Mother, Where Was Your Love and Cuddly Warmth?

Response to DEP prompt for week 35 of 52: write @ someone who inspired or influenced you

I thought long and hard about a response to this prompt. All I ever wanted was your unconditional love, Mom. I never received it. I don’t have warm cuddly feelings when I think of you. Instead, I spent most of my life being wary, on guard, and many times fearful.

I realize in hindsight what a hardship it must have been to raise your family. You suffered from mood swings. Arthritis affected your joints. Debilitating migraines laid you low many times. Psoriasis outbreaks plagued your body also. The sound of noisy children could send you into a rage. We learned to move silently.

Your words could be scathing. They cut me to the core. I had very low self-esteem. In your eyes, I could not seem to do anything right. It took me years to prove to myself that I was a worthy person. That I was even lovable. I credit my outdoor and mountaineering adventures for that. Immersing myself in Nature was my psychiatric therapy.

I don’t envy the life path you chose. In fact, I have to admire how you were able to raise three kids in a surplus Army Hospital Tent. We were isolated on a mountaintop. There was no running water. An icebox outside kept our food safe to eat. An outhouse took care of our bodily functions. Kerosene lanterns provided light at night. You cooked on a two-burner kerosene stove. I’m amazed that we all survived to adulthood.

You nurtured my first love for planting a packet of seeds. They were pansies and they managed to grow in our poor soil. They remain one of my favorite flowers today. The blossoms remind me of little faces looking back at me.

You are responsible for my yearning to have a vegetable garden. We had a garden out of necessity to grow some of our own food. There were no Food Banks then. Our ground was full of broken pieces of shale. We hadn’t heard of the value of adding compost. We used a grub axe and shovel to loosen the soil. We watered each plant with a cup of water from our well. Amazingly we had nutritious food to eat. My father shot squirrels to put meat on the table.

You washed our clothes using an old ringer washing machine. Then we hung them to dry on an outside clothesline. In winter the damp items would dry into a frozen state and be hard to remove.

We took basin baths to stay clean. There was no tub or shower. We used a pail of water to flush the toilet. A huge coal stove barely kept us warm in the cement block home we built. This lifestyle had to have taken its toll on you. You worked nights as a supervisor in a hospital while your family slept. I bet you were sleep-deprived over the years.

Yet, you stayed as our mother. You did not abandon us.

You were a Girl Scout leader. I thrived as a Scout spending summers at camp. I earned every nature badge the Scout manual offered. That experience helped me organize an active troop of my own years later.

You could change a tire and put chains on during winter conditions. You demonstrated that a woman could manage without a man. This knowledge stayed with me years later. It was responsible for my own independence and resilience as an adult.

The taunts by school peers became too much for me to handle in Middle School. I cried every afternoon after school. I refused to tell you what was wrong. You had enough to deal with in life. Yet you realized I needed a different school. You pleaded with a Sister Superior to accept me at St. Mary’s as a day student.

You don’t know this, but that very act saved my life. By the age of fourteen, I was so close to suicide. I could see no light in this world. St. Mary’s School provided an atmosphere where I could thrive. Wearing a school uniform, I was like everyone else. No one knew my family circumstances. For the first time in my life, I was told I could be whatever I wanted to be.

Your episodes of sarcasm and criticism didn’t change. You were angry that I joined the Army Nurse Corps without your knowledge. I needed Uncle Sam so I could complete my college degree. You even disagreed with the man I chose to marry. You felt I didn’t deserve to marry above my station in life. Whatever that means. Just because he had the title of Dr. of Optometry?

My daughter remembers my cringing whenever I received a letter from you. What negative remark was I going to find inside that envelope? I learned to disregard your views.

When you committed suicide yourself in your 60s, your children were also affected. You swallowed a bunch of barbiturates and aspirated the vomitus. My sister discovered your body. She delayed calling 911. Finally, she felt you would haunt her for life if she didn’t do so.

It was too late. You were on life support. A ventilator helped you breathe. Four of your adult children surrounded your bedside. Two of your sons were still in the military. You refused to communicate with us, either by blinking or squeezing our hands. We saw you respond to the staff. We left you alone, honoring your wish.

You died shortly later. We each needed some communication from you, which was denied. I didn’t attend your funeral. I felt I was there when you needed us. That was enough. The sad part is you did this during the week I was flying out with your first great-grandchild. My daughter was bereft by your action.

I became a nurse myself. Partly because it was the only thing that brought a sparkle to your eyes. There weren’t many career options open to women at that time. Being a nurse opened many doors for me. I do not regret that decision. I remember the hospital stories you used to tell. I even worked beside you as an aide for a while. You were a brilliant and respected nurse.

Your legacy continues even though you’re no longer here. Chris, your granddaughter is also a nurse. As a result of your mothering example, I was more open and loving with my own children. Your negativity was your greatest gift. For that I am grateful. When we meet again in the afterlife, there is so much I want to share with you.

Thank you Vidya Sury, Collecting Smiles for suggesting this prompt.

A sincere thank you to the editors Dr. Gabriella Korosi, Dr. Preeti Singh , Vidya Sury, Collecting Smiles, and Annelise Lords for their hard work.

Leonard Tillerman writes a beautiful tribute to his grandfather’s impact on his life.

Mia Verita writes a loving poem in honor of her mother.