Another Layer of Healing

We think we have all the time in the world to address an uncomfortable relationship or situation. It’s in our human nature to put off addressing those sorts of problems. My mom and I weren’t as close as I wanted us to be. It wasn’t until she was in care for Alzheimer’s disease much later in both our lives that I enjoyed our relationship.

What made the difference? Growing up, I was acutely aware of a rift between my mom and me. Remember your first crush? You fantasize about a touch, or your eyes connect briefly across a room as if that act was too intimate to hold. You both avoid conversation, afraid it might ignite something bigger. We loved each other from a distance like that, but there was no doubt about who I was. I was her daughter who arrived exactly nine months after my mom and dad were married. My first home was a small apartment, and my bed was a drawer in a dresser.

My mom taught me many things, like how to do laundry in a wringer washing machine and to climb up on the deck railing to hang the clothes on the line. She made polishing the old wood floors so much fun as we did the twist to music with cloths under our feet. Making a great cup of tea was close to a sacred ritual. Heat the teapot, rinse and throw the hot water out, then pour just about boiling water over the tea. Don’t rush the process. Let it sit until it blooms to the right colour before removing the bag or strainer. Add milk and maybe sugar. Clinking the cup while you stirred the tea was a mortal sin.

She was an accomplished cook and made wonderful meals, bread, muffins, cookies, cakes, pies, squares, and holiday treats. After school I was so hungry I would wolf down anything she had made that day. Sweet and moist cornbread dripping with butter, sausages, potatoes, and peas from our garden was my favourite meal. Unfortunately, I didn’t learn to cook from her, probably because I was busy with my dad in his woodworking shop. I learned how to make porridge from my dad, who would make it every morning because he and I were the only ones who liked it. She introduced me to cream puffs made from scratch by a local grocer. Still to this day, I can taste those cream puffs and salivate at the memory of their goodness.

When I grew up and left home, there were no cell phones to keep in touch, but at least twice a year I went back home. She would make me my favourite desserts: tapioca or rice pudding and custard. She always hung the sheets on the line to dry before putting them on my bed. The scent of line-dried linens was as wholesome as the fresh-picked flowers on the bedside table. She knew what I loved and was making an effort, so why couldn’t I experience that bond, that closeness I craved?

Maybe I expected more depth from our relationship. We could never talk candidly with each other like I speak with my daughters today. It was an unspoken rule. On one of those trips back home, I remember vividly the day she suddenly shared a confession. We were walking side by side when she started speaking. I didn’t dare look at her.

I don’t know why I always served lunch and dinner to your dad at the same time every day. They were routines I began when we were first married, and now I feel duty bound.

Pursed lips belied her uneasiness. Her eyes glazed over as she disappeared into another memory. I offered, Surely you could start by putting a sandwich in the fridge for him to eat when he felt hungry?

The gist of our conversation was that she blamed herself for setting up the expectation and believed it was too late to change that routine. It was her duty. I was speechless. She had said nothing critical of him in my presence, ever. Was she trying to get closer to me by divulging some imbalance between herself and my father?

As her memory faded and the relentless disease gradually consumed her, our relationship saw little growth. I can’t imagine the terror and helplessness she felt. It was heart-breaking for my father. He was losing his life’s partner, his confidant, his love. I was losing my mother, but I’d already lost her somewhere in my childhood. It occurred to me that there was an opportunity for me to respond to her differently despite her disease because she didn't remember who I was. I could remember who she was in the present moment, but would that be a satisfying relationship for both of us?

Shopping trips were fun. She insisted on purchasing multiple cans of sardines for her husband’s lunch despite at least two stacks of them already in the pantry. As she put the cans in her cart, I put them all back as she wandered ahead. When people who knew her were upset she didn't recognize them, we talked about memory loss, and I asked them for their memories of her. Sometimes Mom would remember. If she didn’t, I talked about how this was a wonderful opportunity to remember who she was and enjoy the time with her. Our relationship improved to the point I felt comfortable with her.

Once she was in a care facility, our visits were not long, but they were healing times for me. I knew she felt my presence in the empathic sense of knowing and was sure healing took place for her, too. As she died, I received a powerful healing, sparking such joy and relief. I believed our relationship had completely healed. I didn’t realize healing could occur in layers.

The day I learned about layers of healing—many years after she died—I had a strong compulsion to read a small section of my book to another healer. As I finished reading the excerpt, I read a poem my mother wrote twenty-six years ago. Despite having read it countless times before, my throat tightened, tears formed in my eyes. My chest heaved as sobs overtook my body. When I could speak, I asked Why? Why am I crying now?

 It didn’t take long between the two of us to realize the layer of healing I had missed was forgiveness. I’d spend much time forgiving her and thought that was it, yet I had never acknowledged my role in our fractured relationship. The shame I felt helped me understand I was behaving like a victim by withdrawing from her instead of mending and strengthening our relationship. With forgiveness came a profound release as I accepted the healing—deep breaths in and out as I released shame from the farthest reaches of my being.

In my mind’s eye, I believe I saw her dancing and full of joy in the middle of a field of butterflies.