Determined

My mother has always been determined. So very determined that it seems more verb than adverb. More a part of her very fiber, essence, character than a fluctuating state of being. Unless that state of being is constant.

Having been mostly raised by a single working mom in the 50s. Moving from friends and family in Montreal to West Palm Beach at the age of 13. Being smart and motivated in a sea of teen brides. Being frugal out of necessity and passionate and wanting a better life. And desiring a career in a stereotypical field of men. (I mean, you could be a teacher but never a mathematician.) Determined.

My mother was one of the first in a wave of mid 20th century feminists. She was often the only woman in a room. Asked to be a stenographer so she stopped bringing any pen or paper with her to meetings. Asked to fetch coffee. Hell no. Or rather, I don’t think so. And that look she could give you. A stare that was piercing so you knew not to ask again.

I am sure she was often called a bitch behind her back because it happened enough in front of her. In fact, my daughters and I proudly use the term bitch today. As in, get out of my way because, as you may now understand, I can become quite a bitch. It’s rather a badge of honor demonstrating our strength of character and conviction. And a fair warning to those who are mistaken as to the extent of their power and domination. I don’t think so.

The song that most represents my childhood and upbringing was sung by the Mamas and Papas, “Make Your Own Kind of Music”. I would sing this song confident in my knowledge that I was my own kind of person. Feeling empowered because I was raised by parents who identified and commended my strengths. In their eyes, I was super amazing awesomeness.

And my dad would also tell me, often, that I was a lot like my mom. That fierceness and fire that is cultivated in young, adored, much loved and cherished little people. This is the origin of super powers.

(My mom ran downstairs sobbing. We had brought my father home to die. It was his final wish. He had just taken his last breath and my mom was at his side. I was listening to music and studying for exams in the living room. I heard her coming and met her at the bottom of the stairs. She pumped her fists in anger. The love of her life deceased. I wrapped my arms around her. Held her. Tried to comfort and console her. I waited for the anger to subside into sadness. I waited for her to unclench her fists. Her determination that any and all new modalities of treatment be applied to my father. Her hatred of cooking transformed into distasteful attempts to prepare macrobiotic meals to nourish his ailing body. Her utter lack of confusion as to what to do now. She had been fighting to stop this. Prevent death. For over three years. What to possibly do with this sadness and frustration and so much anger and loss. She had no idea who to contact next. I picked up the phone and using the yellow pages, made the necessary calls. Politely corrected the funeral home that they did have the details about my father’s wishes and they did need to come pick him up on this Sunday evening in December. During the midst of holiday parties. I was 17 and I needed them to do the right thing.)

It is difficult to recall all of the influences, the things that made you who you are, those big and little and often in and undetectable moments. The long pauses and shortness of breath. They way love can make you feel. Anger and absolution. Sensory overload and deprivation. How do we exist and how do we evolve. How do we develop our love of art and poetry. The way we feel when we look in the mirror. My father’s eyes always reflected my beauty. He was my courage. I was no longer my own familiar. Only fear now. And the digging begins. To shove pain so deep in an unmarked grave.

My mom stumbled through life. Like a person who cannot see, she felt her way through work. Driving my brother to school. The details of a life with no sense of purpose. To feel nothing. To be numb can be such a glorious feeling. It is so easy to dive into it. Get lost in it. Tumble and twirl and settle at the bottom.

As years passed, my mom slowly emerged. She would smile. Eventually there was laughter again. But always something missing and a tremendous love for what had been. The love she felt. The man who found her to be the most incredible amazing woman on the planet.

She lived in Japan and then Hawaii working as the Scientific Advisor for the USG. She marched her way, both intellectually and physically, through militaristic environments. Working to improve research, working conditions, safety of those who served inside tanks by rethinking and retooling the mixture of metals and alloys used. She marched. Fists held tight at her side as she prepared herself for critics and skeptics and those who would attempt to build obstacles. She was petite and nimble. She would not back down. She attended tanker school and learned to switch out treads and dismantle and reassemble machine guns. So that she could know the lives of people. The conditions needed to make them safer. Perhaps even more comfortable in these windowless cages of destruction. She fought for the advancement of others. To create a safe environment. To grow and provide opportunities for all. Equality. Fairness. Doing what is right for everyone.

When my mother began to show signs of dementia, experienced dangerous encounters and experiences, I insisted that we see a neurologist (note: this was not the best idea as dementia cannot be detected through tests but rather through behavior patterns that must be established over years. Different from Alzheimer’s. Seek out a gerontologist.)

My mother became enraged. She stood with fists at her side and pounded her arms in the air while screaming that there was nothing wrong with her. No amount of logic or recounting of recent events would convince her otherwise. She was poised to fight. She was akin to a rabid dog.

(She would subsequently use these same fists to attack me. She directed her attacks to my face. I held her by the wrists. There is nothing that can ever prepare a person for a moment in time when someone who has been so cherished and loved. Someone who fed and bathed and nurtured you. Someone who changed their life for you. Who created you. When that person rages and wants to hurt you. Not a spouse or partner that you may leave. But a parent for whom you have total responsibility. A person who shares your home. A person who is near your children. After so many fires in the kitchen and too many visits by police. After attempting everything possible to help this person. Care in the home. Meals made daily. When it is no longer safe. When they have finally done enough damage to themselves and others and have fully demonstrated a pattern of atypical behavior over years. When they have no sympathy or empathy for the lives and safety of others. Then, perhaps a year or two after that… power of attorney is granted. And you must choose your children over your parent- or anyone- then. They have to go.)

We lied to my mother. She danced at our wedding on December 29, 2018. I received power of attorney less than 2 weeks later. On January 16, 2019, we moved her into a one bedroom apartment in assisted living. We told her that there was a problem with the pipes and water. There had been something the year prior so it sounded plausible. This would be temporary until they could fix it. But it required a complete overhaul of her apartment.

It only took 16 days before a group decision was made. She had to be relocated to memory care. For her own safety, and others, she needed to be behind locked doors. There would be no more late night panicked pursuits of trying to locate her. I would not find her at the Safeway checkout late at night, after dark, without a coat, in the middle of winter, buying a packet of rubber bands. She had convinced everyone that her needs were far greater.

I took her out for a milkshake while J.P. and the fabulous staff relocated a portion of her belongings to her new room. Again, we lied. Said there was a water/ pipe issue with her apartment so she would need to temporarily move. She was angry for a long time. Fists clenching.

Now my mother’s right hand is permanently clenched. Her muscles will not let go. Recently, the same began happening with her left hand making feeding herself almost impossible. So I feed my mom when I’m there. All of us who ever visit her now help feed her. And we are unbelievably grateful for the kindness and humanity of the people who work there. Who nourish her. Who make her smile.

But I think about her fists clenched now permanently. Unable to release the tension. And I wonder what it is now. What it ever was. That makes her so very determined.