd been struggling with the recognition that while the gospel taught me that God loved me and that I could find peace in doing my best, my dad's constant echoes and his perception of me (recall that these perceptions had me to the point of feeling guilty for even existing...) would regularly drown out that peace. It was a fair roller-coaster ride trying to handle the polar opposites. It was also greatly upsetting in trying to understand how the man who should be my protector was my greatest torment and how the one who should love me most constantly thought such evil of me. My nature has always been one to respond quickly to expectations and guidance so to be treated with such a heavy, emotionally rough hand left deeper wounds than might otherwise have been suffered.

Reflecting back, further in time, I have always had a talent for avoiding notice (surely made stronger by trying to avoid further negative attention at home) to the point that I'd be surprised to see myself in a picture. I'd also be surprised to see what I looked like since, even having a mirror, I'd never actually look at myself, just focus on the particulars that needed attention - hair, eyelashes for mascara, etc... I think I was scared to see that I really was the terrible, worthless person God surely despised the way dad always made me out to be. In fact, to see myself, having no intrinsic value, I had to look through the eyes of others. Furthermore, walking around the halls in high school, I often felt like a pair of floating eyeballs: seeing, observing, but never seen. Never part. All there was to see was either neutral or negative.

When I made it to this particular episode (perhaps on the second time through, I can't be sure), all these elements had been percolating for some time. When Sydney, Jarod's mentor/handler, finally obtained permission to let him look in a mirror, Sydney told him, "This is who you are." I'm pretty sure I paused the show for quiet because at the same time, it was as if a concept unfolded in my mind. It was symbolized by a tall, standing mirror that I knew was my dad's, with him in front of it. I was standing apart. To make the meaning more readily understood, imagine everyone with their own mirror. But I didn't have one. I had to go by the reflections in everyone else's mirrors. Returning to my image of just my dad's mirror, it was as though the Spirit told me to take a close look at his mirror. It was covered with dirt and grime and dust and stains. Suddenly I understood that dad's view of me was so negative not because I was so horrible, but because the means he was using to view me was filthy. When I heard, "This is who you are" I also 'heard' Heavenly Father say, "You need to use my mirror to see who you really are, not his, not theirs. Your own. Mine."

It was, for me, a revolutionary concept. Probably basic for many others, but then many others have not lived my life with my personal nature, either. I cannot say I have it down all the way, but with every passing year, my own mirror is clearer and the reflections of others less so. I still stumble and get distracted sometimes, but then something reminds me of this epiphany and I remember to look in the right mirror again. I'm writing this blog now because I just went through this process again this week.

This concept reminds me of the scripture in 1 Corinthians 13:12.

 12 For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.

Someday all the mirrors will be clear and we won't get distracted and confused by the distorted reflections of smudged looking glasses, dirty mirrors. Someday we will know, without question, the value God sees in each of us and in each other. Until then, we just need to be careful about our mirrors. Are we using our own, and are we keeping them as clean and clear as we can? It will affect how we judge others. It will affect how we judge ourselves.

(P.S. If any of you have watched The Pretender, you may have noticed it begins to leave a darker feeling the further it progresses. I did not realize that until trying to watch it again last year when I found I had to only watch a few shows at a time to avoid a build-up of home feelings and thought patterns in my mind. I can only assume that having come so freshly from such a negative situation and still freshly battling the wrong patterns, the show's 'vibe' meshed so well with what I had come from it was unnoticeable at the time. Once I was far more free of it, the distinction was much more apparent.)

Resonance

I think I am naturally something of a reflective person and I often consider why I respond as I do to various situations and even how that compares to the reactions of others. I'd wonder why something that had a great impact on me would leave no mark on others while things that had little meaning to me would be so disturbing someone else. I finally came to the conclusion that it comes down to the issue of resonance.

Scientifically speaking, resonance is defined by the World English Dictionary (see dictionary.com) as:

The condition of a body or system when it is subjected to a periodic disturbance of the same frequency as the natural frequency of the body or system. At this frequency the system displays an enhanced oscillation or vibration.

In human terms, we all have a core identity complete with beliefs and motivations central to said identity. I came to realize that the things that resonate with us are the things that touch on some part of what we already hold to.

On a superficial level, consider that the reason I found Jericho, the TV series about a post-apocalyptic America, so intriguing is because it mirrors the fall of the Nephite civilization in the Book of Mormon on certain levels and also reflects parts of my personal expectations of the state of the nation in general prior to the Savior's second coming. Someone who does not anticipate (in the literal definition of expecting something will be rather than necessarily 'hoping' for it to be) the same things will not find the same resonating effect.

Or consider King Uther from the BBC Merlin (strong competition for my new favorite series). When he came to Camelot, he was witness to and champion against the extreme misuses of magic in the kingdom. His reign was built upon correcting a gross imbalance of power. Then, when his wife (this version strays on a number of points from the original Mabinogion, and even later Le'morte d'Arthur) died at childbirth from a backlash of magic, his honest distrust and natural antagonism were magnified into outright hatred and brutality. Rather than being able to recognize that not all those who practiced magic did so to the detriment of others, he could only see those who used it for wickedness and therefore condemned everyone.

I have seen it at work on many levels in my own life. For one example, my natural desire to travel, my innate wanderlust, has been augmented by experiences of the inconstancy of my particular family and certain 'friends' which emphasized in my own mind the value of moving on and leaving the negative behind. New starts and change feel like fresh air to me rather than the hated terror of change that others seem to perceive.

I can hear someone asking, "This is all very interesting, but what value does it give?" Consider the wisdom of the ages (attributed to multiple cultures and individuals) to 'Know Thyself'. The more a person can recognize the truth of who and what and why they are, the more control they have over their actions and lives. A person who has an intrinsic understanding of what makes them tick is far less vulnerable to the machinations and manipulations of others, be they man or 'demon' (for those readers of the Christian variety). It gives the person a much stronger foundation upon which to stand lending towards a greater confidence in self and life. And should an honest survey of self turn up something unpleasant, that person then has the wherewithal to make adjustments and counter the negatives found. It is a process that has helped preserve my sanity coming from an abusive home and one I recommend my readers seriously consider employing in their own lives.