May 10, 2013

• Mothers and Daughters….

  From May ’09

  “I don’t understand mother and daughter relationships,” I replied to a friend telling me that his oldest child and his wife fight frequently because they’re so much alike. It’s because I’m a motherless daughter. There’s a lot of unpacked emotions behind that phrase “motherless daughter” and the consequences resulting from my mother’s death in childbirth the summer I was fourteen still linger with me.

  I sat at the doctor’s office and watched two women off in a corner. The older one, frail and in a wheelchair, fretfully answered the questions her daughter asked, as if she had no right to ask them and resented her intrusion. The daughter rephrased the questions and offered suggestions such as, “Mother, you might want to ask him…” or “If you say something like- could you PLEASE…”, but the old cranky woman waved her off with her good hand, the other in a sling. And then, they did a dance they must have done since the daughter was a teenager. I watched as her eyes flashed, as her cheeks flushed, and as she took a deep breath while her mother said, “You don’t understand me. You never understood me. You-”. Aware that they were in public, the daughter tried to shush her quietly, but the old woman was on a roll. “You think I’m stupid. You think my brain isn’t working. My brain works fine. You’re the stupid one-”

  “Mother, let’s just not talk anymore,” the daughter insisted.

  A little while later, the older woman wanted out of her wheelchair. The daughter lovingly helped her out and moved the chair out of the way of the rest of the waiting room. She returned to her seat which her mother had claimed, a pleased smile on her face. “Why did you take my seat when the one next to me is empty?”

  “I wanted this one,” the mother said fiercely. The daughter gathered up her belongings and sat down next to her mother as my name was called by the nurse.

  Waiting for Dr. Tim, I had a long time to think about the altercation. It was one of many in the life of that daughter. Countless times she’d been ridiculed, put down, humiliated by the overbearing woman in the wheelchair. At one point, the daughter said, “Mother, it’s not what you say, it’s how you say it!” No, I thought- what she says is just as important. And yet… the daughter is here, setting aside her own life, issues, responsibilities to accompany her mother on one more doctor visit. At 89, the old woman will never change. She will never take responsibility for the way she treats others, and yet, her daughter is hanging in there- not cursing the old woman out, but speaking gently and firmly to her.

  At Borders, I’m in the manga section because I have a 30% coupon and a young teen and her mother walk past me. The daughter is chattering away about some event that happened at school, and the mom is listening and making wise comments back. They stop in the manga section and the mother spots a new volume. “Did you read this yet?” she asks.

  “Yeah, Becky bought it and I borrowed it,” the daughter replied.

  Behind me in line while I wait to pay for another “How to learn Chinese” book, a four year child spots the small toy horses. “Can I have one of those toy horses for my birthday, Mommy? Can I? Can I? Or maybe a frog? I like frogs! Frogs are cute. Horses are cute. Can I have one for my birthday?”

  The mother ignores her and continues reading from the book she had rushed in to buy while the child fingers a spotted pony. Slowly she sets it back, puts a finger in her mouth, and leans against her mother. “Take your finger out of your mouth,” the mother says, not even looking down.

  I went to lunch with the women from my water aerobics class today and listened to them talk about their lives and their pasts. I don’t understand women. I don’t understand why they dry their hair and then curl it after swimming. I don’t understand why they think make up makes them look pretty or why they find the need to cover up their face. I don’t understand why they talk about ordering salads and losing weight but then order something different. I don’t understand why a mother can’t just fork over the $2.99 for another silly toy that will end up in the back of the closet. The whole code to woman is something passed down mother to daughter and mine broke too soon for me to decipher it.

  What I do understand is the need to be accepted by your mother, the need to love her- right or wrong, the need to have her in your life even when it hurts, and the pain that losing her will bring to you regardless of how old you are. Maybe that’s part of the missing code… that loving someone even when they’re not perfect is ok.

  Currently Motherless Daughters: The Legacy of Loss, Second Edition By Hope Edelman see related

  • 5:52 pm
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