I FEEL -- WHAT?

It's Sunday. I woke up at dawn. Not refreshed, but — what? Anxious? Sad? Irritated? Humiliated? I don’t know, really. But I keep crying, silently, hotly, like my eyes just won't stop leaking. My head feels too full. It hurts right to the top. My eyes actually throbbed for a few minutes, in unison. I need to figure out how I FEEL. What’s the matter with me? I need to be able to put a name to this feeling, this heaviness, this unease. Maybe then I can figure out how to fix it.

Regrets, worries, longing for home. Seeing how I could have said or done something differently. I can imagine it. I can see myself in my mind’s eye speaking to Mom kindly, gently, patiently, with humor. But in reality I hear myself, in the stress of most moments, being stern, harsh, condescending, even - God help me - sarcastic sometimes. And I hate myself for it. Am I any better than Gary? Am I doing her any good? Does she hear the tone, or is she so used to it from Gary that it just sounds normal? Does she feel that this is what she deserves?

Or am I really being that bad? Maybe it comes across better to her than it does to me, because I judge myself by how I want to be. I’ve lost my sense of humor, at least in times of stress. Did I ever have it in stress?

I often feel that I left my real self back in New York. The me who had faith, who loved church, who prayed regularly. I encouraged others, sat with them, talked with them, calmed them, or at least I hope I did. Hugs, smiles, devoted friends. Many people admired me, valued my opinion, thought I knew a lot of things. I always told them I had a nasty, quick temper, and they would laugh – you never get mad! No one but Ed ever saw my bad side, my irritation. Only my closest friends knew of my anxiety and depression. When I was there I was upset that I couldn't be here to take care of my mom. Now that I'm here, I dream of New York. Must remind myself that I had plenty of bad days back there too. My life in New York wasn't as perfect as I sometimes remember it being. As the saying goes, wherever you go, there you are.

Yesterday I woke up at dawn to the sound of the rain, a thunderstorm. It was wonderful. Peaceful, soothing, regenerating. I wanted only to stay in bed and listen to the rain for as long as it fell, then get up and sit at the table with Ed and Mom and watch the rain, the clouds, the breeze in the trees, the birds darting back and forth to the feeders. I wanted to spend the day doing nothing more strenuous than maybe a load of laundry, an easy supper.

But I had told my daughter that I would bring Mom to visit. Saturday morning. Nikki used to see Mom every Saturday.  They'd spend the day together.  Both of them looked forward to it, depended on each other.  But now that Nikki has Caroline, and now that I have brought my cats into Mom's house (Nikki is so allergic), she can't come here easily, so I have to take Mom to her.  Instead of being able to ease through the day, I instantly dread the battle to get Mom up, fed, bathed, dressed, and out the door in the MORNING. Mom sleeps all morning. Caroline naps all afternoon. Nikki lives an hour away. The time constraints are so – stressful. I felt resentment, dread. Trapped. Even angry – but at whom? Myself, Nikki, Mom?

I considered telling Nikki we just couldn’t come because Mom wouldn’t like driving through the rain (true). I so desperately wanted to just stay home. Nikki recently took Mom to Kathy’s for a long weekend. She knows how hard it is to get her up and out the door. She would understand. But she’d be disappointed. I’d be letting her down. Still trying to get comfortable with her. Still trying to make up for all the years I was gone.

Why can’t I just do what I want to do? What I need to do to regenerate from a stressful work week? Why am I unable to let myself come first? Obligation. Duty. Don’t want to let someone down. Don’t want them to think less of me, think I’m selfish. Besides, God put me here to take care of others, not myself. Aren’t we ALL here to take care of each other?

So we went to Nikki’s. It was indeed a battle to get Mom up, keep her from sneaking back to bed, get her ready, fix her hair.  Once we were in the car, though, Mom brightened and couldn't wait to get to Nikki's.  "Aren't you glad now that I made you get up and get out of the house?," I asked.  "Yes, it's just so hard to get up," she said. 

We pulled into Nikki's driveway.  Caroline saw us from the porch.  "Oh, Grandma, Grandma!"  She came running to greet us.  Mom was instantly connected to her, teasing and playing. I was instantly on guard. Keep her safe. Keep both of them safe. Don’t fall off the porch. Don’t trip in the yard. Don’t try to pick her up, she’s too heavy for you. Constantly aware (imagining?) that Nikki was watching me, being sure I treated her Grandma right. Nikki was tired, having gotten up at 5 a.m. to set up her garage sale. Crazy buyers came at 5:30 with flashlights so they could shop in the dark. Nikki was stressed, visibly tired, a little on edge.

We don’t seem to relax around each other, at least not most of the time. At least that’s how it feels to me. She does confide in me about her life, her worries, her job, her relationships with father, man, boss. I feel privileged that she does that now and hope that I keep her confidences well. But does she expect me to be perfect? Never lose my temper? Intuitively understand and navigate around her boundaries? I try not to burden her with my problems, my stress. Mothers don’t confide in their daughters. Mothers are supposed to be strong and supporting of their daughters. Are her boundaries more important than mine? She knows that I’m often tense. Some days I feel that she has no sympathy for me, that I chose to come home, live with Mom, take on the burden. Don’t complain, you’re doing what you want, you chose this. You could leave at any time. I let her talk about her difficulties, but I don’t tell her about mine. Should I discipline her instead? Remind her that I’m her mother, she needs to be more respectful? Create boundaries, space between us?

We went to 2 flea markets in the afternoon to find dressers and a desk for Zane and Caroline. Mom was in heaven. She could have spent hours, an entire day, more than a day, slooowly wandering from one little rabbit’s warren of stuff to the next. Carefully examining each little item, leaving nothing out. No filtering, prioritizing, skipping. Each thing was as important as the last or the next. Irritated if I tried to usher her along to the next tacky booth of detritus, other people’s castoffs, things she doesn’t need. Bored out of my mind, but wondering why I couldn’t just lose myself to the wandering like Mom could. Surely that would be pleasant. Why couldn’t I just relax?

And suddenly I HAD to go to the bathroom. Anchored in place with Mom in the center of a giant rat’s maze of stuff. Nikki was someplace else, looking for something specific. I needed her. I needed to get Mom to her so I could find the bathroom. I felt trapped, stuck, about to panic but trying to “maintain” so people – strangers – wouldn’t think I was being unkind to Mom as I tried to move her along, hand her over to Nikki so I could get to the bathroom before my bowels exploded. Bubbling and gurgling inside, I urged Mom along, looking for Nikki. Ah! There she is! Just in time! A shameful tragedy averted. A moment of peace, alone, by myself.

In the car on the way back to Nikki's, Mom was angry, petulant, her hands compulsively clutching at her hair, tying it in knots, the outward indication of her inward anxiety. There had been an incident.  As she was getting in the car, a man had fallen at the entrance of the market and Mom was mad because Nikki wouldn’t let her get out to go look at him. Not help him, just look at him. And she was angry with me for not letting her look at everything inside. Great, awkward tension filled the car, sat on me and on Nikki.

We got to Nikki’s house. Nick came out to unload the desk she had bought. He pulled it roughly, hurriedly out the rear of the van. I saw the veneer starting to shred and peel off the bottom edge as it dragged across the floor. “Wait! Wait! Wait!” I guess I did shout it too loudly. I was all wound up. Nikki scolded me for what seemed like forever. "It doesn’t matter," she said. "It’s cheap," she said. "I can’t stand the screaming, you 2 screaming at each other. It doesn’t matter. I’m not angry with you, I just can’t take the yelling." I felt – humiliated. "I’m sorry. You made your point. I said I’m sorry. Are you done?" She learned from her father how to scold. I’m sure I did too. It seems to go on forever, until the opposition is beaten into submission.

This is how you talk to me? This is how little respect you have for me? In front of Zane? But wait -- Is this how I talk to my mom? Did you learn it from me? Is this how I make her feel? Is this how it will be a few years from now when I’m old and demented like Mom and you’re stuck, my only child, taking care of me? Oh god.

After a tour through another flea market, more relaxed somehow this time, we went back to the house.  Caroline is up from her nap. She sits on Mom’s lap and they play. Caroline is eating her chicken nuggets, laughing and snuggling with Mom. Yes, I’m jealous.

Doggy comes up for a pet. Such a good dog, well behaved. Of course Mom wants to give her a treat. We tell her Doggy just wants a pet. Petting is her treat. But Mom’s fixation is food. Nikki goes to the kitchen to get Mom a dog cookie to give her. Mom gives it, but Doggy remains. I know what’s coming next. She will give her Caroline’s French fries. There’s no stopping her. But it’s Nikki’s dog. They don’t feed her from their plates. Sure enough, Mom sneaks a fry, hands it toward the dog. Instinctively, I grab it and tell her no, they don’t feed their dog people food. She protests, raises her voice, tries again. I grab her hand, remove the French fry, put it out of her reach. Nikki shoots me a look of shock and alarm – you just grabbed her hand like that? Fortunately she didn’t say it out loud, didn’t escalate the incident, but I got the message. Humiliated again. She’s right – I shouldn’t grab her fragile little hand like that. What’s wrong with me?! It was just a piece of potato, not a big deal. Not like at home with Gary’s dogs, where everything is a big deal. But that’s how I’ve come to react, trying to keep Gary from yelling and scolding and going on and on ……

Mom starts saying we have to go.  Nikki mentions, delicately, not wanting to upset, about the money I had promised her. She says she’s just not sure what I intend – wait until they find a place and she knows exactly how much more they need for a security deposit? She doesn’t want to press, I can tell she’s trying really hard to be polite and deferential. She’s right. I realize that I’ve promised her something and didn’t follow through. I’m sure she was embarrassed to ask, but needed to. I’m embarrassed, dig out my checkbook, write her a check. Why didn’t I do that at lunch earlier this week instead? I want to help her, mean to help her. Why did I wait, make her have to ask? I didn't mean to, it just happened. And then the worry sets in – I can really afford this, right? I can still pay Citibank, right? Why am I so free with my money and yet so afraid to spend it? I feel so crazy.

We’ve stayed too long. I’ve kept Mom out too long. She’s tired, we’re both tired, it’s suppertime, she’s sundowning. We say our goodbyes, give and get hugs, get in the car and head home. Mom, who has talked practically non-stop all day, not really listening to what others are saying in response, having trouble with just ordinary conversation, falls silent by the time we get to the freeway. She says not a word for 10-15 minutes, maybe more. Is she ok? Too tired? Peaceful, or beaten down? Does she feel like I do? Embarrassed, humiliated, stressed, wrong, wrong, wrong? Did I do this to her? Is this what it’s like to be her? Oh God.   I’m so close to tears, hoping she doesn’t say something I need to respond to, because I know my voice will crack and she’ll know I’m upset.   Don’t cry. You can’t drive safely when you cry.  Don’t kill your mother in a horrible, fiery crash.

But still I find myself thinking -- Why doesn’t anyone ever ask me how I’m feeling? Who’s looking out for me? Who can I talk to, who can I turn to, who would understand and not judge? What am I doing here? What did I think I could accomplish? I am not equipped for this! I am precisely in the middle of the sandwich that is my family, but sometimes I'm sure not the sweet, unifying jelly I came here to be.

I think I need to talk frankly with Nikki, tell her that I'm not perfect, never will be.  Tell her that I'm doing the best I can.  Apologize for when I make mistakes, step on her toes, upset her or Nick or Mom.  I'm doing the best I can.  I'm really trying.  Maybe I'm trying too hard.  I'm as OCD as she and Mom are.  It did not skip a generation.  Sometimes she doesn't see me at my best.  I want to be the mom she needs me to be, and yet I don't deal well with the pressure I put on myself to do that.  For that matter, maybe I need to have that same conversation with Mom too, apologize for when I get too wound up and overreact.  I know she can't help her compulsive behavior.  I know she's doing the best she can, and I love her so much.  I've told her before.  I need to tell her again.

Maybe I'll feel better if I sleep some more.  Maybe writing this out will ease my mind.  I'll do better when I get up again.  God help me, I hope so - yes, that is a prayer.