Sowing Good Seeds

My mom’s brain tumor reared its ugly head when I was in the fourth grade at C.D. Brillhart. Near the end of an otherwise uneventful school day, Mr. Grieser summoned me to his desk and handed me a small piece of paper. Even as I write this, I can vividly picture the school secretary Mrs. Steele’s beautiful looping penmanship on the note that simply read: “Grandma Kate will pick you up from school.” 

My stomach dropped instantly. Seppie and I never got picked up from school. In fact, by this age, I had been entrusted to lead a small gaggle of West Barnes misfits to and from school each day. What were they going to do? How were they going to get home? This couldn’t be good.

And it wasn’t. 

Grandma Kate was very tight-lipped as she held the steering wheel at ten and two and headed east on Co. Rd. P. I pressed for details, but she only gave up that Mom had suffered a seizure at home and was currently in the Toledo Hospital. Having not the slightest inkling what a ‘seizure’ was, I fished for reassurance that she was going to be okay. Grandma answered honestly that she really didn’t know but sure hoped so. Her tone indicated that the q and a sesh had ended for the afternoon. 

I remember the pit in my stomach as I sat in Peewee’s for dinner a couple of hours later. I barely touched my hotdog basket and lemon-lime slush, as all I could think about was Dad coming to pick us up. Then, I would finally get the real-deal scoop as to what was going on with Mom. 

By the time Dad arrived at Grandma Kate’s to take us home, Seppie and I had dozed off in front of the television. I can remember sleepily deposing him on the way home in the car. He was skimpy on the deets (like mother, like son) but promised us that he would take us to see her the next day. 

It took me until the ripe old age of forty-one to realize that my childhood and sense of self ended that day. As a ten-year-old, I made it my mission to keep my mom happy and alive. I knew I could do it too. I’d be the most selfless helper ever—an empathetic anticipator of any and all needs. And I wouldn’t fulfill this role just for her but for everyone I came across. I would gladly bear the sadness of her tumultuous childhood, as well as the unjustness of her illness, while simultaneously assigning myself the impossible duty of righting both of those wrongs. I learned to navigate the fear that permeated every aspect of my life by people-pleasing, over-extending, and over-achieving—suffocating and abandoning myself in exchange for safety.

This year, as I trepidatiously approached the holiday season and her birthday (falling just five days before Christmas, it had come to epitomize all the grief, disappointment, anger, and resentment of our collective lives; a trauma-filled thunderhead, if you will), I asked my counselor if she thought that maybe, just maybe, it was possible for me to navigate the holidays without being swallowed whole by grief. I told her that I had been thinking a lot about the emotional baggage I’ve carried for those I love over the years (still tryna stay safe, yo!) and how I didn’t think that was my job anymore. I told her I wanted to be a conduit of love, and love didn’t seem to have much elbow room during the holidays.

What if I didn’t have to resent my mom’s parents for the crummy childhood she had? What if I gave everyone I directly held responsible for the unjustness of her life and death the benefit of the doubt? What if they had all REALLY loved her as much as me…and what if they all really had done the best they could?

It felt like blasphemy at first, not gonna lie. Then, I got really good at it. The weight lifted off these arthritic shoulders was immediate and has been immeasurable. 

What about the ten-year-old that has been living in fear for the past thirty years? Was there any rectifying that sitch? Or was she too far gone?

My counselor encouraged me to extend the same love, understanding, and gentleness to myself. She advised me to connect with the version of me that had felt the most suffocated and defeated.

That was easy—I even had a picture of her for posterity.

That’s me holding an overheated, exhausted six-month-old Xav in the sunroom of Northcrest on my mom’s last birthday. In a feat of emotional and physical strength, that bone-tired chick had somehow managed to pull off a celebration complete with crab legs and gifts—all the while working full time and raising a baby without the help or guidance of her own mom.

Do you know how much it sucks to shop for nursing-home-friendly birthday gifts for your mom? It’s extra crappy when you know in your heart that she’ll likely never live long enough to use them, and you’ll end up tossing them in a pink plastic tub along with her non-skid slipper socks when she’s gone. It’s brutal and soul-crushing.

I could barely look at the version of me captured in the photo because the pain was still too raw—how could I ever hope to help her or give her what she desperately needed but never received? This seemed like a pretty steep hill—even for this climber.

I gave it a go. I began to hold that exhausted twenty-eight-year-old in my heart like she’s holding that overtired baby. I asked her what she needed, and together we worked to find my voice. Boundaries were erected and enforced for the first time in my life. People-pleasing ceased, as did the desire of being liked by others. I’m no longer a freelance Sherpa eager to lighten everyone’s load. Now, I only schlep what is mine to carry. Codependency and enmeshment pitfalls no longer entice me with their promises of safety. 

The best gift and best celebration of her life is me showing up bravely every day and standing in my truth.