Betty Lou

She carried me in her belly for nine months.

After that, she tried hard to make sure I had a better life than the one that formed her. And she mostly succeeded at that.

Parents were different back then. By “back then” I mean back when middle class meant your family had one car, one TV set (with three channels), one phone centrally located in the house. Three home cooked meals a day, maybe a trip to a restaurant a couple times a month. Once a week we got to eat with TV trays while we watched Wonderful World of Disney on Sunday nights. We usually ate bacon sandwiches and homemade fries that night. It was a brief but consistent respite from vegetables.

My parents didn’t attend my ballgames (except for t-ball when dad coached). They didn’t attend my band performances. They didn’t come to my graduation. And I never needed any therapy because of it. I was loved and I knew it. I had mountains of evidence.

There were seasons when my mother wasn’t my mother. You can’t make chicken salad out of chicken shit, and try as she might, Mom wasn’t able to leave her genetics behind completely. When her addiction was most active I was without both parents. One to suffer, another to try in vain to fix.

I mention the addiction because we were taught to hide our flaws. Probably the greatest flaw of all is trying to hide it. Ironic, isn’t it?

I’ve always loved my mom. There have been seasons when we were closer than others. There have been many times, especially these last 20 years, when I would become frustrated by her lack of self-care. Did I write “frustrated”? I meant to say “enraged.”

I never was afraid of her. Even when I was a young boy and she tried to punish me with a wiffle ball bat (parents were different back then) I took it away from her and mocked her. Now, when Dad got home he made a slight realignment of my attitude (and backside), but mom never held that power over me. I think that was mostly due to how we could connect on an emotional level. She and I were a lot alike. More so than I was willing to admit for decades.

Almost three years ago I stood in a courtroom and told a judge that mom was incapable of making decisions for herself and that I’d like to have that responsibility. What an odd day that was. What an odd season of life that is. When I came into this world I was incapable of making decisions for myself and my parents took on that responsibility. They didn’t need a judge to grant that power; that’s the natural order of things.

And so, for the past ten years unofficially, and the last three years officially, my brothers and I have made a thousand decisions for our parents, often without consulting them. Often despite their insistence to the contrary. I’ve scolded, corrected, wiped, cleaned up after, taken car keys, set limits, and have literally said, without a hint of sarcasm or irony, “You better cut that out!” To both of them.

Nobody ever gave me even the slightest hint that this season was indeed coming and what it was going to be like. How I miss the days of just eating what was put on the plate in front of me; well, mostly. Of just flipping a light switch and not wondering how much that cost. I miss her singing lullabies to soothe me when I was sick or I couldn’t sleep. I miss Christmas, and the sleepless night before the most magical day of the year. Better than summer break, better than my birthday. Waking my parents up before dawn to go find an absolute Everest of a mountain of gifts. So many gifts that we needed a half time and a meal in between.

My mom left this earth 15 days ago on December 15, 2024. And now that she’s gone, I have no idea what I’m supposed to do with this love I have for her. This love that has accompanied me ever since I knew what love was.

So what can I do? I can give thanks for the gifts she did give me. Not the ones under the Christmas Tree. But the ones I still have with me. She gave me the gift of music, and the gift of empathy, and the resolve to never give up. She gave me laughter and joy and taught me how to connect to people on the deepest of levels. She taught me to believe in miracles and in mystery and wonder. She taught me to believe in others, even when, and especially when, there was mounting evidence to the contrary. She never wavered in her belief in me, even when, and especially, I gave her ample reasons not to.

What a beautiful mess she was. Truly, one of a kind.

I do have this certain peace: The pain that was with her from birth, and the pain that was with her because of the choices she made, and the pain of a failing body; all of that pain is gone now. And I know that is has all been replaced with joy. And she is able to sing now even more beautifully than she did on this side. I hope to hear that song again one day.