My Last Three Conversations With My Mother
Opening
On February 14, 2018, "Daughters Betrayed By Their Mothers: Moving From Brokenness To Wholeness" was released. During the past year, one of
the questions I’ve been asked is, “Holli, why would you write a book about
mothers, daughters, and betrayal?” Others have inquired, “Are you angry with
your mother?”
My response is always the same. It is because I am in a place of acceptance
with my mom that I wrote this book. It
is because I’ve done the hard work of healing many injuries and injustices in my life that I wrote this book.
And, most importantly, it is because this book is not about blaming or bashing
mothers. It is about Daughters. It is about Daughters who chose wellness over
victimhood. It is about Daughters who did not get bitter; they got better. And
in doing so, they came to a place of peace and acceptance – first with
themselves and then with their mothers.
One of the many lessons in "Daughters Betrayed By Their Mothers: Moving From Brokenness To Wholeness", is wholeness is not a
destination. It is a fluid, ongoing
process in which we continue to integrate layers of healing into our being. As
I welcome in the first year anniversary of the Daughters’ book, my journey is
no different.
I AM GOOD
LEAVE ME IN PEACE AS I LEAVE YOU IN PEACE
May 2015 – First Conversation
I LOVE YOU
With a great deal of recovering work under my belt and
embracing wellness in my own life, many years ago I came to accept the reality
of my relationship with my mom. I have chosen to be kind, respectful, and
loving. For example, I’ve never missed sending a card or calling on her
birthday and Mother’s Day. During visits, I’ve helped out with
any needs of hers and done so with a caring spirit. Because I developed a very
close and loving relationship in my adult years with my dad, I called often to
speak with him, welcoming the opportunity to talk with her as well. However,
my mom never had much to say to me. I held no expectations of her. I was in a
place of peace, until recently.
Fueled and fed by years of weakened toxic environs,
betrayal’s cancerous growth spread throughout our family system. The
malignancy reached a critical stage, subsequently poisoning its paternal carriers
and paralyzing their dutiful descendants. On April 8, 2015, both my mother and
my father methodically planned, carried out, but did not complete a dual
suicide. An overdose of medications did not
grant them their last wish, but instead cast the final layers of brokenness
onto an already fractured family. Both parents were found and hospitalized; my
dad in critical condition and my mom serious but stable. My dad was moved home
and passed on April 16th, 2015, under hospice care. Although my mom recovered, she was
transferred to a nursing home for further rehabilitation. As our family hung in
the balance by a thread, I both anticipated and expected for there to be
additional betrayals with ensuing fallout. However, I was not quite prepared
for the enormity or finality of being disowned by my mom.
Because I live a great distance from my mom, I called the
nursing home frequently to check on her. My three sisters were nearby helping
out; and thus, there was no need for my presence. Within a few days, bitter
accusations and disputes started to arise between my mom and youngest sister
against my two other sisters. It continued to escalate with disastrous
consequences. My youngest sister, Stephanie,
moved into my mom’s house with her family, changed the locks, and took
control of everything and of my mom.
During the chaos, I continued to call my mom, desperately
defending my sisters and myself against a pile of lies and pleading with her to
reconsider the baseless foundations for them. There were moments during our
calls when I felt as though she heard me, but she would not change her mind.
After several weeks of upheaval and with
threats being waged against my other sisters and me by my youngest sister, I
made one last call to my mom.
When I called, I asked her for one request. “Will you
please listen to what I have to say? Allow me time to finish? And then, I will
listen to you?”
My mom agreed. For the next two hours, I talked to her
about our family. I spoke softly and gently but with conviction. I described
the brokenness—a family built on lies and secrets and enveloped in denial and shame. And with a heavy heart, I spoke of
the betrayals, not just mine but those my sisters had shared with me. She
listened.
When I was done, I asked her if she wanted to respond. My
mom acknowledged what I said. She did not deny or dismiss it. There was a
sadness in her voice and an owning of sorts about various pieces. However,
there were no apologies. Toward the end of our conversation I needed to know
what she wanted—from me and my two sisters—if anything.
I took in a deep breath. “Mom, with Stephanie moving into your house, how will I have any relationship with you? She
won’t allow it.”
My mom knew well what I meant. She cautiously replied,
“Well, I will try and call you when I can.”
I went on to describe my concerns about Stephanie’s
unhealthiness and her inability to take care of my mom. I told her how I was
worried about her safety and long-term quality of care. My mom continued to
listen, even agreeing at times but not wavering in her position.
Before we ended our conversation, I made one last request
guessing this might be the last opportunity I ever had to speak with her again.
And although I knew, without question, what her response would be I wanted my
mom to know where my heart was—in a place of love and forgiveness.
My voice was strong and filled with compassion. “Mom,
choose us (my other two sisters and me). We love you. We can help you. Even
though I live far away, I will be there for you. We can help you get
settled—stay in your home or move to a smaller place. Whatever you want or
need. We will be there for you.”
My mom’s reply was short. “I can’t. I need to be with
Stephanie.”
I spoke once more. “Mom, she is not well. She cannot take
care of you. Please, this once…this time. Choose me…choose us.”
Her voice was firm, but soft. “I can’t.”
I understood. I accepted what had been true for most of my
life. I paused, waiting for the anchor lodged in my throat to come lose and
allow my words to flow. “I love you, Mom. Goodbye.”
She whispered, “I love you, too.”
Over the next several weeks, a few more layers of betrayal followed - a certified letter from my mom and Stephanie warning my sisters and me to stay away from my mom's house and cruel voicemails telling us of the awful individuals we were. *
Despite these painful behaviors along with my mom twisting my words and lying about what was said during our conversation, I shared the truth when I said, "I love you."
Over the next several weeks, a few more layers of betrayal followed - a certified letter from my mom and Stephanie warning my sisters and me to stay away from my mom's house and cruel voicemails telling us of the awful individuals we were. *
Despite these painful behaviors along with my mom twisting my words and lying about what was said during our conversation, I shared the truth when I said, "I love you."
*****
In June 2015, part of our family gathered for a
two-day celebration of life for my father and my beloved uncle, who had passed away April 11, 2015 from age-related illnesses. Because
of disagreement over who was invited to attend the celebration of life, my
mother chose not to attend. On the first
day of the celebration, our family came together at my aunt’s house in San
Francisco where we honored both my father and my uncle with personal messages
and memories. I composed and shared two poems: one for my father entitled “I
Think of You Today,” and one for my uncle, “Oh Mack! Our Uncle Mack!”
Because both my dad and uncle loved
sailing, on the second day of the celebration of life, part of our family had a
ceremony out at sea in the San Francisco Bay. We chartered a boat and sailed
out to one of their favorite spots, Angel Island. After the Captain anchored
the boat, we each settled into our respective seats. I stood and read “Poem for the Living,” which my
father gave to me many years previously and asked me to read after he passed.
Although it was very painful, while reading the poem I felt his spirit close to
me. We then scattered my uncle’s ashes and because we did not have my father’s
ashes, we released red roses for him. My family sat quietly as the red roses
nestled among the sheet of grey ashes and continued their journey out to sea on a
moving bed of sparkling blue waters and crisp white caps.
While we were headed back to port, I made
my way over to the starboard side of the boat. I reached into my pocket of my
jacket and pulled out a few pieces of my mom’s costume jewelry she had given
me. With the wind blowing against my face whispering, “It is time,” I leaned
over the boat, held the hard shiny jewels tightly in my hand for a moment, and then
gently tossed them into the moving waters. Although my heart was heavy from the
multitude of losses over the past few weeks, saying goodbye to my dad and my
uncle in ways that were purposeful opened up space, creating room for peace and
acceptance to enter. Saying goodbye to my mother felt more like a formality.
Because of my personal recovering journey and knowledge of healing from
betrayal, I had worked through and accepted long ago the loss of her in my
life.
August 2017 – Second Conversation
I
AM GOOD
On a warm humid day in August 2017, my mother called me on
my cell phone as my husband and I were driving back to Arizona from California.
It had been over two years since we last spoke. Because I wasn’t positive whose number it was, I let the call go to voicemail.
Although I was nervous to pick up the message, I did. In a raspy gruff voice, she spoke.
“It is your mother.
I am going to sell the house. I need the money for my care because I
will be moving into an assisted living facility. Your father left you the piano
and if you want it, you need to call me to make arrangements to get it. Call me
back on my cell. Bye.”
After Dan and arrived home, I started to unpack while he
went to the grocery store. My mind was spinning. I knew I needed to make the
call or I was not going to be able to sleep that night. I stopped unpacking, came into my office, and
took out a 5x7” index card. On it I
wrote three things:
First, I wrote down one statement. Do
not call her “mom.”
I wrote this because names are important
to me. The word “mom” is especially significant. For me, “mom” or “mother” carries
with it innate responsibilities to the role it represents. Over the years, my mom had not
fulfilled those responsibilities in the ways I associated with healthy
mothering. I was not in a place of resentment. I was in a place of honoring my
truths.
Then, I wrote two questions:
What is your timeline to get the piano
moved?
Who is the contact person?
I sat down at my desk.
I pulled the landline closer to me.
I took a few deep breaths, calmed myself, and dialed her cell. When my mom picked up, there was
a lot of commotion in the background. I
could hear my youngest sister giving orders.
My mom’s voice was very harsh and she sounded angry when she answered.
She coughed and cleared her throat, “Ummmm….Hello.”
“Hello,” I said, “It’s Holli.” I did not pause. “I’m
calling about the piano. Thank you for letting
me know. I would very much like to have it. What is your timeline?”
My mom explained briefly that the piano needed to be out
very soon, within the next week or so. I asked who the contact person would be
and she relayed that it would be my nephew, who was living in the house until
it sold. Because she seemed quite agitated, I tried to get off the phone as
quickly as possible. However, for the next
ten minutes she described her many health issues and challenges.
I mostly listened. A
few times, I reflected, “It sounds like you’ve made a good decision.” Or, “It
sounds like you will be getting good care.”
After thanking her once again and reassuring her I would
contact a piano mover immediately, I attempted to say goodbye. Before I could
do so, abruptly she interjected, “Well, Holli, you sound good.”
I took a deep breath, and with a calm steady voice, I
responded, “I am good. I am very good.” Nothing
came from the other end. I paused. No
words. I then added, “Thank you again for honoring Dad’s wishes about the
piano. It really means a lot to me.” There was silence.
I gently said goodbye and so did she. We hung up.
*****
As I laid the receiver down, I looked up. Without my laptop
in its usual position on my desk blocking my view, I saw the reflection of my
face superimposed on one my picture frames showcasing a poster of my novel “Another
Way.” At first, it startled me. Then, as I
continued to scan the wall in front of me filled will the other frames of all
my other books, I spoke softly to myself.
“I am good. I am
very good. It is sad that you don’t know me. I have a good life. I have a good husband. I have a good
family. I have done good things with my
life. I am good.”
Warm tears rolled down my face. They were tears of
gratitude, blessing, and reward. My two-year investment into The Daughters’ book
had gifted me in so many ways. However,
I had not anticipated the phone call from my mom. Because of the plethora of healing messages
within the Daughters’ narratives which transformed my being with layers upon
layers of renewal and resilience, I handled the conversation with grace,
dignity, and self-respect. I reminded
myself, doing good work restores the
good.
Almost one month later in September 2017, the baby grand
Steinway which my dad learned on as a child, as did I, arrived at my front
door. Her beauty fills my home still today
January 2019 – Last Conversation
LEAVE ME IN PEACE AS I
LEAVE YOU IN PEACE
On an unusually
warm day in January, I sat at the dining room table putting the finishing
touches on an upcoming workshop. My
research materials and note cards were scattered on the table and piled on the
floor at both sides of my chair. After
saying goodbye to my husband as he dashed off to the grocery store, I
determined I was indeed finished with my project and started cleaning up the
mess around me. However, within a few
moments of his departure, my husband Dan returned. The look on his face
startled me.
Dan rushed over to the table and pulled up a chair. His
eyes were watering. Immediately, I thought something had happened to our
daughter. I choked out, “Is it Alexis?”
“No…no…” he quickly replied. It’s your mom. She passed away earlier this afternoon.”
Confused, I asked,
“How do you know?”
Dan explained that
he received a text from a family member indicating my mom had passed. Still in
a state of bewilderment as to why Dan was informed first, I inquired, “Did the text say anything else?”
Dan showed me the text, “We were not sure if Holli would
want to know.”
For the next hour or more, Dan held me. We didn’t say much to one another. We didn’t need to. I was waiting for this
day, not knowing what I would feel, or say, or do.
After Dan left for the store, I cleaned up the mess on my
dining table and neatly placed everything in my office. As I did so, I felt my
head start to spin. Thoughts were whirling around like a cyclone caught in a
cage. I felt like I was going to explode if I didn’t move. On auto-pilot, I opened the cleaning closet, pulled out the
vacuum, changed the bag, and frantically began vacuuming. I felt myself being
pulled… pulled to go outside.
I dropped the vacuum cleaner, quickly changed into my
walking clothes, and dashed out the front door.
The sun was starting to set. I
walked briskly down the street, onto a familiar walking dirt path that led to a
series of man made lakes and waterfalls within our development. I walked faster
and faster, trying to beat the sun before it slipped down behind the mountain
range off to the West. My face was hot and I felt the eruption inside me
fighting to get out. I quickly scanned
the boulders strategically placed around one of the lakes. Directly in front of one of the waterfalls, I
crouched down on one of the round smooth boulders clutching her strong sides
with both hands. As I did so, the emotions within surfaced and spilled.
First tears. Then, a steady stream of anguish accompanied with waves of grief. As
the torrent came forth, my mind kept replaying, “So much loss…..over so many
years. So much loss….” I allowed the flow to continue until it subsided. I sat quietly, listening to the water splashing against the rocks below me.
The sky turned orange as the sun slid further behind the statuesque
mountains. Hundreds of black crows were
making their evening journey around the development before escaping to the
West. As I looked up, suddenly one black crow left the others and made her way
over to me. She circled above me, maintaining her position as though she was
waiting for me to speak.
I did. Lifting my head and facing her, the words flowed
from a place of truth and of compassion.
“Mom, it is sad that you did not have the life you
wanted. It is sad that you had much pain
and many disappointments in your life.”
And then I took a deep breath, “I wish you had chosen differently. You were a strong woman… you were
intelligent….you were capable of much more as a mother and as a woman.” Tears
flowed steadily but were couched in a calm spirit. “There was just so much
loss…over so many years….for all of us.” I breathed in deeply. Then, the core
of my grief was released in my truth. “As long as you were alive, I knew I had a mother, but I didn’t.” A warm breeze brushed my skin and dried my
face. I softly pronounced, “Now, you are free…as am I.”
The black crow remained suspended above me, hovering
closer. The other crows abandoned her, flying off into the darkening sky. Again,
she waited for me. However, this time was as though she was asking my
permission to go.
With love in my heart, I whispered the same concluding words
I recited from my dad’s poem years previously, “Mom, leave me in peace as I leave you in peace.”
She circled one more time and then soared towards the
mountain silhouette. She flew and flew, slowly entering the dusky sky. Before she was out of my sight entirely, from
the East a large black crow came alongside her. Together, they disappeared into
the quiet night.
Although this was my last conversation with my mother, I cannot say it will be my final one. What I do know today is .. it is well with my soul.
Although this was my last conversation with my mother, I cannot say it will be my final one. What I do know today is .. it is well with my soul.
*****
Closing
Betrayal, of any kind, is painful. No matter who or what has
perpetuated the betrayal injury, it is only natural for us to want someone or
something else to make it right, to make it better. When betrayal involves
someone whom we love deeply and in whom we have entrusted with protecting,
nurturing, and providing for our well being, it can consume us. It can break us.
Another reason I wrote “Daughters Betrayed By Their Mothers:
Moving From Brokenness To Wholeness” is to share with audiences the journeys of
seven Daughters who did not wait for their mothers to make it right for them. If
they had, they would still be waiting. Instead, they chose another path. They chose
to make it right for themselves. And in doing so, the Daughters healed
their core injuries and built healthy foundations from which to navigate their
lives and their relationships. They are living testaments to the power of choice, perseverance, and resilience.
Every day, each of us has a choice. We can choose to remain
in our injured places or we can open our shells to healing processes. It takes
time and it requires much of us. However,
as we embrace our journeys of recovering , layer by layer we will move out of brokenness
and into wholeness. The painful pieces of our past will become our sources of
rebirth and renewal. *
Wellness awaits each of
us. We choose the time.
*
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