My mother is dying.
This is the only thought in my mind consistently throughout the day and night.
The first night, after mysteriously keeping my wits through five hours of class and about thirty text messages exchanged with my panicked brother mixed in, I sobbed in my car. I turned on some music really loud and just wailed. I blamed myself for moving away because maybe I could've caught her illness early enough to be treated if I had been there. I blamed myself for not answering the phone when she called me last weekend while I was in bed with the flu because maybe she would've told me that she was feeling sick too and I could've told my brother to take her to the doctor then, before her kidneys were almost shut down. There was so much I wished I would've done differently to save her. I felt so guilty for having my own life and pursuits and goals independent from my mother. I know how illogical that is, but it didn't stop those feelings. It didn't even minimize them. By the time I stepped into my apartment, I'd come around to, 'At least I will outlive her. At least she can be happy that she didn't have to bury another child.' That was the only comforting thought I had at the time. It may still be the only one. I'm not really sure.
I don't know how I feel. I have spent the better part of my life grieving. After my father died, I died too. I didn't really feel joy after that. I mostly did good things to keep my mother off my back. She nagged me incessantly. I never accomplished enough for her praise; there was only ever criticism. If there was one detail out of place, the entire body of work was a failure. So, I lived my life believing that was what I was - a failure, a mistake, a burden. She always told me that was what I was, even when I was still young enough to believe that I could possibly be good enough to please her and somehow make her see that I deserved her love. As I approached adulthood, we grew even further apart emotionally. I often cried after fighting with her because I began to understand that the mother I thought she'd become when I was finally good enough never existed. I would never be good enough. She would never take me in her arms,kiss me and tell me she loved me. She would never give me a compliment without a manipulation. There would always be a hidden agenda with her. I could never trust anything she said and SHE WOULD NEVER CHANGE. I had to change. I had to close the door and lock it so she'd stop using it to attack me and crush my poor little heart. I didn't want to. I fought with myself about it. I'd beat myself up every time she hurt my feelings because I should've known better. I still do it now sometimes. Yes, she still plays the manipulation games. As I said, she will never change. Even as she faces the end of her days, she will not change. I am a fool if I believe that she will.
I am in a very tight spot financially. I just just spent the little bit of savings I had going home for Thanksgiving, and the flu prevented me from working for over a week so I really need to hustle to make rent. I cannot afford to go home again anytime soon, and I damn sure cannot afford to stay there for God knows how long. I really want her to start taking care of herself so she can have a better quality of life, but I'm afraid that is another one of those changes I'm hoping for in vain.
So I wait. I wait for the next report from the doctor, my brother's next freak out, a sign from the universe, something, I don't know what. I just wait.
