Mom Did the Best She Could in Her Brokenness
I grew up in a bungalow on a tree lined street. My dad went to work every day. My little brother and I went to Lutheran school on a school bus. I went to the public library and carried home stacks of books. I played dolls with the neighborhood girls. We skated up and down the sidewalks. My mom sewed all my clothes, with doll clothes to match. She made tuna casserole and donuts. Sometimes my family would go to the country to visit our grandparents on their farm. On Sundays my family went to church. It was an idyllic childhood in the 1950s.
Except inside, my childhood was broken. My mom had trouble with what was called then “nerves,” and she had colitis. Sometimes she never got out of bed. Sometimes she was very sick. Sometimes she was very mean, and sometimes she was violent.
Sometimes she locked us out of the house. Sometimes I had to get myself and my brother ready for school; on really bad days, I got us ready in the backyard. I didn’t exactly understand if my dad even knew. She was better in the evenings, but sometimes the neighbor lady made our dinner. My dad always put us to bed; he read to us and sang us lullabies.
The summers were the most broken times. She would get more agitated and sick until she had to go to the hospital. Then a relative would come to get us and we would stay with my grandparents, and then go to another relative’s, and then another. I heard my aunts argue over who was going to have to take us next. I kept our suitcases tidy and told my brother it was going to be all right.
Once my aunt and uncle drove us to Kansas City to see Mom and Daddy. I didn’t know she wasn’t at the hospital. She had so many pill bottles by her bed. She looked at me like a ghost. I cried. I hardly ever cried.
My mom got more stable after we grew up. She and my dad had good years, and especially enjoyed traveling all over the United States in their camper. She adored the grandchildren, but I could feel those broken edges come out in her when they were “too much.” I kept my children safe.
I went to therapy, lots of therapy, and slowly learned that I was not responsible for her being broken. I began to reclaim the happier memories, the good skills and sense of humor from my mom. I learned to trust that even in the morning, my loved ones weren’t going to hurt me, and that people could be more consistently reasonable and loving. I still have cracks and soft places, but they don’t surprise me.
Early onset Alzheimer’s began to destabilize my mother’s mental condition before she was 60; her last ten years are beyond description. At last, she was released from this troubled life. I visit her grave in the family cemetery, high on an Ozark bluff above the river. I leave her little things she loved—angel figures, rocks with holes, a tiny statue of liberty. She was my mom, even when she was broken. She did the best she could.
- Mom Did the Best She Could in Her Brokenness - March 12, 2012
- The Quest that Brought Me Here - October 25, 2011
