I called Mom and Dad as I was driving home earlier this week. Now that I'm back in Los Angeles and across the country from them, I try to call at least once a day for my own peace of mind as well as theirs: I want them to know that I'm still here for them, but I also choose to be invested in their lives, despite the distance.
And that evening, as I drove home, something wonderful happened: Dad picked up the phone and was crystal clear, absolutely clear in a way I'd not heard him in a many months — he was speaking loudly enough so that I could hear him, he was speaking in full sentences, and... he was making sense. To suddenly and unexpectedly have my Dad back, to be able to clearly hold a conversation with him… Well, it was profoundly moving to the point of tears since that rarely happens any more.
That's the good news.
The bad news is that what he discussed with me was heart-breaking. He told me that he and Mom had fought the previous night, after eating dinner with friends. "She yelled and screamed at me for about fifteen minutes; then, she said the thing I've been waiting for her to say, afraid that she would say..."
"What was that, Dad?" I asked.
"She told me that I was the reason that she has cancer. She said I caused it, that she's sick because of me." I felt pain, a deep pain in my gut. The pulse in my neck seemed like a rock concert. My depth perception did that weird thing you see in the movies where the camera is pulled away from the subject while it simultaneously zooms in. The traffic around me morphed into something more like a video game than real life. I took a breath and spoke what was in my heart:
"I'm so sorry, Dad."
"It's not your fault, babe."
"I know it’s not, Dad, but… Mom sometimes takes out her anger on you and me and others, but: that wasn't nice, it wasn't appropriate and it wasn't true, Dad. You're not to blame for Mom having cancer. And she's not to blame for you having Lewy Body Disease. I’m very upset with her for what she said. I want to say something to her.”
“I would appreciate it if you didn’t,” Dad said. I was rendered speechless for ten seconds. My Dad actually asked if I was still on the line. After all of the things he’d asked me to say to Mom during my six-week visit home — that she should consider therapy, that she needed to have some support group, that she needed to face her fears about Dad’s dying and her own mortality — to have him now request that I not say anything was surprising. And upsetting.
“Well… to be honest, I don’t know if I should have asked for your approval, Dad. Something needs to be said to Mom. That’s not OK what she said to you...” But Dad again requested otherwise and, as he was of clear mind, I told him that I would honor his request. I didn’t want to, but I gave my word, told him that I loved him and we ended the call. When I hung up, I remember thinking that all I wanted was to dishonor Dad's request and find some excuse to talk about what had happened with my Mom. I got my excuse the next morning.
On the way out the door to bike to work (and, yes: some of us do bike to work in Los Angeles), I called Mom to say a quick hello. She was at the doctor’s receiving one of her infusions. I hadn’t remembered that she’d had an appointment. And, since Mom is constitutionally incapable of not picking up her phone when it rings, she answered, sounding tired and weak. This caught me off-guard. But not as much as her almost immediately asking me, “So what did you and Dad talk about last night?”
Here was my excuse. If Dad was upset, I could just tell him that Mom had asked me a direct question and that I’d given her a direct answer. Only… I stalled. I told Mom that I'd just called to say "hi" and that we’d have to talk later since I was heading into work. Which was only partially true. The full truth is that I stalled because I was angry. Really angry. Beyond angry, actually. I was incredulous and fuming and I wanted to read Mom the riot act and say, "Are you fucking KIDDING me? You're blaming your husband because you have cancer? You're screaming at someone who is physically and emotionally defenseless? Fuck you. I don't CARE if you have cancer. Go fuck yourself for saying shit like that to my Dad."
Only saying shit like that to my Mom wasn't going to help. Not at that moment. I wasn’t prepared to have a difficult and emotional conversation while she was in such a weakened state and in a hospital, receiving an infusion of drugs. I needed to cool off, to take some time to think and strategize. Which I did. For about four days. And during that time I thought: would Mom really have told Dad that he was to blame for her cancer? Possibly. Would there be another side to the story that Dad hadn’t mentioned to me? Possibly. Would Mom be upset if I asked her about the incident? Probably.
And so it came to pass that later that week — when we both found the time to chat — that I told Mom how Dad had related their having a fight earlier in the week.
“We absolutely did,” she said.
“Do you want to tell me what happened?” I asked.
“Well, Dad was being very difficult after dinner. He wouldn’t do what I politely asked him to do and I got very angry with him. And resentful.” I waited for her to continue. She didn’t.
“What was it that you were asking him to do?”
“Basic things. Not sitting in a chair and falling asleep all day, not putting his hands in his food when eating… But he was just being disagreeable and I can’t take it anymore. I got angry and let him know that I couldn’t take it anymore.”
“Did you say anything to Dad that you regret,” I asked, giving her the opportunity to say more.
“No.” I waited for her to continue speaking, but she didn't.
Now lookit: Mom's stubborn, impatient and often navigates life by fear and anxiety, but she's no idiot. She probably already knew the rest of the story that Dad had told me. So, I took a deep breath and asked the $64,000 question. Actually, it was a statement, not a question, although - to my credit - I made it into a question at the very last moment in my own retarded awkwardness by raising my voice at the end of the statement like when a two-year-old asks for a cookie:
“Well...Dad told me that you blamed your having cancer on him?” Mom didn't hesitate for a moment.
“That’s absolutely correct. He’s the reason that I have cancer. All of the years that I’ve been taking care of him and dealing with his illness have made me ill. That’s how I feel. That’s just how I feel. That’s the truth.”
I began stumbling out a response as waves of anger rolled over me.
“Mom, I know that - deep down - you probably don’t feel that...” I stopped myself and re-calculated. “Here’s what I think, Mom: I don’t think that Dad caused your cancer anymore than you caused his Lewy Body Disease. And I think you know that. And I think that maybe... you let your very understandable feelings and frustrations get the best of you in this case."
I waited for a response. There was none. So I continued.
"Mom, Dad's disease makes him sleep almost instantly, he falls over, he needs constant supervision and can't even get himself dressed, undressed or bathed without help. Do you think that maybe you're expecting too much from him right now?"
"I don't think so…"
"Mom…?"
"I don't know." And now the part I'd prepared before hand.
"I don't blame you for getting upset at Dad, Mom, I got upset at Dad while I was home. You saw it yourself. It's incredibly challenging and upsetting to be around him. All of us know that, Mom. All of us. You're allowed to be upset and angry and sad and bitter and feel like you want to punch someone. It makes perfect sense."
"Thank you…" I heard some sniffles on the other end of the line. A chink in the armor had appeared. I made a plea.
"But Mom, you can't say things like that to Dad. It's not fair to him and it's not true. And you know that. And I know that you know that. So, please: if you get upset, maybe… maybe just walk away for a minute until you can cool off? Call me and vent to me, instead. I'm here for you. We all are."
And then the tears came. Someone had understood. Maybe not entirely, maybe not from her unique perspective, but someone had understood and had told her so. And with that understanding, promises. Promises that she'd try, that she'd work on venting to me instead of at Dad, that she'd attempt to see him for what he was, not for what she desperately wanted him to be. And, even though I knew the effort wouldn't last, I told Mom thank you and that I loved her.
And in that moment… I did. I'd said what I'd needed and even managed to connect deeply with Mom in the process. A huge victory. For both of us.
I pulled up to my apartment as we finished talking. I parked and remained in the car, absent-mindedly watching the traffic stream past my window, metallic blood cells winding their way to another part of the city's growing body. In another minute I'd make my way upstairs, be greeted by two hungry and affectionate cats and settle in for the warm July evening. But, for now, I allowed the rhythm of the city to lull me into a sense of peace before leaving the peace of my car.
No comments:
Post a Comment