My Mother’s Daughter

As my eyes adjusted to the darkened room the small figure came into focus. The mattress had been pulled from the bed and I could hear the familiar sound of a soft, rattling snore emanating from under the disheveled covers where my mother was peacefully deep in sleep. We gathered around the door as I tried to decide whether to come into the room and awaken her so we, her 3 grandchildren and myself could give her one last hug and say our goodbyes out loud. I could feel the tech stiffen and knew that a sleeping Helen gave this crew of endlessly patient care givers and fellow residents a much needed break from the terror attacks that had besieged my mother over the last several months. We all said our silent goodbyes and I felt the heart of my son break apart as he whispered “But what about one last hug?” I closed the door quietly to the relief of the memory care unit and left the woman who I had known all my life asleep on the floor of her small darkened room in a locked unit in Tucson, AZ. That was the last time I saw her.

Now some 6 years later my breath catches as I glance in the mirror. Often, I see my mother staring back at me and I remember, as she herself, approached the last quarter of her life, sharing this same phenomenon with me. “I look in the mirror now and I see my mother staring back at me. When did I grow so old?” she confessed to me during one of our many mother/daughter heart to heart conversations. These were the times as grown women that we bonded, that we showed our hearts and shared some small bits of the truth that lay buried under years and years of being what others needed us to be. 

When I was a tween and later a teen and then a young adult I pushed at my mother fiercely as the anxiety and fears that held her captive to the trauma of generations past, spilled outward and flooded my own hula hoop, my space. At these times in my life I feared drowning in her and tried desperately to differentiate out, to understand where she ended and I began. I was her rebel child, and not wanting to wake up every day and live in fear of life, I fought back. It was clear that my own self-loathing and insecurity around being good enough lay deeply embedded in her and I fought to win my freedom, to find myself.

It was a beautiful spring in Abingdon, VA where I was back at the Barter Theatre after a month long tour of Agatha Christy’s The Mousetrap. The Smokey Mountains were alive with dogwood and azaleas, with crisp cold water springs running down from the mountain top, and birds busying themselves with their family planning. I breathed in the fresh mountain air and felt, for really the first time, confident, content, and happy. Having bonded tightly together after riding about the Southeastern United States with my fellow gypsies, we cooked delicious meals together on our days off, hiked to waterfalls, and performed each evening as the opening show of the summer season at the Barter. Sold out houses to enthusiastic audiences reminded me nightly of my love of the theatre.

Into this peaceful universe I welcomed my parents for a weekend visit. This was the first time they would see me perform as a professional actor. Rarely had I allowed them to come onto my island. The risk of being triggered resulting in an appearance of that 4-year-old ghost child in me had up to now been too much to bare. They met my friends and saw the show twice. I have to say that my nerves were raw knowing they were sitting in the audience. Try as I might to shake the intensity of my desire for them to see me as the actor I had become it was all to no avail and as a result I made my opening entrance at the top of the show as if I had been shot out of a cannon. This was not overlooked by my mother, but she was full of praise in the end, not only for my gifts as an actor, but for the woman I had fought to become. This is where the seismic shift between us happened. I could almost hear the sigh in her heart as she let go just the smallest bit of her need to control my every moment. On the other hand, I let go of fighting her and let my wall down to become a fence with space between the boards so we could each, look through, and begin to build a relationship of love, mutual respect, and care. A space where we could pause and make a choice about how to act or react to each other. We began to change our dance.

My mother was a complex woman. When I feel her presence over my left shoulder the picture in my mind’s eye is one of layers upon layers of life, filled with her traumas as well as the traumas of others from generation upon generation of ancestors before her. There were many layers of fear that were tightly wrapped in a protection of jealousy, and anger pushing hard and keeping at arms-length against those who might inflict hurt. There was unresolved grief at losing her sister, Barbara, who had Downs Syndrome and in spite of being quite high functioning was institutionalized in a state home at the age of 12 and died of pneumonia shortly thereafter. It was a July 4th that my sensitive mother never forgot. I grew up with Barbara being a part of my life, her spirit lived strongly on in her big sister. My father had one older brother who had cerebral palsy, was also high functioning and lived well into old age. It all felt very normal to me and I clearly remember the moment in my young life when I realized that not everyone has aunts and uncles with special needs. 

None of us are only one thing and this was so true of Mother. In contrast to her incessant worrying, my mother also possessed a woman inside herself who was highly intuitive, sensitive, smart, strong, a fighter through and through. She fought for women’s rights, creating a non-profit women’s theatre company. She fought for her students as an academic advisor, she campaigned for good democrats and voter’s rights, and she wept for days over the assassinations of JFK and MLK Jr. She was there when I had disappointments and experienced my first bought of depression as an elementary school child. “Leave her alone.” She said firmly to my brothers, “Ellen is feeling sad.” Yes, my tendency to default into depression I got from my mother. 

Later, as we bonded over motherhood, she was constantly present, encouraging me and coming to my aid, listening to me sob and understanding innately that I was overwhelmed and had the “baby blues” as she called it. In return, I was her sounding board as she released her frustration over not having her needs met and her regrets from days gone by. I spent years in therapy, as did she, digging deeply into ourselves and trying to release much of what didn’t belong to us. She did a good job, better than her own mother was able to do. In doing so she cleared a path for me to move the legacy of anxiety, of trauma, of sadness even further out into the universe. I love her for that. I love her for introducing me to acting. We both found great solace and a creative outlet by slipping into the skin of someone else for a few hours each day. She was a brilliant actor and director with an eye and instinct that betrayed her lack of formal training. Her artistic ability to create beautiful Easter eggs, women’s faces with fancy hats among other wonders delighted my 5 & 6 year old self. My brothers and I would run about the backyard in search of these treasures. One year she got extra creative and made holiday aprons out of beautiful napkins which I proudly presented to my teacher. Never will I forget my bat costume for Halloween in 2nd grade. The wings connected to my arms and legs, a triumph in design, even though I was unable to fully push my chair up to my desk.

One day, when I was visiting from college, I accompanied her to her volunteer job at Hope Nursery School, a day school for young children with disabilities. In her care, her empathy, and commitment to those children I saw her need to make a difference, perhaps a difference that she never got a chance to make for her Barbara. 

Mother wore many hats in her lifetime, her favorite, I think was G’ma as she adored with her very soul each of her 8 grandchildren, now all grown, but left imprinted with an unconditional love found nowhere else on the planet. 

There was indeed a time in my life that being like my mother would have sent me reeling with disgust. Now when I pass the mirror and I see her staring back at me, I sigh with love and a gratitude that is difficult to put into words. Yes, on many levels I have become my Mother, I have always been like her and I could do a great deal worse.

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