The Real Rescue

Obviously, this was written before my mother died...

Mother talks about dying all the time these days. Well, she has for years. She longs for it sometimes, because she’s so f’ing bored and in pain from her arthritic knees. Sometimes I have a passing urge to pick her up, part and parcel, and move her into my home. To give her relief, to take away the worry of her self-supporting existence, so she would have enough money and not have to pay rent or work. A house without stairs to climb. A place for her dog and cat, where she could be pet-sitter for my own animals when I’m at work or on the road.

But the problem with sharing a home with my mother is that she takes over, just like bindweed. She wraps herself around your time, your rooms, your television shows, and twists them into whatever she wants and needs. After a while, there’s no space for you anymore. You can’t breathe. And she always wants more, and she takes everything you do for her as her birthright. Too proud to sustain gratitude, too critical to be polite.

I've talked extensively about Rescuing and the real irony is, my mother was my Rescuer of choice for most of my life, even when I was married. Because I ran to her for everything. We had our moments of separation, of discord, but eventually, we circled back into each other's orbit. When I was done with marriage, I moved back in with her.

I've likened us to two dragons, locked mid-flight in mortal combat, breathing fire on each other.

In hindsight, I realize that I've been my mother's Rescuer, too. Like me, she's gone through marriages and relationships, hoping but not finding. In the end, she's had to build her own business and pay her own rent, stand on her own feet—and through all those times, she ran to me just like I ran to her. We are the Important Relationship in each other's life. We've outlasted the princes and there are probably no more coming at this point.

But even though we've tried, it hasn't been possible to establish a healthy footing.

The last house we shared, I had a huge bedroom downstairs with it's own television and fireplace. Nice, right? A good solution for separate spaces. My mother was always calling down to me, "When are you coming up? What are you doing?" If I was playing guitar and singing, she'd interrupt me with this question (even after I asked her not to). It wasn't enough to be in the same house. She wanted my company there, next to her, watching what she was watching on television.

She also had the habit of talking to my animals while I was downstairs getting ready for work in the morning. "Hasn't she come up to feed you yet? She's a bad mommy, isn't she?" Like that. I knew if I stayed any longer, I was going to stab her in the neck and throw her down the stairs, like a cheap horror film. When the chance came, I packed up and moved—first to the East Coast, then to the MidWest. For almost the first time in my life, I stood on my own two feet. No man. No mother. No family.

This is the last part of the process: to live far away from her, on my own, and discover my spirit's natural shape. My brothers are not always happy about this, especially as her health falters. They are near, I am not. They have to deal with her, I can hang up the phone and go on with my day.

So now, when I feel this deep impulse to gather her in and take care of her again, I resist it.