Why was I born?

It was about ten years ago that I was sitting in the backyard with my father and brother while they smoked cigars. The topics of conversation ran the gamut, so I’m not certain what led to the statement I had never heard before. “You know, you were born to save your mother’s life.” my father said before he took a long drag from his stogie.

My mind started going through all the possible calculations as to what he could possibly mean. Something to do with a bone marrow transplant? No, I’m certain something like that would have come up in conversation at some point of my life, especially at a doctor’s appointment. I couldn’t fathom what he was referring to, but then he continued with his story.

“I knew something was wrong with your mother, so I took her to the doctor.” For the record, the year was 1963 so you are aware that this was a common thought back then. The doctor told my father that he, “should get her knocked up, that would change her hormones around and she would be happy again.” So, here I am, my mother’s filled prescription for depression Mid Century Modern style.

Growing up, I have memories of my mother laying on the sofa all day. I was under the impression that it was due to arthritis, but now I’m not so certain. I knew my mother could be eccentric, prone to crying and in the last decade of her life, she became a pack rat. By the time of her passing, there was literally only a path through the house. Stacks of papers and mending covered the tables, chairs and floors. There was a un-upholstered frame of a sofa sectional in the area between the living room and dining room that my mother intended to reupholster, but never did. Instead it became a catch all, slowly becoming an archaeological site collection of all things 1980’s.

She would always tell me, that when she died, I had to promise to go through all of her piles, not just throw everything away and that is exactly what I did. I believe I learned more about my mother by going through her piles of newspaper clippings, notes and whatnot than I would have ever been able to retrieve by having heartfelt conversations with her. For example, I found numerous clippings from want-ads for positions to work at a dry cleaners as a seamstress. I don’t believe she ever had the courage to work outside of the house, but thought of it often. She believed that taking care of the house and her family were her job. She once cried when I put a bowl of soup in the microwave for my dad. She said that meant that we didn’t need her anymore.

That moment happened shortly before she died of colon cancer. Technically, that is what ended her life, but more so I believe it was depression. She had refused to go to the doctor until the last days of her life. She finally agreed to go to an arthritis specialist. My father had told the doctor that no matter what, he was to admit my mother to the hospital for something. She was quickly diagnosed with cancer, eight days later, she was gone.

I was only twenty-one and didn’t have a clue about anything. My mother had done everything for the house and didn’t want me to help. I didn’t even know how to turn on the washing machine. During those last eight days, I had to learn how to become the woman of the house without the help of my mother. I distinctly remember kneeling in the living room, sobbing while folding her laundry and realizing that she would never be wearing those clothes again. I felt like I was trapped on a tiny island, helpless and there was nothing I could do to change what was happening. My mother was dying and I would be left alone to take care of the house and my father.

My father had an ulcer on his leg that required daily bandaging for at least a decade. Shortly before my mother went to the doctor, I saw her wrapping his leg and asked how she could that, that it was disgusting. She said, “Are you trying to tell me that you won’t take care of your father if something happens to me?” I said that I wouldn’t to which she replied knowingly, “No, you will be the one, you will take care of him.” I told her she was wrong and stormed off, but as always, she was right. I did end up taking care of my father till his final breathe, something I was honored to do.

Why was I born? I like to think that my birth allowed my mother to live an additional 21 years that she might not have if not for the need to take care of me until adulthood. She was a very sad soul, but also quirky, hard working, loving and dedicated to her family. I’ve heard stories about how she would take off and my dad would have to put the kids in the car and go looking for her, but that was before my time. I think she stopped doing that after I was born, I’ll never know why, but I’m glad she decided to stick around for me. Oh, and my siblings, but, well….for me. Thanks Mom.

#thelieswechoosetolivewith