How I met my demons.

Grief does not know how to tell time.

Today I acknowledged that my mother for all her good, and bad was a human being, deserving of recognition.

I acknowledged her pain, grief, and guilt. I accepted my past without condition or apology. Without shame.

I am not my mother.

It was Mother’s day when I finally was ready to visit my mom at the nursing home. I felt like a fake. Making my way to the bed I could see she was more asleep than awake. I whispered in her ear, hoping to wake her, “Mom, it’s me. “Suzie, hold my hand.” I cringed` at my childhood nickname.

Secretly I had hoped the dementia had progressed to the point she couldn’t communicate. Yet, immediately she recognized me and even knew my name.

My heart had begun to beat irregularly, making me feel a bit queasy. I closed my eyes for a moment. I took her frail, bony hand. “How are you, Mom? Are they nice here?” I tried to sound cheerful but the place was depressing and ugly. She said quietly, almost begging, “I want to go home.”

She made a point to tell the aide who I was. She told me that they hadn’t believed I had existed — how ironic. I smiled and said my life had been busy with two kids and a husband. It…