There are those that believe the more things change, the more they remain the same. Though I am an agnostic in that regard, I absolutely acquiesce, as humans, we are always changing for better or worse. What, if anything, we change into is likely a matter of the matter.
Thusly, we can sometimes be altered by events, but alteration is not change in and of itself. If I put on a jacket because it rains, I am "altered" by the weather, but my core identity has not changed. I may be altered by the endless sequence of horrific events across the globe, but they are not necessarily changing me anymore than a noisy neighbor. They may even entrench me to beliefs and actions that cause the manifestations of which I am plaintive.
Then comes an event so significant that it not only alters, it changes and shakes one’s very being and that person will never, ever, be the same. They become not only changed, but transformed. The Transfiguration.
Unrequited Love: Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust
Aside from children and dogs, I have always preferred those older than myself. There are both psychological and intellectual reasons for this fact. My very first crush was on a girl much older than I. I met her when I was very young and have been acquainted with her much of my life.
For a long while I would pine for her attention. I would try to impress her with my achievements. I would come to save her when danger threatened. The more I tried to get her to like me, the more she disliked me. I never knew why; though I have a greater understanding now.
At some point I realized that she would never “love” me. I lowered my aspirations and just wanted her to like me, but she would have none of it. Then I lowered them further and just wanted her to acknowledge me. But, alas, all were the corpus delicti of a fool’s errand. I came to realize this and just went away.
The Black Night
After a considerable hiatus we connected again out of necessity, of sorts. Three years ago, I received information that the object of my affection was in need of my assistance. She had become very ill, suffering from both cancer and, ultimately, dementia. But the dementia was not only undiagnosed, its manifestations were often in line with her normal behavior which made it difficult to tell which was which. A complication that, unless one has had experience with it, cannot possibly be comprehended.
As I always had, I came to the rescue and, thereupon, appeared black as knight. This time would be different though. She would realize my value and finally see me as the knight in shining armor I’d always been. Afterall, the purpose of armor is to take assault and survive. Is it not? Unfortunately, the inherent problem with armor is that through use and incoming fire it develops chinks. If it has enough chinks in it, and takes enough direct hits, it will lose its integrity and likely fail at some point.
Falling Down: The Stares
During the last year and a half, I was constantly on edge because my beloved would fall down a lot. One day, after a meeting I was required to attend, I walked into her apartment to find her lying on the floor. She had fallen. This happened over and over again. Sometimes ambulance transport was required, sometimes not. It got to the point where I could not leave to conduct business for fear that she would fall; and the thought of her falling in the shower or bathtub was terrifying. So, without realizing it in real time, my activities became narrower and narrower.
I tried to communicate with her (which I knew was impossible) and inform her that there were other ways for her to do things. She would dismiss my advice, often insultingly. I had to order a legal reexamination with the California Department of Motor Vehicles because she would not stop driving as I observed dent, after dent, after dent on her car. Yet another terrifying worry that not only might she hurt herself but, worse, hurt someone else. She cursed me and called me terrible names, but I continued to act in her best interest. It was less love than duty, I now realize.
Juxtaposed to the emotional abusiveness that was a core part of her personality, there were times when she became almost a child again. I would see her watching the same television shows over and over in an endless loop. Shows from the 40’s and 50’s: I love Lucy, The Andy Griffith Show, Perry Mason (that theme song terrified me as a child), and The Rifleman. She refused to get hearing aids, and I received verbal abuse at the mere suggestion of them, so the volume on the television was unbearable…but not to her.
Then there were times that while these shows were on, she would sit on the end of her bed and just stare into space. I knew she was looking at something, I just didn’t know what. Still don’t, but I think it was the past.
One thing that I could do that made her happy was cook for her. But even then, I put “too much food” on the plate, or not enough. Or, it was rejected entirely. She became meaner, and meaner. However, I was oblivious to her conduct because I had a mission to accomplish and that was to protect her at all costs. Protect her from predators of all stripes. What I was unable to do was protect myself from her… and protect her from herself.
Here’s To Life
Four months ago, La Belle Dame sans Merci summonsed me. It was about 0500 on a Sunday morning. She was suffering and needed to go to the hospital. Emergency personnel were on scene within 15 minutes. She was transported to a famous hospital. She was stabilized and late that night her nurse told me “she is resting comfortably.”
She would not come home the way she left, though she would cross the threshold of her home again. When she returned in a physical sense, it was in an urn. You see, that woman was my mother.
She had been cruel my entire life but she saved her grand finale for the right time. Her cruelty this final time was not in abandonment, I’d seen that before, it was in leaving me at mission zero. Now, I am a lost soldier with neither mission nor fantasy.
My lifelong pursuit of maternal validation will never come. I am grieving a fantasy—the mother I deserved to have, rather than the reality of the emotionally vacant woman she actually was. As a child prodigy, I internalized the belief that if I just accomplished enough, I might finally earn her acknowledgement at the very least. This last mission was my final, ultimate attempt to buy her approval through my devotion.
I did not need to hear the three words everyone foolishly believes are of some epic consequence. Negative. I only wanted to hear two. I delayed my own healing because my closure was dependent on those two words which gave her complete control over my peace of mind. Words she will never utter as I sit, and remain, a fool. Those two words? “I’m sorry.”
The Long Goodbye
When my father died three decades ago at age 56, my grief was paralyzing. That was, quite literally, my drill sergeant, my friend and my nemesis. He brought great things to me as well as a few terrible ones. I grieved for him because of the loss of the relationship and closeness that was. I thought that nothing could be more terrible than that, but that is untrue. I now know that the worst grief is grieving what wasn’t.
My father died suddenly (heart transplant rejection), but my mother died every single day for three years and I had to not only watch it, but try to manage it. Her dementia was only being medically noted at the end of her earthly life. The progressive loss of a loved one’s personality, memories, and cognitive skills is both brutal and hellish. It results in a long, protracted period of grief, where the person’s mind fades long before their body, causing caregivers to grieve the person while they are still alive. And that is beyond exhausting; for even the toughest of soldiers succumb to battle fatigue.
In the legendary Shirley Horn’s tune “Here’s To Life” she says:
Funny, how the time just flies
How love can go from warm hellos to sad goodbyes,
And leave you with the memories you’ve memorized,
To keep your winters warm.
For there’s no yes in yesterday
And who knows what tomorrow brings,
Or takes away…