My Mother’s Fake Smile

Everything changed the day I realized that my mother could fake a smile. My mother’s smile was radiant and playful. It was welcoming. It openly invited any newcomer or any outcast to have a conversation with her. But, when my mother explained that she was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis, her smile was full of terror. How could she hold a smile while feeling immense fear? “It’s a disease where the immune system attacks the nerves,” her once delightful smirk explained. I did not understand at this time. All I understood was that my mother was expressing something fraudulent that I had never witnessed before.
6 years ago my mother could walk. She appeared to be as happy as the other victims on the MS association website. I knew her truth. I knew how she continued to fake her smile for the public. The word “spasm” was now added to our family’s list of everyday words. She would describe the spams as a wave that subtly crept up to the beach. Then once the wave hit the shoreline, it hit with full force, knocking you to your knees. I knew when her brain was focused on trying to keep her head above water. My mother now had a secret: she needed to use the walker to get around the house.
5 years ago my mother could walk with a cane and drive a car. She could still produce that forged smile that is plastered on the MS friendly forums. I knew her truth. I knew as soon as she was out of the limelight of the world, her wheelchair was essential. The one thing she was ashamed to be seen with in public but desperately needed for her health. The wheelchair resembled her sickness, her weakness. The ability to walk was something she could not fake. She would need me to help her into bed and to drive to the drug store to get the medication that made her feel half human again.
4 years ago my mother was fully wheelchair bound. She would never admit that she was using the wheelchair for the past two years in private. She had moved to Colorado in hopes of receiving “top of the line” medication for her disease. She rarely faked the smile and no longer paid attention to the happy faces on her beloved association’s websites. When she did fake her smile, it was to hide the pain lying beneath. I knew her truth. She started to become overwhelmed by the wave. She started to allow the surf to keep her under. I knew that as soon as she felt even an inch of stress, her legs would no longer listen to her brain. Her legs would take on a life of their own and use her body as a puppet. I knew that I would be trying to lift her in and out of the shower. She was now too weak to lift herself out of her chair.
2 years ago my mother should not have been living alone. A simple smirk was not something she bothered to fake anymore. But, she would still tell others around her that she was fine and didn’t need help. She was tired and weak. Her own body had attacked and destroyed herself from the inside out. A smile was not of major concern. I knew her truth. I knew that behind closed doors, she was stressed over the debt of medical bills. The bills that were keeping her alive, but in return were killing her. The medication that once made her feel alive had now negatively affected different parts of her body. I knew she would not be leaving her bed even for the restroom, not because she didn’t want to, but because she simply could not do it. The spasms saw my mother more than most people could.
1 year ago my mother smiled again. She expressed a genuine, ear to ear, wholehearted beam. A smile that could only exist from true bliss. My mother took me to the top of the hill by her house. She rode the whole way there in her wheelchair because she insisted I had the best view of the Rocky Mountains. We sang the tunes of John Denver and Janis Joplin. My mother took me to her favorite restaurants and bars to experience her best kept secrets. This time, I didn’t know her truth. I saw the happiness. Her playful smile had returned. She expressed the desire to experience life, but I was still aware of her struggle. I saw it behind closed doors. I knew she would be ramming into walls because when she spasmed, she could no longer control her legs or hands in order to operate the wheelchair. I saw her constant hidden pain. The pain that could not be controlled by any kind of medication. My mother had accepted her fate. She didn’t want to fight against her body anymore. She was emotionally, mentally, and physically exhausted but she was happy to be alive with me.
4 months ago my mother passed. I don’t know anything. I don’t know her truth or my own. All know is that I walked into her empty apartment and was instantly overwhelmed with a cold eeriness. A fake smile is the only thing to remain the same and it has been plastered on my face since the day my mother left this Earth.
