Why the Cliff?
Ξ March 9th, 2008 | → | ∇ mom |
BECAUSE GUILT IS A ONE WAY STREET
I love my mother, but I always tended to be in the “she is a wonderful and amazing, yet crazy, woman” camp. As most mothers and daughters tend to have a certain “dynamic,” so did my mudder and me. No matter what, though, I respected the woman.
As the oldest of nine (yep, 9) kids, Mom’s childhood was not as childish as mine. She had to be a junior Mom seeing as how my grandmother was either pregnant or trying desperately to wrangle the little ones while running the house, being a good wife, drinking too much, etc. It was probably a surprise to no one that at the age of 18 Mom did what lots of good Irish Catholic girls in that day did. She entered the convent and became a nun.
She said she was scared, felt as though she was stepping off the edge of a cliff, but she did it.
Mom worked hard to become a teacher while in the convent. A damn good teacher, too. Although not the consummate angel, Mom got into her fair share of trouble in the convent. (Think stealing statues of saints who were pierced through with arrows and placing him in mother superior’s bed. Yes, she so did. Or sending a student with a fully dissected raccoon to show mother superior. Who just so happened to be having lunch in the cafeteria at the time.) My mother loved the Lord, but eventually, after 12 years, decided that God had a different calling for her. So even terrified of what her life would become, she left the safety of the convent. Again she stepped off the cliff’s edge, but this time she said it was as dark as midnight.
Didn’t take too long for her younger brother’s charming friend to make his move on Mom. They married, had a beautiful baby girl (hi, that would be me). Working to put my father through school while she taught all day wasn’t easy, but she thought it was worth it. Until she came home to the house she paid for only to find him in bed with another woman. “Get out. Leave my baby, my house and my car, but get out.” Quickly Mom became a single mother in the early 70’s. And once more Mom stepped off of the cliff’s edge at midnight.
Working as a teacher, Mom met the widower father of a student. He was a police officer who had five kids and had lost his young wife to cancer. Quickly I went from being an only child to the youngest of six. Even as a young child I remember loving the hectic nature that quickly enveloped our house. The fact that when I was in middle school Mom went back to school for nursing didn’t even seem to upset the household dynamic too terribly much. I mean, the place was a wonderful zoo (did I mention the three dogs, at least one of which was a police dog?), so why not add to the insanity a bit with her back in college?
Even though they were complete opposites, Mom’s second marriage lasted 20 + years. I was already 19 and living in my own apartment when they separated. It was sad, but not a surprise. Just another cliff’s edge at midnight that Mom stepped from. After all, Mom’s job as a cancer nurse gave her enough income to take care of herself. Not simply take care of herself, but actually put herself through a Masters program. At the age of 60, Mom graduated with her Masters as a Nurse Practitioner.
Then the doctor found what she thought was scar tissue in Mom’s breast. Test results came back positive for cancer. Mom had never seen a darker midnight and of course that damn cliff was there. Good news was surgery and radiation did the trick, so after a few months Mom was good as new. We went away to Georgia for a little vacation together to celebrate. Even talked about perhaps Mom writing a book about her life. Instantly she knew the title would be “Stepping Off a Cliff at Midnight.”
Problem was, Mom wasn’t good as new. The cancer waited two years, but came roaring back. What in the late winter she thought was easily cured by acupuncture and vitamins turned out in the early spring to be cancer again. In her bones, in her brain, in her lungs. Fast advancing cancer. Cancer moving so fast that her doctor told me that Mom needed someone in her home with her 24 hours a day because he didn’t know what part of the brain the cancer would be effecting. Chemotherapy was started. If I couldn’t be with Mom I arranged for one of her siblings, one of her church friends, one of her Clean Water Action friends, one of her nursing friends or one of her kerjillion friends to sit and talk with her. One of Mom’s brothers rigged up our poor man’s emergency “help is on the way Mrs. Fletcher” button using a wireless doorbell. We put the button on a lanyard and gave her companion the bell part that would normally be mounted on a wall somewhere. My heart would tighten when I heard that doorbell. I would run to wherever Mom was only to find her laughing that she “got me.” Or to find her surprised that she rolled over in her sleep and accidentally set it off. (Those late night surprises were her favorites. Me? Not so much.)
She was slow moving and well aware of how weak she was getting, but oh how Mom loved the outpouring of support we received. Even my employer made it crystal clear that I was to take as much time as I needed and not worry about “vacation” time. For the first time in my life I realized that midnight was approaching and there would be a cliff that I would need to step from.
Me. Me! Those cliffs were never there for me and now I would be alone at one? No. Oh hell no. Not me. I would choose to be Cleopatra, Queen of Denial the Nile. There are no cliffs near the Nile. Besides, I was still a kid. Chronologically I was well over 30, but where Mom was concerned I always felt like that awkward high school kid. No matter how much she praised an adult accomplishment of mine, I still felt like I had just received a good grade in school.
An annual out of town trade show that I always work was approaching and Mom said that I should go. She wanted me to “keep living my life” and she knew how much I love my job. Arguing that I was living my life there, caring for her, was no use. I was given a few select pieces of her jewelry to wear so that Mom would be with me in Atlanta and told to go to the show. My favorite cousin agreed to fly in from Ft. Lauderdale to stay with Mom so that I didn’t have to worry that one of her companions might cancel their “shift” and not be able to stay with Mom while I was out of town.
With things seemingly going well, Friday I left for the show. For the most part the show was a blur, but everyone knew “my situation” and was incredibly supportive. Especially when the call came late Monday that Mom had to be taken to the hospital. I rushed home, on the same plane north as my aunt who decided she needed to come up from Ft. Lauderdale to spend some time with Mom. We were on the same plane out of Atlanta early Tuesday and I drove straight to the hospital from the airport with her.
I spent all of Tuesday with Mom. Her nurse friends ensured that she quickly got a private room. (Mom had, after all, been a cancer nurse in that very hospital for years and had many friends who still worked there. Everyone from the woman who mopped the floors to nurses to cafeteria workers to doctors to the volunteers at the information desk.) Family packed the room Tuesday to the point that they had to be thrown out that evening. A cot was wheeled in for me and I spent the night holding Mom’s hand, barely sleeping just in case Mom was in pain and I needed to call for assistance. She would wake up and squeeze my hand, smile, and then drift off again.
Wednesday morning several doctors and nurses managed to fit into the room where many of Mom’s sisters had joined us. Mom woke up and was incredibly clear and logical when she told her doctors to trust those of us who were making decisions on her behalf. She gave an eloquent and touching speech. We showed her photos of the hospice facility that we had arranged for her. Mom’s doctor told me that we had a few weeks or a few months, but he really couldn’t pinpoint how long the cancer would take to claim her life.
Weeks and months sounded like a blessing on one hand, yet a curse on the other. Mom was so awake and lucid that I clung to the words “a few months.” She looked so beautiful, had such a gorgeous pinkness to her cheeks, that most folks left the hospital. One of my cousins gave a tearful goodbye that broke my heart, thanking Mom for being so supportive and for always being such a shining example of how to be strong and independent, telling Mom that she would miss her desperately.
Honestly, I didn’t understand why she felt compelled to say goodbye like that when she was just going home to make dinner for her little boy. We still had months, dammit. Didn’t I hear the word months just this morning? (Yes, Cleopatra, you did hear those words. But you also heard, “Could be much quicker, we just don’t know.”)
Yet at 6 PM we moved Mom onto a stretcher and got her into the ambulance that would take her to the hospice facility we picked out. One of my aunts, also a nurse, rode with Mom while I drove my own car for the 45 minute journey. The sky was on the dark and rainy side, but not a drop fell during the drive north. A large great blue heron flew to my left, which was kind of odd considering that we were on a highway in Pennsylvania with no lake in sight. Mom loved great blues so I was comforted that we were doing the right thing by taking Mom to hospice even though it would be a bitch of a drive from my home after work every day. A long drive for who knew how long.
When we got Mom into her gorgeous new bedroom and were checking things out the rain started. A heavy downpour, complete with thunder and lightening. I asked someone to open a window because Mom had taught me to love storms, just as her dad had taught her to appreciate them. It must have been right around then that I realized Mom would be leaving me much sooner than I ever imagined. Much sooner than I was ready for. Fucking cliff, right there in front of me.
I called our huge family. Anyone who was in the Pittsburgh area rushed to us. Nurses kept giving Mom medicine as her pain did nothing except increase throughout Wednesday evening. The sounds of the rain and the fresh cool breeze were soothing as we sang to Mom, prayed with each other, talked to Mom and held her hand. I promised to make her proud.
As long as I live I will never forget the sound of my aunt’s voice when at midnight she whispered, “she’s gone.”
Interestingly enough, when I left the hospice facility around 1 AM there was not a drop of rain falling from the sky. I wanted desperately to be in the rain, to have the world cry with me, but it was as though Grandpap came in on a thunderstorm to get Mom, then left with her. At midnight. Fucking MIDNIGHT.
Way to go Mom. You did great. Way to set a magnificent example yet again, with such class, by stepping off a cliff at midnight. And forcing me to face my own cliff.
(I’m sorry I am not living up to the promise to make you proud, Mom. But I want to. I really, really do. Don’t give up on me yet. I just didn’t expect this cliff to be so high, nor this midnight so dark. I am in awe at the strength you exhibited your entire life. Because me? Not so strong. Yet I am your daughter and I will find away to get where I need to be. This blog is a start. Perhaps, like you, I just need to write a bit.)
on March 9th, 2008 at 1:49 AM
Even if you never write another blog post, all the work I’ve done to build you a site was worth it just for this entry.
Bravo. Beautiful, touching, and I’m sure your mother would be prouder than you can possibly imagine.
on March 9th, 2008 at 3:17 AM
you are too kind.
my favorite part of the site you designed? the huge moon, helping to light the midnight sky. it is awesome.
on March 9th, 2008 at 11:29 AM
Oh my dearest child, this is so beautiful, I am SO proud of your mom and SO SO SO proud of you. This is absolutely masterful. Well, well done, Becky.
on March 9th, 2008 at 12:29 PM
britt’s mom, when i hit the publish button sometime after midnight i somehow sent a thought out that i hoped you would read this. i can’t exactly explain why, but having you, a strong woman who is full of character, read my meager offering (and approve?) mattered. it just mattered. probably because so much of your writings could have been done by my mom. and probably because you raised a wonderful daughter. sure, my mom was older than you and had many different experiences, but you both share a phenomenal outlook on life. all of this is to say thank you for reading and thank you for commenting. i love that britt has your awesome self as her mom!
on March 10th, 2008 at 6:44 AM
Becky, I think your mom would be very, very proud of you. You are so kind and so encouraging and embrace life so fully that you inspire others to do so.
on March 10th, 2008 at 9:10 AM
daaaaaaaaaaaaaw, thanks britt
on March 10th, 2008 at 2:52 PM
This post brought tears to my eyes. Having known you for such a short period of time and having never met your mom, I can not tell you that I think she would be proud of the woman that you have become…I can tell you that I KNOW SHE WOULD HAVE BEEN PROUD OF YOU! God bless you, Becky…you sexy bitch!
on March 10th, 2008 at 3:25 PM
my dearest donnie van donnie mcpukerson - thank you for visiting my site…and reading that long ass post. you mean the world to me and you know i love ya. your comment is very appreciated. even the sexy bitch part. xoxo (did you like the photo of the two of us at the circus? as you know, i don’t have kids so i called mom and asked if i could be the kid so that we could catch ringling brothers. it was an awesome day.)
on March 10th, 2008 at 3:40 PM
Loved the photo. You favor her. Both lovely…
on March 10th, 2008 at 4:54 PM
I lost my mom when I was 25. I lost my dad 6 months later at 26. My daughter was born in 89. As a daughter, and as a mother, I have to tell you that I KNOW your mother is proud of you. How could she not be when you can express yourself in such a way about her? If you can bring tears to my eyes, just think how she must feel.
on March 10th, 2008 at 5:17 PM
winter - you are too kind. thank you for sharing your experiences. i can’t imagine losing both parents while you were so young.
again, it means a lot to me that you said such lovely things. xoxo
on March 11th, 2008 at 7:37 AM
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on March 11th, 2008 at 12:00 PM
a beautifully written tribute. This moved me to tears. thank you for sharing.
on March 11th, 2008 at 12:14 PM
mel, are you seriously saying i moved A PUBLISHED AUTHOR to tears? and said PUBLISHED AUTHOR says i wrote beautifully?!?? shitfuck, i can quit writing now, my job is done! (thanks for the kind words, mel. as you can tell, i value your opinion.)
on March 11th, 2008 at 12:36 PM
You might wanna wait until you read my book (let us pause for a brief plug: BITE ME, HarperCollins, Fall 2009) before you decide whether you value my opinion or not. LOL I could write shit.
on March 11th, 2008 at 1:01 PM
mel, i know your book won’t suck. and you had better make autographed copies available for purchase. (feel free to plug your book over here anytime) oh, hey…look over there on the sidebar! i added you and hilly. wheeeeeeeee!
on March 11th, 2008 at 7:05 PM
beautiful. well done girl, well done.
on March 11th, 2008 at 8:26 PM
I don’t know you, but after reading that post I can honestly say you’ve definitely made your mom proud. What an amazing tribute! I’ve got tears in my eyes.
on March 11th, 2008 at 8:59 PM
Awesome and beautifully written.
I think it is time for you to write your Mom’s story.
on March 11th, 2008 at 10:54 PM
heather, as bert and ernie would say, 10Q, 10Q, 10Q.
kristen, i didn’t mean to make your eyes leaky. although i could barely see at one point when writing! fortunately it poured out saturday after jester set the site up. didn’t take long at all to get it all out there. and i felt so much better after the fact. whew!
killerbaby, you know how much i value what you have to say. thank you. but do i really have to write mom’s story?!?!??!! can’t i say this is it and not go there? uggggggggggggh!
on March 12th, 2008 at 1:55 AM
What a wonderful tribute. I’m sure she is very proud of you. You are stronger than you think.
on March 12th, 2008 at 9:22 AM
That was amazing. I know your mom would have loved that you are writing.
I can’t wait to read more.
on March 12th, 2008 at 9:27 AM
This was a beautiful tribute, and I’m in awe of anyone brave enough to share such deep personal feelings with the world. Maybe you should think about writing that book, about your mom’s life. Seriously, think about it. If you can make tough cookies like Mel and Kristen tear up, you have a gift. (Me, I’m an easy sell. I cried in Terminator 2.)
on March 12th, 2008 at 10:27 AM
Augh! Becky!!!! You just made me cry!!! I’m seriously sitting at my desk crying and I NEVER CRY! I mean NEVER! Not even when Bambi’s mother died….
Obviously I just read the one about your mom last, but I read them all and I love it. You are definitely meant to be a blogger! =) Can I just tell you that YOU my friend are probably one of the best things that has come out of me working at FLIR all these years? Cuz you definitely are. (even if I hate the fact that you made me cry) I’m so happy our paths crossed! Sheep stone! =)
on March 12th, 2008 at 10:28 AM
See Pumpkin - Momma Bear taught you how to cliffdive afterall!
on March 12th, 2008 at 12:43 PM
gina, thanks. don’t feel strong, but if yinz keep saying i am perhaps i will start to believe it. yay, power of positive thinking! yay, the secret!
sar, you are so right. she loved writing, loved paper, loved the internet. and she loved you. very much.
louisa, welcome and thank you for your comment. but i don’t think i could write a book about mom’s life. first, it would be thick enough to stun an ox. second, and more importantly, i didn’t pay enough attention. i always thought i had more time. what a foolish thought. sigh. (mel and kristen are tough cookies? huh!)
monkey!!!! so sorry that i made you cry, but i do love that you stopped by my new site. because you? definitely sheep stone. (hmmm…maybe i will post that drawing tomorrow. hehe.) p.s. we are redoing the company website and mynew bio says something about the amazing friends i have made because of this job. that was totally a nod to you and the irish wonder with me at buffett! and do my dear friend donnie van donnie (you haven’t met him yet).
deb, i can’t even reply to you or i will start bawling. wait. i can do this. all i will say is that i am grateful for your friendship and you blew me away at mom’s memorial when you spoke. i’ll never forget that. if you need a kidney, i am trying to take ok care of mine.
(although i still think you could market those hugs that the kids made for mom. she ADORED them. what a huge pick me up they were to her.)
on March 23rd, 2008 at 11:19 AM
I had skimmed all of your blog entries a few days ago, but today I read this one thoroughly because — well, you know. I’m doing research.
This was beautifully written. You and I have this in common — we both see our late moms as heroes and rocks in our lives. Both of them made an impact on who were are now today. And both were independent for their time, making an impact on family and community in only the way they could.
I’m sure she’d be proud of what you’ve written and of all your accomplishments.
– S
on March 23rd, 2008 at 11:35 AM
thanks, shiny. very appreciated.
xoxo
on May 11th, 2008 at 11:03 AM
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on July 18th, 2008 at 7:34 PM
i did that hospice gig this nov
sucks
excellent tribute tho
on July 18th, 2008 at 11:45 PM
sage -
i really appreciate you taking the time to read this. thanks for the comment. and i sure do hate that you had to do hospice recently as well.
on August 6th, 2008 at 9:50 AM
I can certainly understand why you selected this post as your favorite to share. I believe your Mom would be very proud. Peace.
on August 6th, 2008 at 1:57 PM
I still have my mom but she’s not getting any younger. I’m sure your mom is proud of you and always has been. Moms love their children unconditionally and the love for your mother shines through in this post.
on August 7th, 2008 at 12:49 AM
willie -
your comment is so very appreciated, darlin. thank you.
summer -
this means a lot. thank you for taking the time to comment. next time you see your mudder, squeeze her extra hard for me, k?