Be a Better Me

My mother had incurable brain cancer. I clung to the one line I heard the doctor say: “It wasn’t an immediate death sentence.” She lived for three years with it.  I felt she would live for decades. After all, who would sit by me on New Year’s Eve and examine our resolutions from that year and share in the excitement of what is ahead? Who would help me define my resolutions for the following year? And, laugh or admonish me for not meeting the goals of the past year? Who would impart upon me words of wisdom that I ignored? 

Since I was ten years old, we met over the holiday week. A couple of years we met over Skype, twice we sat on a beach drinking Bloody Marys, and once we were next to my grandmother’s hospital bed as she lay dying from a long battle with breast cancer. But, all other years, we met in “our space.” Snuggling up on the couch, watching the sunshine in through the window, and watch the snowfall. Our conversations usually started with a platitude on how to become a better person.

 My mother didn’t believe in resolutions, but she expected me to be a better me each year. Her first resolution at the top of her list each year was, “ I will be with my daughter every New Year’s eve.”

Three years ago. Momism: “ Never regret looking back on the decisions you made.

My mom was a fantastic artist. The first day she met my dad, she was sitting in the commons at their university, sketching. By the end of her senior year, they knew she had a talent for creating beautiful artwork that needed to be shared. Immediately after marrying at 22, they built her a studio behind the house. Two art galleries in the city soon displayed her work. She even sold two pieces to a collector. Mom told me many times of the feeling of walking into her studio; the smells of yesterday’s painting, the messes that were her messes, and the sunlight streaming in the window promising another day of happiness.

Then she became pregnant. 

Mom said she wanted to be the best mother. She turned her studio into a playroom, adapting her private room to a shared space with me. I asked mom if she regretted giving up on her dream. She told me,” You are my dream. Each day I can smell and see what we created together. The sun shined even more brightly with happiness when you began sharing my space with me. It is now our space. No regrets.”

That first year of her illness, she wanted a head-shaving party. I hadn’t seen her laugh so hard since her diagnosis as she did when she handed all her guest’s scarves. She wanted them to learn how to wear the latest “cancer” turban. As we watched her beautiful hair fall to the floor, the room became quieter. The laughter died down. In the silence, we looked away so she would not see our tears. But, mom’s voice broke up the quiet when she said, “Well, the only regret I have now is wasting all my money on coloring my hair all these years. I look pretty good bald!”

She just finished her first round of chemo on New Year’s Eve. Mom talked about “chemo brain.” Sometimes she would find herself in a room and not remember why she was there. She took to writing herself notes in the notepads she kept handy. Her artistic self came out; her notes were little sketches of what she is doing or thinking. She was worried about what might slip away from her thoughts.  It was in one of those pads we wrote out our resolutions for next year.

Our resolutions took on a new meaning this year. My list from last year seems so irrelevant:  1. Read one autobiography a week and discuss it with mom. 2. Three days a week, I will make my coffee at home in the morning. 3. Volunteer at the library once a month.

Mom asked,” Which one of these made you a better person? Did you keep any of these resolutions?” 

 “Yes, I did go to the library each month and read to the children. The made me better.” 

She smiled at me.

Of course, Mom accomplished all her resolutions but was not interested in talking about them. She wanted to pledge her next year’s resolution. I think she was too tired this year for our usual talk that would typically have lasted through the night. 

“My most important resolution is to be here with you next year to hear how you became a better person. Another resolution for me is to not dwell on what could have been but pay attention to what is.” Mom dozed off after she wrote this in her notepad. I then added mine. “I will meet my mom here on this couch next New Year’s Eve.”

Two years ago: Momism:  Know who you are with all the good and the bad that comes with it.

This year the diagnosis stole her beauty. Although her hair came back full of grey curls after her surgery, her face and head remained swollen for weeks. On her good days, her smile would be lopsided. I don’t think the smile and laughter I grew up with ever really came back.  There is no party with her friends this year. Mom apologized to me for her anger, her wanting to give up, and mostly for her sadness. But, she would come out of the painful haze and have many days and even weeks when I could pretend the nightmare is over. She would tell me to remember I have to take the bad with the good. Look past what does not make you better.

December 31st that year, Mom reread her one resolution she made last year. Tonight we sat on the couch together in our place. She had accomplished this resolution. We had a moment of silence; both lost in our thoughts.

She then asked me what did I do last year that made me a better person. I wanted to throw my list at her and scream; it doesn’t matter anymore. My only resolution is to try to do what I can to help her feel better.

But, mom, being mom, said, “You always make me feel better. But what have you done to make yourself better?”

One of my resolution for last year was to visit the local pediatric cancer ward and read to the children once a month. “I don’t know if I made myself better, but those kids taught me to find the good in each day because it might be harder to find it tomorrow.”

She smiled at me.

Then mom shared with me a picture she drew of her next resolution. It was a picture of us sitting in our space snuggling under the quilt she made us years ago while we were sipping tea. The curtains were open; the sunshine was touching our faces as we looked out at the snow. She drew herself not as “cancer mom” or me crying. But us both wearing ugly Christmas sweaters and laughing. Also, in the drawing next to the window hung a large calendar with January 1st circled and flying out the window. She could look at this resolution hanging on her fridge to remind herself to meet me here on New Years Day.

We agreed years ago to have personal resolutions, but we silently agreed we would share the same one for the next year this year.

One year ago: Momism: Surround yourself with things and people who make your life better and never settle for less.

This year, my mom decided to stop the treatments taking her from living each day she has left. She said she misses me and our time together. Mom knew I was holding back sharing with her what is going on in my life. I was. I felt she needed her energy for herself and not listening to my problems. Little did I know it was causing her more stress.  Mom was not an intrusive mom. She didn’t give unwanted advice about my relationships. Sometimes she would gently nudge me towards an outcome I didn’t see for myself. But, this time, there was no nudge; it was a push.

Mom used an unyielding voice with me that day. “ You are holding back the pain you are going through and not telling me! I will not be gentle because I don’t have time to let you figure it all out yourself. I am telling you to look at this relationship. Is it helping you be a better person? “  

“No, this relationship has been draining me.” Finally, all my pent up frustrations flowed smoothly into our space we shared. I tripped over my words because there were so many things I needed to say out loud. Instead of me wanting to make my mom feel better, she once again knew what I needed. And it also turned out to be what she needed.

She smiled at me. 

That News Years eve, we did not sit on the couch together in our space. We were in the hospital where she was getting what she called ‘energized”. She needed fluids and oxygen. When first diagnosed, mom was told she had 2-3 years to live. Even though this was year three, I still felt we had plenty of time. I thought we would have the chance to have all the conversations we needed.  But as I looked at the clock, I turned to her and said, “You made your New Years’ resolution, mom. We are together!”  She smiled.

“What did you do last year to make you a better person?” she whispered.

“I listened to you. I didn’t regret my decisions. I know by excepting my bad days, the good days will only be better. I surrounded myself with things and people who made me better. “

She smiled again. “My resolution still is and always will be spending New Year’s Eve with my daughter and find out how she became a better person that year.” 

After I climbed into her bed, I covered us up with the quilt I brought from our special place. I resolve to create our special place within my heart to be with mom, especially when I need a nudge. I wrote it down in one of the notepads she brought with her.

This year : Momism: There is always room to be a better person. Always.

Mid-January, Mom died. We didn’t have time to say goodbye the way we wanted to. I had gone home for a few days because she seemed to be having a few more lucid pain-free days. We had one last phone call. I could barely hear her; she sounded so exhausted. I don’t remember much of that call except she told me how much she loved me. I was able to hear her say she would see me in our special place.

The next months flew by. Each day I look at the picture mom drew of us in our special place. It is hanging on my fridge. It is my reminder to be better. Do better. Help others be better. This year I turned my porch into my special place. The walls display Mom’s artwork, a comfortable couch with our quilt thrown over the back, and a window that is large enough to bring the sunshine to my face. This year I am alone in the room, but I have a secret to tell mom. 

“I accomplished my resolution, mom. Remember it was to be better?  I have quit my job and toxic relationship. I now am the director of the hospitality of the local pediatric cancer center. Each day I find time to read to the kids. In the evenings, I sit in my living room with my new partner who loves me and does not want me to change. But, most importantly, my resolution for next year will be the same one you always used. “I will be with my daughter every New Year’s eve.” Mom, I am going to have a baby.”

Just then, the sun shone through the cloudy winter sky and touched my face making me smile.

Yes, mom, I do feel you sitting next to me this New Year’s Eve.