Grief and Running

Last Sunday my mom passed away.

It was not unexpected, she was sick, she was 83, she was depressed. She gave up on life.

To be honest, I was not sure how to feel about the passing of my mother. I wanted to feel sad but my emotions did not seem to be working. I felt disconnected from it all, clinical and matter of fact. All I felt was a deep sadness for the life she chose to live for herself. A life that was a mere shadow of the life she could have had.

She shut me out, she had a tendency to do this, and I accepted that this is how she wanted things to be. Instead of trying to break through, I focused on the bits and pieces that were good. The times that we got along with each other, the times she seemed happy. I had accepted her a long time ago and was a peace with that. I felt no guilt.

My relationship with my mother was, let's say, complicated at best. We had ups and downs throughout the years and for the early part of my adulthood I felt like an unloved and flawed human being in her eyes. I moved out at 20 and spent the next 30 years being punished for leaving. She never visited, rarely called me, and treated me like I was a distant coworker. She was critical and emotionally detached. It was not until much later on in my life that I realized she had deep psychological issues, scars and baggage caused by a lot of trauma that happened throughout her life.

I realized it was not me, it was her. Once I realized these things, I was able to accept her for what she was. We started to turn things around and we were able to have a good relationship with each other.

My mother ran black and white, hot and cold. That is the only way to describe her. She was very self-involved and incapable of true love or affection. I do not remember hugs, kisses, or the "I love you" that my friends got from their moms. I only remember a mother that seemed distracted and unhappy. She smiled rarely, she took pleasure in very little.

On Sunday, November 2nd, 2014, I ran the NYC Marathon. On Wednesday I flew in early to attend my mother's memorial service.

I felt detached during the ceremony. I guess they say everyone grieves differently. I looked at the pictures that were collaged together to represent her life, in each one she wears a smile but it is only superficial. She always smiled for pictures because she wanted to look nice. We all had to smile even though we never saw any of those pictures in our house after they were taken. They were squirreled away for "safe-keeping." When my sister and I cleared out her house we found boxes and boxes of those photos, all in pristine condition. The memory was what she cherished, people however, were pushed aside. It was telling to comb through all of those pictures and realize that they never were enjoyed. Nothing in her house was enjoyed.

A typical depression era child, my mom saved everything. So on top of all the boxes of pictures, there were old baby shoes, notes about our birth, knitted caps, baby rattles, dresses, hats, china, toys, boxed and wrapped carefully in every closet. We never saw any of those things growing up, she never took them out, she just wanted to hold on to them all, to keep the memory alive.

On the long ride back from Albany to NYC after the memorial, I broke down. I finally realized that my mom was indeed gone and that despite all of my hurts and disappointments with her as a mother, I would never be able to pick up the phone and talk to her. I felt angry at her and sad for myself. Then the anger changed to pity for her and pity for myself.

I ran the marathon because I had spent the last 6 months training for it. I wanted to finish it now more than ever because the marathon represented life and its possibilities. The extremes and what a human being can do if they put their heart into something. I needed to run it for myself. I needed to finish it and know that I was capable of accomplishing anything, even at 50, even overweight and even with big flat feet. I needed to feel my body push itself to the limits and run 26.2 miles.

But, I also wanted to finish it for my mom. It was not like she had any interest in my running, she did not. She had no interest in anything I did, unless it was something she could have input in. I accepted this and rarely brought up my interests when I talked to her. I realized that was who she was. So our conversations bordered around whatever she wanted to talk about. They were pleasant and easy going. We would talk about cooking or home improvement projects, she liked those things. The last 10 years or so of her life we began to have a good relationship. My sister used to say "You are really good with her Christina." No, I was not "good" with her, I was just more patient as I got older. She said hurtful things to me all the time but I tried not to let those things bother me. Instead I focused on how to relate to her, to try and enjoy her company and to try not to let her get under my skin. I accepted her for who she was. She was not the mother I wanted, but she was mine.  I did not always like her as a person, but I loved her for who she was.

But I also watched her slowly give up on life. She rarely exercised, rarely left the house. After awhile her muscles began to give out on her, she had trouble walking. She stopped paying bills, she stopped caring what the house looked like. Her phone conversations were curt at best. We intervened and found her in deplorable conditions. We had to make a tough decision and transition her to a nursing home. In the nursing home, she argued, she resisted any kind of positive treatment, physical therapy. All she wanted to do was sit in bed and watch TV... depression.

She did not return my calls, so I gave up. I live in Colorado, I felt helpless to connect to her unless I flew out every other week, which I could not do. Despite the fact that this was my mother, I had a job, a son, a husband, a life, a family that came first. I was able to visit a few times and help my sister. I hoped that I could connect to my mom through the phone but that never happened.

She wasted away and died several months after she got to the nursing home, but in my mind, she had died inside much earlier than that. When she went into that nursing home, she was just a shadow of herself. I knew in my heart that she was probably never coming out again.

I have a tendency of judging my mother, of thinking that she was weak, lazy, powerless but after my race in NY my dear friend put it all in perspective for me. She said, your mom did not have the same choices you did.

She was right.

I wonder now, what my mom's life would have been like had she been born into a different era? If she was able to be treated for her mental illness, if she knew she had choices and could feel empowered? Would she be the same person? I think in a lot of ways my mom felt trapped by a life that she thought she needed to live, by conventions that she felt compelled to fill. She was a square peg trying to fit into a round hole her entire life. I remember her talking about her dreams to me, what she wanted to do when she was younger. She was a musician, she was creative. I asked her if she ever wanted to have kids and her blunt response was "Not particularly." I guess another person would have been insulted by this but for me this response was very telling of who she was as a person. She was once a young vibrant woman who drove and had a drivers license when no other women did, she talked about the "business world" and working so she could be self-sufficient. She talked about dates and dancing with her friend Dottie, she talked about her bout with cancer, her traumas, her mom, her sister, her dad. She liked to talk about getting on the "L-train" and going to the city to hang out and meet guys. She was funny when she talked about these things. She wrote poems and music. She played the piano and she played the accordion. I know she wanted more out of life than what was offered to her. So she did what every other woman did, she got married and she had kids. She met my dad, and I truly believe for awhile the were happy. Then one day, they were not.

She went through the motions, she was efficient and provided for us as children but deep down inside she gave up, lived a small life of desperation and depression. It was not easy living with my dad, I loved my dad dearly but he had his own demons. My mom quietly dealt with things, shoved things inside, under the carpet, but she also confided in me, she told me things about my dad, about her life, things I had wished she had not shared but when it is all said and done, I am glad she did.

We had finally become friends.

I finished the marathon in a little over 4 hours. I am not fast and I did not care either. I just wanted to finish and feel alive. It made me feel better, during the run, I thought a lot about my mom, her life and our relationship. If she has her way, she will be up there with an accordion playing honky tonk tunes with a big smile on her face. I hope that is where she is. That for once, she is finally at peace and she is happy.