When my mother entered hospice care over 18 months ago, I thought I had wrapped up my emotional journey regarding our past. I believed I had processed everything, but life has a way of reminding you that healing is not always linear. The echoes of past traumas often resurface just when you think you’ve moved on.
My older sister, who is five years my senior, went to prison when I was just 18. Back then, none of us had the vocabulary or insight to truly understand the wounds that were festering within our family. When I returned home from a year-long internship, I found my mother living in a Section 8 apartment with my infant niece. It felt surreal, as if I had been thrust into adulthood without any warning or acknowledgment of our shared struggles.
Adjusting to this new reality was challenging. I worked at a bagel shop, but the government took a significant portion of my paycheck while I was crashing on my mom’s couch. With no experience in childcare, I quickly realized that balancing a public-facing job with caring for a baby was overwhelming for my mental health.
As I grappled with my own difficulties, I started to notice troubling patterns in my mother’s behavior. She seemed to thrive while my sister was incarcerated, enjoying her role as the full-time grandmother. She presented herself as the self-sacrificing mother, highlighting her endless giving, all while ignoring the torment she inflicted on her daughters.
Our upbringing was steeped in fear and dysfunction. My mother never questioned why I struggled academically; instead, she labeled me a rebellious child who needed saving from supposed demons. When my sister fell into drug addiction, my mother expressed only disgust, failing to consider the reasons behind her struggles.
As my sister navigated her life, having three more children amid addiction and abuse, my mother shifted her focus entirely to her grandchildren. I was largely absent during this time, having moved away for college and then getting married at 21. My attempt to create a new life away from the chaos backfired, leaving me feeling more lost and inadequate.
When I returned to Minnesota post-divorce, I discovered my family was in disarray. My sister was in dire need of support, and the children required it too. Rather than extending compassion, however, my mother opted to involve the police and child protective services.
I was terrified of what would come from her decision to report my sister for child abuse. Disagreeing with my mother was foreign to me; she had always controlled the narrative of our lives. Despite my reservations, I hesitantly urged her to explore other avenues, like counseling and rehab, before resorting to law enforcement.
My mother dismissed my concerns, insisting she knew the truth about the situation, which she claimed was far worse than simple neglect. Allegations of sexual abuse within our family had been a constant presence in my upbringing, and I often questioned their validity. Despite the ambiguities surrounding these claims, my mother’s conviction never wavered.
She proceeded with her actions, believing that she would ultimately gain custody of her grandchildren. Yet, following a series of events, including the unexpected death of my father, the outcome was devastating—her grandchildren were placed with their paternal family, and she lost her chance to be part of their lives.
Throughout this ordeal, my mother’s focus was solely on her loss, seemingly blind to the suffering of others involved. I felt the sting of loss too, as the bonds with my nieces and nephew were severed, and my relationship with my sister became strained. My mother, in her grief, withdrew from me emotionally, often lamenting life without her grandchildren while disregarding my own feelings.
Fast forward to the present, my sister and I find ourselves grappling with guilt over our decision not to visit our mother in hospice. Neither of us anticipated how her declining health would dredge up old wounds and unresolved feelings. My mother has a long history of claiming she is dying, and each time it has felt like a call for attention rather than a genuine concern.
As we navigate these complex emotions, it’s clear that our childhood—marked by instability and trauma—has left lasting scars. Our mother’s narratives have always shifted, and I can’t help but wonder how much of our past will continue to haunt us as we face the reality of her mortality.
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