My mother is sick. She is thousands of miles away in a hospital bed, lying in agony and fear. My mother is probably thinking of all the things she wanted to do, but could never do or accomplish. She’s probably thinking of all the years wasted on meaningless things, on men who did not deserve her, on jobs that were unfulfilling, and drugs that were depleting. She probably wonders about what paths could’ve opened up for her had she not married so young, twice. She probably wonders what would have happened had she been more present in the life of her kids rather than the life of her boyfriends.
The many years of inward and outward destruction wore her down. They also fractured her family, creating a space that is now impossible to fill, not just for her, but for all around her.
Her health was always a challenge: multiple illnesses, disease, endless trips to the hospital, painful treatments, exploratory surgeries, heartbreaking diagnoses. She never had a break. In all this, my mother remained steadfast in knowing that she would someday conquer that pesky to-do list that she carried around in the confines of her mind.
She wanted to take water aerobics classes, she wanted to make enough money to fix her teeth and have the perfect smile, she wanted a new closet, preferably a walk-in. My mother wanted romance, companionship (this she never dared speak of out loud), to last a lifetime. She also wanted a boob job (because we sucked her breasts out of her, as she said). Mom dreamt big for herself and for us, her kids. She wanted us to be happy, she wanted us to be a family, like the ones in the movies. She provided for us to the best of her imperfect ability, and from where I stand today I can see that we were never satisfied. Not for the material things, but for what we felt she should be like. Of all her three kids, all three spent their entire lives wishing their mother was someone else. One wanted a mother who gave freely and also held tight in love and attention. One wanted a mother who was responsible and mature, like the one their friends had. The other wanted a mother who gave a shit and believed in them, and listened to them, and followed their advice. The three thought they knew better, they thought that if only she would’ve done what they wanted, she would be in a much better place. They never asked what she wanted. They never asked what was the source of her hurt, the hurt that lived so deep and quietly within her, but that by the end, grew tall and loud, like a hungry Godzilla.
I wonder, still, how my mother feels. I wonder what worries her, I wonder if she feels she lived a life she is proud of. I wonder what she thinks she could have done differently if she had the chance. I wonder what she would do if I could give her a fairy godmother to make all her wishes come true; what would she ask for?
Would it be for family reconciliation? More understanding and acceptance among siblings? Would it be for forgiveness? Would it be the closet she always dreamt of? Would it be to get some of her old friends back alive so they could catch up and hang out? Would she have asked for a romance to end all romances? Would she have asked for a trip around the world? Or maybe the chance to visit me one last time? Or make peace with my sister? Or would she ask for all the pain and suffering to end?
I wonder about these things, I think about them in my sleep. I regret not spending more time with her, listening and keeping note of all the things she wanted me to know. I regret never asking her about her cooking, or what life was like for her before we all came along. I regret never allowing myself to be forgiving, less angry, less selfish, less entitled. I wish I had texted her more, I wish I had allowed her to rant a little longer about politics, even when the theories sometimes veered into conspiracies.
I regret never asking her about her regrets.
I have tried to change, I have tried to be better, but every step I take forward feels like a million miles and as time passes the path just grows wider and wider and longer and longer, and the thought of being close again, like when I was a little kid, running to the bodega to buy her a pack of cigarettes, the most important thing I could be asked to do in a day, it just seems impossible. I am covered in muck from all the crap I allowed myself to believe in about her and about us over the years.
If I carry all this angst inside me, it is only my fault, not hers. It’s time to change things, while there’s still time, even though it feels like a mountain to climb just to say the words “I love you” or “I miss you”.
How did I get here, I don’t know. I do know that while there’s still time, it’s entirely up to me to chase change and to do better. It’s the least I can do, maybe along with some prayers for her recovery; at the end of the day, she’s still my mother.
