Frayed Bonds
The Unraveling Threads between a Mother and Daughter
She stood before me, a stark skeleton resembling fragile, thin twigs, as if a gust of wind might snap them like brittle branches. This was not the mother I had always known. Though short in stature, she was a force to be reckoned with, embodying the truth that might is not measured by height. Even a four-foot alligator that spent its nights banked on the sides of the pond that filled our backyard could not stand a chance against her as she once wrestled him to his death. For a long time, he had been hiding in the shadows, biding his time for the perfect opportunity to snatch the family's dog. Yet, on this eventful evening, as the alcohol took its toll and gave extraordinary courage, the alligator became the target in a daring ambush, now facing the very attack it had intended on its unsuspected prey.
It did not matter that three years of silence stood between us. I knew her, my mother's inner being, just as she knew mine, and I could see a fight still roaring deep inside her, but strength diminishing to a thread but holding on because of fear. And as I stood before her, it was unmistakably clear, like the translucent skin that laid across her hands–the same hands that once held me near–that the shadow of death had already started to cast its pall.
There is something about a mother and daughter who can pick up right where they left off. A bond between the two reflecting a tapestry woven from countless threads. However, this too can also be said about an alcoholic and how they like to pretend. But just because there is a connection doesn't make a relationship, as ours was only being held on by one same thread: fear.
I slowly picked and unraveled the stitching very long ago when I was young and realized the difference between what my mother was and what could have been. In time, I found our relationship like a cheap wool sweater—coarse and irritating, provoking an itch beyond tolerance. And so, I made the decision to detach myself, to be something different and not defined by that. I threaded the needle to instead create a cozy sweater—warm and inviting, filled with love and peace.
Yet, despite everything having the potential for transformation, wool remains inherently wool, sheared from the same fiber. So when I got the call that my mother was sick, there wasn't any doubt of where I should be, and I returned to the good ol' hick town once called home by me.
As I arrived at her sanctuary, the local bar down the street, I found my words retreating deep within me. A group of strangers, but friends to her, centered around my mom. Many wearing shirts cursing off cancer, the clinking of glasses and the haze of smoke, along with a chant of "fight, fight, fight." The only difference was for my mom; there was a swap as chemo took the place of alcohol and drugs–yet both brought the inevitable end. I couldn't fault those urging her to battle. That's the fighter they had always known—fiercely determined, akin to a pit bull trapped in a chihuahua's frame.
And so I continued to stand there so confused wondering is nobody going to say it?
I felt an urge to scream out, to hold her close and claim her back for myself. The stark truth was finally dawning on me as well.
Mom, you are dying; it's what the doctor said. That was the reality that the cancer had spread, feeding off every part of her body. Not an ounce of more chemo or radiation would do what she was desiring the most. Not just to live but to repair what her life had done. Isn't that what fearing death does? Makes us hold on till the very last thread.