The blessings of dying
I finally have an open, honest relationship with my mother
My mother grew up in India. She was raised a certain way. Feminine women didn’t talk about certain things. They were circumspect with their words.
Did I know my mother loved me? Yes. But talking with her could be an exercise in frustration, in guessing at hidden meanings and stepping in mine fields. Sometimes I felt she tore me down as much as she built me up.
When I was diagnosed with a metastatic brain tumor, all of that changed.
I no longer have time for niceties. I have become brutally honest. The guard rails are gone because I don’t have the energy for caution anymore. Now I speak the truth as I see it and I confront people if I need to.
It’s wonderful and it’s freeing, but it’s changed my relationship with my mother.
I used to pander to her because she is the mother. So even if I knew she was wrong, I’d give in. That is what dutiful Indian daughters do. No more.
This morning I told her I may need to move.
Mom lives with me. “I don’t want to move,” she said.
“That is fine,” I told her. “You don’t have to. But I will do what is best for me, and if moving is best for me, I will do it. So you need to be…
