My mother died more than 7 years ago now, and it has taken me a long time to make sense of my response to it.
Firstly there was a shock, and a small sob, and then the machine swung into action, I drove up and down and arranged the funeral, the order of service, the catering, the wine etc. and finally there was the funeral, at which I spoke, and the burial, at which I briefly and finally broke down. When it was over, I was very tired (there were about 3 weeks between the death and the burial). There were other things happening in my life too, difficulties in the marriage, the invasion of the LO into my life and so on. The thing that obsessed me in that period was that I didn't really feel sad, I didn't miss her very much, because the stroke had already removed a lump of her personality. But after her death, all I ever seemed to recall was the negative things about her, all the worst things she'd ever said and done to me. I talked to an older friend who had also had a difficult relationship with her mother. She said the same thing had happened to her, but that after a few years she had found it wore off. So I waited, occasionally being stung by painful memories, assisted by strange anecdotes about breastfeeding and her fury when she discovered she was pregnant with me. I remembered how my parents used to say sadly about some friend of theirs "he was rejected in the womb" as if this was the most dreadful thing. I guessed now that technically, I had experienced this too. But over the years, occasionally I would read something, and realise that I had much more resilience, because when I was born I was surrounded by people who were delighted and excited to see me and greet me and were just full of love for me. I was my father's first child, and my grandparents' first grandchild and I was loved and a little (tho not excesssively) spoiled until I lost my unique status 2 years and 4 months later. Whatever disregard my mother felt, I knew I could find love elsewhere, my grandfather was probably the first choice, I spent more time with him than with anyone. My grandmother and father worked full time during the week, so I saw less of them, but my grandfather was there every day.
So, this thought has especially consoled me. Nevertheless, it has still perturbed me how little love and sympathy I have felt for my mother in the years since her death, and I tried to make sense of them. This evening M and I were discussing one of our former friends, one of the "flouncers" - there are four, no, five people who have flounced off in a rage in the last three years. One of them has flounced back, but I sense that she doesn't really like me. Never mind. She behaves very well. But when I think of them, and specially of the latest exit, last year, I feel a similar feeling of release. The feeling is of liberation. After one has experienced a period of putting up with bad behaviour, and smiling, and pulling one's punches in a relationship, one is liberated to speak one's mind, one is no longer constrained, no longer has to make excuses for them. One can say what one honestly felt about the person's behaviour without directly attacking them, or poisoning the rest of the relationship. I remembered how liberating it was to complain about and criticise those erstwhile friends who had to an extent held one in thrall. One had cast off the chains of a restricting relationship, and after so many years, I realised that this was what had happened when my mother had died, but that the parent child bond is so sacred,. I was not allowed to rejoice in my freedom. I had not even allowed myself to consider that I was liberated, although, I do remember consciously thinking "now I can get on with my writing" when she first became ill, and it was apparent that she would never really be able to read again."
Wicked, perhaps this seems, but I realise that I did have to put up with quite a lot and it has taken me a long time to work through those feelings. I hope I get rather more years to enjoy more life than she did after her mother died!
Anyway, in the best facebook tradition, here's a picture of my mother showing me affection when I was about 2 or 3.
Firstly there was a shock, and a small sob, and then the machine swung into action, I drove up and down and arranged the funeral, the order of service, the catering, the wine etc. and finally there was the funeral, at which I spoke, and the burial, at which I briefly and finally broke down. When it was over, I was very tired (there were about 3 weeks between the death and the burial). There were other things happening in my life too, difficulties in the marriage, the invasion of the LO into my life and so on. The thing that obsessed me in that period was that I didn't really feel sad, I didn't miss her very much, because the stroke had already removed a lump of her personality. But after her death, all I ever seemed to recall was the negative things about her, all the worst things she'd ever said and done to me. I talked to an older friend who had also had a difficult relationship with her mother. She said the same thing had happened to her, but that after a few years she had found it wore off. So I waited, occasionally being stung by painful memories, assisted by strange anecdotes about breastfeeding and her fury when she discovered she was pregnant with me. I remembered how my parents used to say sadly about some friend of theirs "he was rejected in the womb" as if this was the most dreadful thing. I guessed now that technically, I had experienced this too. But over the years, occasionally I would read something, and realise that I had much more resilience, because when I was born I was surrounded by people who were delighted and excited to see me and greet me and were just full of love for me. I was my father's first child, and my grandparents' first grandchild and I was loved and a little (tho not excesssively) spoiled until I lost my unique status 2 years and 4 months later. Whatever disregard my mother felt, I knew I could find love elsewhere, my grandfather was probably the first choice, I spent more time with him than with anyone. My grandmother and father worked full time during the week, so I saw less of them, but my grandfather was there every day.
So, this thought has especially consoled me. Nevertheless, it has still perturbed me how little love and sympathy I have felt for my mother in the years since her death, and I tried to make sense of them. This evening M and I were discussing one of our former friends, one of the "flouncers" - there are four, no, five people who have flounced off in a rage in the last three years. One of them has flounced back, but I sense that she doesn't really like me. Never mind. She behaves very well. But when I think of them, and specially of the latest exit, last year, I feel a similar feeling of release. The feeling is of liberation. After one has experienced a period of putting up with bad behaviour, and smiling, and pulling one's punches in a relationship, one is liberated to speak one's mind, one is no longer constrained, no longer has to make excuses for them. One can say what one honestly felt about the person's behaviour without directly attacking them, or poisoning the rest of the relationship. I remembered how liberating it was to complain about and criticise those erstwhile friends who had to an extent held one in thrall. One had cast off the chains of a restricting relationship, and after so many years, I realised that this was what had happened when my mother had died, but that the parent child bond is so sacred,. I was not allowed to rejoice in my freedom. I had not even allowed myself to consider that I was liberated, although, I do remember consciously thinking "now I can get on with my writing" when she first became ill, and it was apparent that she would never really be able to read again."
Wicked, perhaps this seems, but I realise that I did have to put up with quite a lot and it has taken me a long time to work through those feelings. I hope I get rather more years to enjoy more life than she did after her mother died!
Anyway, in the best facebook tradition, here's a picture of my mother showing me affection when I was about 2 or 3.
