Mother and Me

My mother is a "Labrador Rose, the Sweetest of Flowers." The line comes from a song my father has been singing for 58 years. They both suffer ill health, but it is Father who pushes himself to get the best, cook the best, and love her the most. It has been that way since he was posted to the coast of Labrador in 1947, while serving with the Newfoundland Ranger Force. When he first met her, she was sitting by a fire, her long dark hair reflecting the flames, her eyes sparkling, and her smile dazzling. He was, he says, absolutely positive that he was going to marry her. And he did!

Mother speaks of his blue eyes, his pleasant voice, his kindness for those less fortunate, his police work done with a human touch. His love of her was so strong it won her heart. In a short time they married and life as a policeman's wife began for her.

It was a role she did well, but she had always wanted to be a nurse. However, Father tells me that the prevailing thought of the day was that money for education was saved for the boys, because education was not as important for the girls. But Mother cared for Father's sick mother for 10 years, gave birth to five children, and cared for prisoners and for battered women who had no place to go. Nothing was too much for her to give. She was a "nurse" to all!

But there were major difficulties for me as the firstborn. My mother knew nothing about "mothering." She had been orphaned at the age of seven, and had been raised, she says, "like Topsy," a little girl without a home that she had read about in a story. Whichever of her older siblings needed help, or had a new baby, took her in until somebody else needed her to do chores.

When I came along, Mother did her best to be a mother, but she lacked the skills. Her punishment of the smallest of my mischievous behaviors was excessive, and done when Father was not present. An inch-wide plastic belt was her weapon, and her verbal abuse was so horrific that, in remembering, I still flinch. She now denies the existence of the belt, but my sister, who was never whipped, knows it existed. She was three years my junior, but at the ages of 10 and seven, she clearly remembers lying beside me on the floor. I was writing on the belt "A BELT FOR SMACKING ME," while sobs shook my body. My younger sister comforted me, and we hid the belt again.

But it would soon reappear, no matter where it was hidden. At times, my sister quips, "Mom must have had 500 of those belts!"

Father did his best, and a strong bond developed between us. He knew the problem, and for years he would diffuse situations in his calm way. Many times he held me while I cried. He salvaged me with his love, and he did his best to salvage my mother, who was obviously becoming more ill and more unpredictable.

As my siblings arrived, Mother improved her nurturing skills. My siblings and I talk about how we all had a different mother. As time went on, Mother learned to nurture, and to love outwardly. During those times, she was the absolute best. Then she would change, and the slam would come; I would be slapped and abused, not knowing why. Her attempts at asking forgiveness when she returned to herself just made it worse. If it happened to be near Christmas or a birthday, she would show me the presents I was to receive, ruining my surprise.

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Mother resented me into my teen years, and even beyond.

It had been my lifelong goal to be a nurse, and I worked hard during my training. When the results of the National Board exams were released, I was overwhelmed to realize that I had become a Registered Nurse.

I called home to share my news. Mother muttered something, but no words of congratulations. I asked her to have Father call me, so I could share my success with him. I was surprised to discover later that Mother had called my sister at school and delightedly told her that I had passed my Nationals. But at the last minute, Mother called and said she would not attend my nurses' graduation. I remember feeling numb, not believing what I was hearing.

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The year after the graduation, I stayed with my parents for two months while preparing for my wedding. One evening, while addressing wedding invitations in a special script that I had practiced, the verbal abuse of "nobody will ever love you, this is a charade," and so on, caused every carefully addressed envelope to be stained with tears.

With time, I became more resentful and angry toward my mother. I could not stop it. I would watch her with my youngest sibling, and be furious at her amazing transformation.

On one of my summer vacations home, I finally asked the question: "Mom, why did you never love me?"

With fire in her eyes, she glared at me and responded, "Because you were strong and independent. You did not need it!"

*   *   *   *   *

The pain of that moment is still very much alive in my memory. At the same time, being a nurse, I knew there was something not right with my mother's bizarre behavior. How could a mother not love her firstborn, a little girl that she had dressed with such care, and never allowed a bit of dirt to touch, or a scratch to go unattended?

The years went by. Mother had bouts of illness and surgeries. She gradually warmed toward me, and at one point told me she expected our problem was that she treated me as a sister, not as a daughter. It told me she was trying to find the answer to her odd behavior.

The year Mother turned 70 was an eventful one. There were family weddings, confirmations, and graduations, as well as a baby, who made my parents great-grandparents. By then I had moved back to my home province and was living a few hours away from them. Mother's bizarre behavior was worsening, the phone calls increasing, going so far as to call me while I was on a vacation in the Caribbean.

One phone call she made to me lasted six hours as, being home alone, I let her talk. Thankfully my husband (whose marriage to me was only going to last six months, according to my mother, because I was "a sorry excuse for a wife," but as of this writing is still around after 35 years) was not at home, or he would have put an end to this phone marathon! I knew then that my mother was very sick indeed.

Mother completely crashed later that year. She had undergone a simple surgical procedure and became totally fixated on her health. Her daily written records of everything she did were nowhere close to what she actually did, and it came to the attention of my brother. She started suffering from insomnia and her behavior, with sleep deprivation, declined to the degree that help had to be sought. Finally, and possibly because they were confronted daily by her four daughters, all nurses, the doctors admitted her to hospital.

In a windowless hospital clinic room, on a bright summer day, when I was 55 years old, my mother's doctors verified what I had already guessed. Our mother was bipolar, a condition commonly known as manic-depression. She had suffered with this throughout her life, and it answered many of my questions.

According to her doctors, she probably had had a post-partum depression after my birth, which caused her bitterness, resulting in disturbing treatment of the baby who had made her feel so sick. It also may have triggered her manic-depression.

It has been four years since the day we met with the doctors. Mother is working hard to be well. She is sticking to her regimen, regardless of what is happening around her. Two days a week she attends a Day Hospital, where the nurses say she is a terrific asset to the unit. She plays the piano, talks to her fellow patients, and helps serve lunches. Finally, in her mind, she has become the nurse she wanted to be.

We talk about times past. Some things she will admit, but things like the whipping belt she denies. A short time ago, Mother discussed many things with me, a discussion triggered by the upcoming Mothers' Day. She was sad about the past. I hugged her and felt the frail thin body that was once robust and strong, and my tears fell like rain. I told her I forgave her, so she should forgive herself as well.

She rubbed my arms and said, "I was strong like you once, wasn't I?"

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I recall clearly my young mother chasing me once. I remember her hair flying in the wind, so beautiful, so free, so strong and happy. It is a memory of one good time I shared with her.

As for me, I gave my daughter a better mother, a mother she can trust and who is a loving grandmother to her little girl. In so doing, I broke the chain of abuse that almost destroyed me.

Sitting on a beach in the Caribbean with my little grandchild causes me to wonder about the little girl inside me who was so hurt. That little girl is Nanny now, and has to deal with the memories with the understanding of a woman, and not the grief of a child.

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