 |
Web Hosting by Netfirms | Free Domain Names by Netfirms |
|
|
|
|
|
I take Mom's hand and entwine her small, fragile arm with mine. It is a miracle that she is here. Not because she's 83 and sliding deeper into dementia, her lymphoma kept at bay with radiation and chemo pills. But because it is a gift of time, in which I have discovered at last, the unconditional love I wanted from her all my life. So much water has passed under the bridge of our life together. Stormed it. Flooded it. Dried up and left the muck exposed and raw. And even when the surface appeared calm and routine, the undercurrents roiled, strong and deep. It is, of course, a matter of perspective, but as Mom determined to toilet train me by the age of one, as she persisted in changing me from a left hander to a right one, I felt abandoned on that bridge. Unable to understand the punishments and threats, I learned to hide from her. Going deep within my body, until a white noise like merciful soft hands would cover my ears, and her angry voice and the sound of my crying were far away. My fear and desperation for her love would only grow when, as a young child, the comparison began: "Why can't you be like your sister?" Though I didn't know the answer, I tried to be as much like her as I could. But eventually I would slip and -- swinging from the vine of a banyan tree, catching crayfish in the stream, roller-skating in the rain, throwing water bombs and screaming just out of reach of boys catch girls -- be me. Much as I found great joy in nature, running free, the world of pretend as my salvation; for my mother could not follow me there. I was Snow White, Cinderella, Robin Hood and Superman, and throughout the kingdoms of the world, all would find redemption in love and live happily ever. Only at night, when sleep would steal my consciousness, a horrid green witch would leap up at the foot of my bed, shaking it, laughing and laughing at my terror. And I would cry out to my father, night after night, to save me from her torment. Despite her relentless judgments, my mother's interest in me was piqued when I became a teen and my social life blossomed. But it was too late. The more she sought to know, the more I pulled away. And when she trespassed into my diary, I retreated into the darkness of my heart. Still, I secretly dreamed of emerging transformed, once I figured out how to be just like my sister. Then at last, I would surely win my mother's love. Instead, after 15 years of required silence in the face of the same, rhetorical question, a torrent of anger and hurt burst through one day as a long, wretched scream. And then I shrieked, "I can't be like her, because I'm not her. I'm me! I'm me! I'm me!" We were both stunned by my insubordination -- and the truth. But my insight instantly turned to guilt and a different kind of fear, as my mother began to scream and pull at her hair. Such were the formative years of my relationship with Mom, now so long ago. Today, we are walking arm in arm, hand in hand. In my bag are seven small candies, a treat for each day of the week, if she remembers; if not, they will be gone by dinner. I have packets of Wash and Dri for sticky fingers, Kleenex for a runny nose and other spills and rips on her clothes. I a cooler bag, are treasured bits of mango, a special treat. The questions come in waves -- what happened to the house in Hilo, where is she supposed to live, did she forget her purse, what day is today, all the basics we must establish, over and over again. I pray that I'll be patient, more this time than the last. That I will find something to eat that she'll love. That I will be funny so she will laugh. That she will have such a good time, she might remember us together, at least for today. I brace for the unexpected. Remembering her last outburst, "Oh so fat, fat, fat!" -- about someone just a few feet away. Remembering when she grabbed a little girl and planted a big kiss on her frightened face. Remembering the last time, late to the doctor's, I tried to quicken her pace, only to have her abruptly sit on the steps and utter a cry as though she had fallen. Strangers had rushed to her side. Stink eyes for the bad daughter. Admonishments to take better care of her. And over their heads, bent solicitously to help her, she flashed me a triumphant smile. The green witch, whose embattled wisp of a body and mind like Swiss cheese have not diminished power over me. My stomach knots as I fume. Sometimes I want to cry. Sometimes I'm afraid. But it is in these moments, from threats of killing herself to the soft, sad dreams of Dad, and the inexorable leave-taking of her cherished memories, that I have come to see I am doing the best I can. And so is she. And always has. And in forgiveness, I have found the unconditional love I so yearned for from Mom, waiting for me, within.
|
|
or search Google.com
***
EDITOR'S NOTE: Peggy Kusano passed away suddenly on November 24, 1999 at the age of 52. She was that amazing and unique kind of person whose Spirit shined so clearly and perfectly through everything she said and did. Unconditional Love was what Peggy was best at conveying. It was through her continual encouragement and support that ILLUMINATIONS became a living, breathing reality. In addition to the honorable, highly recognized and valued work in writing and counseling she undertook, she further contributed so tangibly to many, many lives with the tenderness of her strength and her loving wisdom and generosity. We will all miss her very, very much...
|
