Therapy after Mom Died

Mom wasn’t a pleasant patient. I felt that she resented me for her decision for treatment. She was bald, sick and miserable. I had my doubts that she would beat the cancer, but I never showed it. I pushed harder than she did. I wanted her to live, and deep down – I don’t think that she wanted to go on. This was her way out. One day, as we were driving to a chemo appointment and the tension exploded. She had her window cracked just enough for her to flick and ash a cigarette. Her smoking, while I was caring for her through stage 4 lung cancer was a slap in the face. We were riding down the freeway in silence. I angrily peered over to watch her frail arms cross and uncross as she lifted the cigarette to her lips to take the deepest drag. I couldn’t take it another second. “How dare you?” It came out of my mouth with no control and at a volume that startled both of us. I was scared of her reaction. She took another puff and ignored me. “I have put my entire life on hold to take care of you and you don’t give a shit. Your smoking makes me feel like I am doing all of this for nothing.” Her silence annoyed me further and just as I got ready to let her have it some more, I opened my mouth and put her hand up to signal me to stop. Her face was a little red and her jaw was shaking a little bit. “I didn’t ask you to do this!’ She screamed. Her words came out like knives and she had been holding this in for a while. “You ran back down here. You wanted me to live out of your own selfishness and if I’m being honest – I don’t think that I would have dropped everything like you did.” I immediately saw that she regretted that last comment, but it already stuck. This is what I always knew – I loved her more than she loved me. My stretch for her and even desire for her life was wider than her own. The evening of that fight changed everything for us. She went to bed early, as the treatment was tough that day and our fight was still lingering. I was sipping my last glass of red wine for the night as I caught a glimpse of my wild ponytail in the mirror. Mom’s hair had always been such a huge part of her identity. Mine was more of a source of confusion, but in that moment – I thought about how hard it must be for her to be without hair. I walked straight into the bathroom and dug underneath the cabinet to find my brother’s clippers. With red wine courage and the desire to do something bold for mom – I shaved my head. As the strands were falling, I cried in the mirror. I cried about her words earlier that day, but I cried more because I didn’t want her to die. I needed more time with her. We had a lot more fights left in us and our time was running out. The next morning, I walked into mom’s bedroom with my bald head. She sat up with her weak hands over her face. I slowly moved to her side of the bed as she cried and tried to catch her breath. I got on my knees and buried my head in her lap. As she rubbed my freshly shaved head and we both wept in silence, the love in the room was unbearable. I wanted her to know that I would do anything to make her feel supported. As she wiped her tears and whispered, “You didn’t have to.” I realized that my obligation and my honor that I showed my mother was unconditional and that it came from a place deep inside of me. While she might not have done the same thing for me, what I still find comfort in today is that my relationship with my mom wasn’t about her or me. “You see, in the final analysis, it is between you and God, It never was between you and them anyway.”