It begins again. The unending cycle — a relentless punch to the gut, a jolt to the heart, a confusing loop that seems to have no end.
Stage One: Denial
“Have you spoken to Mom?” That dreaded question from one of my four siblings cuts through me like a knife.
“Yeah,” I respond, squeezing my eyes shut. “Why?”
“She just seems… off.” My brother’s sigh hangs in the air.
“No, I haven’t noticed,” I lie.
After we hang up, I bury the conversation deep in my mind and try to go about my day. I play with my kids, help them with homework, and whip up a lackluster dinner that we all eat together. I nod along as my son excitedly chats about his latest Lego Star Wars creation and wipe my daughter’s mouth while she hums a tune from preschool. We sit around the table, and I act as if everything is perfectly fine, even though I know it’s not.
It can’t be happening again.
And yet, it does, until she reaches that next stage… everyone’s favorite.
Stage Two: “I’m Back!”
My phone buzzes. “Mom” flashes on the screen. I hesitate, longing to hit the red Decline button, but I can’t. I yearn to hear her voice, to grasp onto any semblance of normalcy, so I answer.
“Hi, Mom,” I say, holding my breath.
“You’re coming to see me for Spring Break, right?” she asks, her words tumbling out faster than usual.
“Um, I haven’t thought about…”
“I’m cleaning out my closet!” she interrupts. “Do you want that brown suit we bought at Dillard’s? You could use it for work.” Her thoughts flit around like a butterfly, and I struggle to keep up.
“No, Mom. I don’t work anymore,” I remind her, even though it’s been seven years.
“Oh.” She pauses, momentarily bewildered, but quickly shifts gears. “I’m so alive right now! I’ve never felt better. Did I tell you? I’m back! I have so much energy. I stayed up until 6:00 this morning, organizing everything!”
I picture her chaotic attempts to tidy up, how her clothes are strewn across the bed and the kitchen counters are piled high with mismatched dishes. My father, in a desperate attempt to keep the peace, is likely frowning at the mess, feeling the weight of the illness that has taken over their home.
“I’m glad you’re feeling well,” I say, even though we all know she’s not. Deep down, I know this high will crash down soon, and I brace myself for the inevitable.
“I love you, Mom,” I say, swallowing hard.
“I love you too.”
“I know.”
I know.
Stage Three: Anger
Her name lights up on my phone again — the eighth time today. I sigh, dreading what I’m about to hear, but I pick up anyway.
“Hi, Mom.”
“I don’t know what your problem is!” she snaps.
“I don’t have a problem,” I respond, teeth clenched.
“You and your dad are awful. Do you think I’m a child?” she fires back.
Sick Mom has no filter. The kindness and patience of Well Mom have vanished. She’s angry because I made the tough choice to put her in the hospital last time things spiraled out of control, a decision that haunts me still.
“No, Mom. I don’t think you’re a child,” I insist, even though we sometimes treat her as one.
“Your husband should leave you. Your kids deserve better than you!” she yells, and I nod along, knowing it makes the conversation shorter.
It’s heartbreaking to hear her lash out, to witness how illness has twisted her words into something hurtful. I desperately miss the loving, fun Nana who used to spoil my kids with candy and laughter.
“I’m sorry you’re mad at me, Mom,” I say.
“Sure you are. You don’t care about me.” The call drops, and I put down my phone, tears streaming down my face. I know she doesn’t mean it, but the pain is real.
Stage Four: “The Lights Are On, but Nobody’s Home”
Days pass without a call from her. On her birthday, I reached out, and we exchanged a few words, but today is my birthday. Normally, she’d call to share the story of my birth, recounting every detail of that day. But this year, she forgot.
I check my phone again and again, hoping for a call that won’t come. I remind myself it’s okay, that she’ll find her way back, and we’ll have our special moment again. Until then, I scour through old cards, searching for a piece of her voice. I stumble upon a note she sent years ago: “Here’s your mail, Sweetie. Sure do miss you so much. Love, Mom.”
I miss you too, Mom. So much.
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