Her small form hovered around me like a mother bear doting on a sick cub. Silently picking up after me in the tiny disaster of a room that I occupied, her compassion was overwhelming. Dirty laundry, plates, and pans, grimy windows, dusty knick knacks, an old, gray shag that had seen better days and, lets not forget, the lingering stench of death impending peppered the room. This was the cheery reality that my mother came to when she visited me in SF during the spring of '98.
I had previously crescendoed with the bipolar disorder that I had gotten slammed with a few years back and was subsequently reeling in it’s wake. Having ridden its manic wave for all it was worth and then some, I was now experiencing its polar opposite: a tormenting depression. But back to my mom. I cringe to think of how helpless she must have felt watching me spiral into that harrowing abyss but she never let it show. Instead, with a tender smile and a calm demeanor that never left her, she rolled up her sleeves and went to work tending to her sick daughter in one of the bravest, most important roles of her life. No small feat. Being present to me, who at 26 needed constant attention and care was, I’m sure, exhausting. She bought me food, stayed by my side ever ready to listen, affirm and humor my gloomy ramblings, took me to nice restaurants which I couldn’t enjoy because of the eating disorder I was still plagued by and was, simply, saintly in every way.
Something bizarre that I wouldn’t let go of during her visit was the need for me to write my mother a letter. Let me explain. Since I couldn’t communicate well through words (depression had stolen my coherency) I became obsessed with trying to write her a letter instead. Too sick to realize that she knew it anyway, I thought that if I stole away and penned her an essay about how much I loved her, she'd know what was in my heart and I’d feel better. Communication has always been key for me.
This warped thought process led me to leave her side for chunks at a time in which I’d desperately stuff myself in some cafe or bench along Polk, the street I lived on and try to compose something meaningful, which never worked. In fact, it only served to heighten my anxiety because I knew that I was wasting precious time. My mom, gracious as she was, played along hiding what I’m sure must have been a growing concern for me. I know my futile attempts at scribing broke her heart as they only made my illness more glaringly obvious.
In one of the few pictures I have from those painful times, you can see my mother smiling and diminutive, arm around my waist as though holding me up and I, an unhappy giant hovering over her tiny frame, leaning on her as though I was losing my balance. The misery of the moment is obvious on my face even though we were framed by a gorgeous, sunny day.
My mom was a slice of life in the otherwise dingy existence that I dragged myself through during those parched years. Brave and determined to help, she was the singular reason I didn’t let myself die. Her love, fierce and loyal cut through my anguish when nothing else could and even though I would face many more years of mental malady, knowing that someone unconditionally loved me made the difference between life and death.
I’m in a completely different place now, in fact, it feels as if I’m talking about someone else when I revisit those crazy years. Since then, I’ve grown in more ways than I can count and of course, life has happened as it does. But my mother’s love, the one true thing that has sustained me my whole life, still lights up my world. For me, it is like the dawn of a new day or the scent of a daisy, pure and honest and true. I know that at some point, I’ll have to let her go, but for now I will enjoy the love that has always warmed my bones and and healed my heart.
Look ma, no hands!
