I grieve for my birth mother, and my adopted mother I lost the same day. How will this newly minted Mother’s Day, in the first year of Our Longing for maternal presence, strike? cbd oil
For all of us bereft of our mothers, I want to contemplate the challenge, and unveil calming mechanisms as well.
Mother. The mantra of the bereaved. The raison d’etre for a once festive, now eerily tainted holiday.
Every Mother’s Day, until now, simultaneously I would laud, and feast with, my mother who had given birth to me, together with my equally nurturing subsequent mother. The latter, after initial wariness, had welcomed me as honorary offspring. Both mothers — one and the same person.
Alzheimer’s, as easily as it had pureed memory, dissolved my privilege, the entitlement for progeny, biological or adopted, to be loved unconditionally without merit. My one and only mother, Mary, began to perceive me as a stranger, and she, indeed, shifted into a foreign entity to me. No longer was she akin to most parents, who recognize, cherish, their own. Having my right forcibly voided, of automatically expecting affection, forged my inchoate fire, to create anew an inestimable bond with her. To complicate matters, my mother’s illness towards the end whisked away even my reconstituted role of daughter. She had reincarnated within the same lifetime, as a patient from a parent, to a ward from a guardian, as I embraced the vocation of round-the-clock caregiver. In her haphazardly spun state of regression, I became the concerned mother; she a sweet, trusting charge. Somehow a grace prevailed; she and I could and did re-connect. My mother’s perception had altered, but not her essence: loving, lovable, and loved.