My mom is dying.  It’s heartbreaking.  I had to get out of bed to come and get it out because I feel scared.  I feel so incredibly sad.  I don’t know what to do.  I don’t know what I can do for her.  I don’t want her to die.

Her decline has been so rapid.  Or at least, that’s how it seems.  When I think back over the years maybe it’s been happening for some time now.  I don’t know.  I know that she had a dramatic weight loss about two years ago.  My twins were newborns when she showed up at my house and looked like she had lost about 40 pounds, which is a pretty dramatic change.  She told us she had gotten some type of blood poisoning or something strange from some sort of burning that occurred at her job. For some reason she was unable to smell the toxins burning around her and inhaled the fumes for an unknown period of time.  After that happened she never really seemed to bounce back.  I was concerned about her, but I was still feeling very angry and betrayed by her so I kept my concern to myself.

I worry and wonder about how she is feeling.  Not physically because I’m constantly asking her if she’s ok, but emotionally. I worry about her feeling sad, scared and alone.  I worry about her feeling unloved.  I’m afraid she may feel that way.  I wish she knew how much I always loved her.  When I was a little girl she was my whole world.  I wanted to be just like her.  I wished I could look like her.  Of course my colouring is the exact opposite of hers.   I always wanted her to love me.  I wanted her to be proud of me.  I want to know now what she thinks when she is looking at me.  I wanted her to take care of me and protect me and stay with me.  I wanted to be important to her.  I suppose I know that I was important to her in a way.  I am her child so I was her responsibility to an extent.  She took me places with her and there were times when I know she was happy to be with me.

Then there is everything else.  The decisions and choices she made in her life that had nothing to do with me or my well being.  Things she said to me, names she called me.  I always thought I was never good enough for my dad, but that wasn’t the case.  I don’t think that she thinks that either.  But there has always been something.  I don’t quite know what.  Something between us that kept us apart.  I don’t know.

When I think about my relationship with her I ultimately think about my relationship with my eldest daughter.  I think about the ways that I react to my big girl that I inherited from her.  I hate it.  I want to die thinking that I behave in any way that makes my little girl feel like I feel.  I worship my children.  My first born is the reason my life is the way it is today.  She is the reason for everything good I have ever done.  I am so amazed by her.  I could literally lay down and kiss the ground she walks on.  She is smart, sweet and beautiful.  She has always been wildly independent – since the day she was born.  She must think I am terribly disapproving.  I have such high expectations of her because she blows my mind.  I never had a kid before her so I don’t know what they’re supposed to be like.  Then when she acts like a kid I get exasperated.  That’s pretty stupid of me.  I am trying to change.  I’m letting go of things that are so not important.  I’m letting go of needing to control every little thing they do.

I want my kids to look at me and see a soft, loving mommy.  I want them to look at me and be able to see on my face exactly how much I love them.  How I live for them.  I don’t want them to look at me and see what they see now.  A mother who is always busy doing something and miserable about it.  A constantly furrowed brow, constant irritation.  I want love to take over my life so there is no room for any negativity.  I want to be the kind of mother who’s children know, like they know their own names, that they are thoroughly and completely loved for every ounce of who they are, exactly as they are, unconditionally, no exceptions.