So, I had the best mother’s day EVER this year!!! It was my husband’s 52nd birthday. Wow as I write that, it sounds old to me, of course it’s not—but, considering that my early marker of what was “old” is my Grandparents, that’s not an odd statement. My grandfather was 50 when I was born and my grandmother 49 and growing up they were the oldest people I knew.
We spent the day with Marc’s family and grandkids who probably also view their grandfather and his wife, “Mimi”, as old. This alone would have been a great day. Spending time with family is everything, especially on mother’s day. But, it got better!
My daughter, Meg, who lives in Columbus where she is pursuing her undergraduate studies at The Ohio State University in animal sciences and chemistry, and will go on to Veterinary School, came up to spend the afternoon with us and then go with us to the Pearl Jam show. My love of PJ is subject for another blog, but for her entire 21 years, Meg has been subjected at nauseam to every prolific, soulful word Eddie has ever written. Oh and that voice! She actually came to resent my incessant obsession with all things PJ….and, as a result, they became her least favorite band. But this mother’s day she couldn’t think of a better thing to do with her mother than go, on mother’s day, to a PJ show. Why? Because when she was 16 we went to Disney World for our birthdays (Meg’s birthday is the day after mine). She had to keep up with me running from ride to ride and collecting autographs. And, when we returned she said to my husband, that the best part of the trip was seeing a smile of pure joy of her mother’s face for an entire week straight. She knew she would see that smile on my face again at the PJ show. (ironically PJ took an audience fan request that night…a song called “smile”)
One thing I didn’t do this mother’s day, was visit my own mother. For once, in a long time, it wasn’t because I didn’t want to, but rather because it just didn’t fit into the day I had been planning for months. That might sound selfish but one thing that I’ve learned after years of trying to do it all to the point of my own mental and physical health, is you have to learn to say no. Given the physical toll the day was going to take on my handicapped husband, and myself assisting him, I knew our limits to the days’ activities. So something, the visit with my mom, had to give.
Quite honestly, a few months ago, when I made these plans, I couldn’t even imagine that I would want to see her on this day. I have a very strained and complex relationship with my mother. My early childhood memories of her consist of her buying me pretty things--fancy dresses, shoes and accessories and styling my long straight auburn hair—basically making me up like a baby doll. But, damn do I look good in my baby pictures!
Essentially, during this period, I was a plaything to her and for the most part, I don’t recall her being there. Might be because she really wasn’t. She was institutionalized for a better part of my early childhood and in retrospect, those “baby doll” memories were special occasions—Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving or rather, days she was allowed to participate in “home visits.” And, even when she was home for extended periods of time, she was more a babysitter. Most of my “mother” memories from this period are of my grandmother.
My grandparents obviously knew that my mother was sick. Seriously sick. Not her fault. She had serious emotional problems that in her young adulthood, she tried to escape through alcohol; then adding a baby to the mix, with no father in sight, when she was just 22 years old, certainly didn’t help matters. As luck would have it, my mother was diagnosed with MS when I was a year old. Needless to say in her fragile emotional state, she didn’t handle it well and made her first of many attempts to take her life.
Tough choices. My grandparents took me in as their own, but they still did try to do what was best for their daughter, get her the help she needed, and as a result gave her the space and autonomy they felt she could handle. After 13 kids, I can’t imagine they were particularly interested in adding one more to the bunch. They had good hearts, faith in God, and like most parents tried to nurture, guide and support their daughter as she struggled to recover and make a stable life for herself and their granddaughter.
So, when I was around four-years old, after they felt that she was stable enough, they let take that step toward autonomy. They let her take me out of the house and move out with their daughter Patty, who by that time also had an infant daughter, Michelle. My grandmother continued to watch both babies during the day and on weekends, as her daughter’s worked and partied like 20-something year-olds should. The best thing I can say about this “experiment” was that Michelle & I grew up sisters.
When I was eight, everything changed. On February, 13, 1977, during one of the worst blizzards on Cleveland record, my grandfather’s second stroke, at the age of 57, claimed his life. In October, eight short months later, my grandmother was diagnosed with cancer and lost her life on April 5, 1978, also at age 57. And, from that point on, I was left solely to the care of my mother.
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