The Journey

My mom was used to me taking care of things. Maybe it was my personality as the oldest child in a dysfunctional family, or I was someone who learned very young that anything I could do to keep my father from getting angry was worth the effort. 

Last year on May 25 my older brother, who lived three hours from my mom, went to the hospital to be there when she got out of surgery. He and I were in regular contact through texts and phone calls so I knew everything that was happening. Meanwhile, for the first three days I was making phone calls to everyone I could think of to discern what the next steps would be when she was ready to be discharged because that was what we all expected to happen. By the end of the third day I knew I had to make plans to travel to northwest West Virginia. Mom was not recovering the way she needed to as her afib and low oxygen levels and intestinal issues were complications on top of all the aspects of hip surgery. My brother needed the support. My mom wanted me to come. 

She knew I would come even though she hadn't asked me for help for 37 years. When I was 30 years old I had to choose between maintaining the relationship I had always had with my family and making the difficult changes I needed to make to take care of myself and my children. For many years my mom didn't understand ~ at one point early on she asked me if I could please just act the way I used to when I was around her and my father because that was easier for them. I explained that I couldn't do that, it wasn't something that could be turned on and off. I had chosen my life over hers and I wasn't going to change back. 

My mom and I maintained a civil, cautious connection through the years. It was in the last few years that we started talking about how life really was all those years ago and the ups and downs of our current lives. We talked openly about our complicated feelings for each other. In the last five years we called each other more often and sent each other more cards. She knew I loved her and I knew she loved me. We respected each other's boundaries. 

So when she asked me to come I knew I needed to go. My mom needed someone who would listen to what she said, understand what she meant, ask the tough questions, have the difficult conversations, and be honest every step of the way. I loved her and could still do the hard things. I could take care of her and take care of myself at the same time. She knew the work I had done, the journey I had taken. 

This poem has been top of mind this week. I found it many years ago and, like so many others, felt like it had been written for me. The journey continues~ 

The Journey

by Mary Oliver

One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice–
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
“Mend my life!”
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do–
determined to save
the only life you could save.