I posted a blog article by this woman, Jill Cordes, about taking anti-depressants when pregnant because it spoke to me. Then I went on to read more of her writing, and this woman has an amazingly similar experience to mine, both with her mother and with her own demons. In this one she writes about her mom, and how she lost her. The same bipolar disease ruled her mom’s life as does my own. My brilliant mother, MENSA member, 3 Master’s degrees and a PhD. My sad, pathetic mother who at age 50 is now on disability, no longer able to work, to take care of herself properly, overrun by her disease. I love her, I hate her. Her mood swings, her addictions, her intelligence, her stinging truths. It’s a difficult relationship. Always will be. No wonder I need therapy. Anyway, here is the article by Jill:
“Losing My Mom–With a Second Chance”
July 11, 2011 at 5:37 pm , by Jill Cordes
“As she lay dying, I spoke to her on the phone. I told her that it was okay to go. That she would live on through me and Fi.
I told my mom’s sister how much Fia loves sautéed spinach.“Your mom loved that growing up. We’d call her Popeye,” she said. I cringed. “Dear lord, please give Fia the good genes from her. Like love of spinach and not crack.”
It’s not that my mom didn’t have some amazing traits. In her early years she was smart and beautiful. Kind and colorful. But that was then. In her darkest days her childhood friends would shake their heads and tell me, “Everyone in high school wanted to be Suzy Newlon. Such a shame.” We’d all look down and mumble awkwardly in agreement.
Five decades of alcohol and drug abuse—including picking up a crack habit when she was 62-years-old—a few suicide attempts and a clear-cut diagnosis of bipolar—didn’t really give her a fighting chance.
One recent Christmas she went around her Florida condo complex with a 20-foot ladder. She climbed up the trees and spray-painted the coconuts red. It was an instant hit. On another Christmas she tried to kill herself by jumping off a parking garage.
I truly believe some people are born to conquer addiction while others are just born to stay addicts.
Last year at 64, her life had become desperately depressing and tragic. I rarely spoke to her. Neither did my siblings. But then a miracle occurred.
She had an intestinal rupture and went septic. Almost died. Ended up on life support. And while her health slowly deteriorated, her life got surprisingly better.
For the next 11 months she was mostly confined to a hospital bed. She had psychiatrists who tweaked and tweaked her mental meds. She had hot meals and an entire staff at her beck and call. She was the queen bee and basked in her royal treatment.
“I love it here. I can order a milkshake at 3 in the afternoon,” she’d tell me in her southern drawl.
The next day she would complain that the chicken was dry.
“Mom, this is a hospital, not the Four Seasons,” I’d remind her on the phone.
“I know that, but how hard is it to cook chicken right?”
I’d roll my eyes; secretly glad she was even complaining. In the past, depressive days meant curling up “in the ball” on her couch and refusing to speak to anyone.
At least now we knew where she was and that she was safe. It was also finally safe to bring Fi down to meet her. A hospital—germs and all– is far more sterile than her living conditions had become over the years. And I knew what I was getting: glimpses of the mom I had in childhood; when she was a superstar. Cool, fun, unconditionally loving.
Over this past year almost every trip down she was alert and attentive. She couldn’t get enough of Fi. This is a woman who had missed so much of my life. My wedding, my pregnancy, the birth of my daughter. We were both getting a second chance.
She would tell me how much Fia reminded her of me when I was little. I’d relish the stories. And feel relief that (so far) it seems Fia has much more of me in her genes than her grandmother. I can only pray the ones she does have from either of us are the good ones.”
I share these same worries and concerns about my own children. I feel the same things about my mom, about our life experiences dealing with it, about what I might pass on to my own children. Only time will tell. If I’ve learned only one thing from my mom, its that I will do EVERYTHING in my power to never put them through what I went through, to never let them feel what I felt…for them to always know that no matter what my personal struggles are, its not because of them and that I love them unconditionally, whatever that means.