Of all my sisters, and there are five of us, I am perhaps the one who knew our mother the least. Or so my sisters often reminded me.
“If you could just get to know Mom the way I do,” one would say.
“I wish Mom knew you like I do. You’re so funny and she doesn’t even know it,” said another.
“If you could just try to lighten up and laugh more when you’re around her” said yet one more.
Then there is my absolute favorite, “You scare Mom,” which I think is most accurate. Actually, I think we scared each other. How, then, did I wind up caring for her during her terminal illness? I don’t have the answer to that question, but I believe it was no accident.
At first I felt anger at being the one to take care of her. I was happy to sit back while my sisters took control of her care. After all, they knew her so much better than I did. But I was the only one who had a job that would allow me to telecommute, so I was the only one who could be with her round the clock since my mother chose hospice care at home.
During my first few days of caretaking I knew I didn’t measure up to my sisters. From time to time Mother let me know it too by telling me how much better one sister was at this or another sister at that.
“What am I doing here,” I kept asking myself, “and how am I ever going to get her to trust me if I don’t trust me?”
My first day alone with my mother, I had to get her car from the dealership where it had been left by one of my sisters for repair. When I went to claim her car, it couldn’t be found.
“What kind of car does your mother drive?” they asked. I had no idea.
“Well what color is the car?” they asked. I didn’t know that either.
Then I panicked. “Oh my God,” I thought, “I don’t even know my mother enough to know what kind of car she drives, how the hell am I supposed to take care of her?” And I melted in a puddle of tears.
My second task didn’t go much better. I had to take Mother to get stitches removed from the port that had been inserted under her skin a few days earlier. She couldn’t remember where in the hospital this was done nor could my sister who took her. “Just go to Emergency,” one sister said, “and they’ll tell you where to go.” They didn’t know either.
A trip back home to try and find paperwork and a trip back to the hospital when I thought I knew where to go produced nothing. A call from another sister reminded me that the stitches must come that day. “How,” she asked, “can you make such a big production out of getting them out?” First the car and now this, failure number two!
To pepper my wound even further, home again for the third time Mother said, “Oh honey, let’s just forget it for today. It’s just way too much for you.” But my stubborn streak kicked in and a call to the hospital oncology department gave me the exact information I needed.
“OK Mom,” I said, “we’re going back and we’re getting these darn stitches out!”
“Honey,” Mother cried, “you are so smart. I never could have persisted the way you have today. You amaze me. I had no idea you were such a fighter.”
It was then I realized that this was an opportunity for both Mother and me. We would be spending a lot of time together, just us. I didn’t have to try to be like my sisters. I didn't have to try to be a hero. All I had to do was listen to learn about this woman who was my mother. I also had to put my ego aside. Everything she felt, everything she said wasn’t always about me. This was a woman who had her own thoughts and feelings, her own hopes, fears, and dreams. I just had to listen to understand her.
What I learned was this: Caring for my mother during her last months was the greatest gift I could have been given. It gave us both the chance to really get to know each other. In those short months our relationship grew and blossomed. I learned that my mother was funny, smart, sometimes conniving but always loving, and loved.
During the entirety of her illness my mother's house was never empty. One friend or another was always there by her side. They loved her, unconditionally! And I was blessed to witness that. I was blessed to see her as others saw her, as a person and not just my mother.
In the end, my four sisters and I were by her side. In the end, although she was their mother too, and knew each one of them intimately, she and I developed a special friendship that was uniquely our own. In the end, I know that I was the best daughter I know how to be. And in the end, isn't that all that mattered?
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