The Weight of Distance

Every morning I wake up with a stone on my chest, tightness in my belly. I am instantly awake. This heaviness, where does it come from? I silently wonder again and again. I think of my mother. When was the last time I had a genuine conversation with her? When was the last time I saw her laugh, express love and anger, or show concern? When were we forced apart? When did this distance start to grow between us? I know it wasn’t when I got married and moved to America, some six thousand miles from my native country.
My mother, Verena Gaus, died August 1st, 2009, but I am not sure when I really started to lose her. My mom had been battling her disease for nine years before her body gave up. The slowly creeping monster that invaded her mind, her being, took its time destroying the essence of who my mother was. She was diagnosed, received a label, a definition; it all sounded very clinical.
Mom had her first incident shortly before my dad lost his battle with cancer. Everybody in our close family thought it was her nerves; that she was emotionally and physically overwhelmed after watching and caring for my dad at home. Who could blame her? My parents had been together for decades, and we all were struggling to accept that my dad’s end was near. Even the doctor’s agreed. After her second episode, she was submitted to a hospital and subjected to a series of tests. And we were faced with hard decisions. My mom was confused, tired, and not quite herself. This illness that had claimed her was invisible and showed its devious and destructive nature in increments. The process was slow and deceiving.
There was always hope – false hope, of course. We experienced many moments of joy and sadness, confusion, anger, and helplessness. Uncertainty was a constant companion. Regret for lost time, unanswered questions, missing family history, late professions of love and appreciation – these were the recurrent themes, the thoughts that occupied my mind during my mother’s suffering and slow decline.
So why am I still waking up feeling unsettled and uncertain every day when I wake up? Am I obsessing over questions I cannot answer? Do I miss my mother? Yes, of course. Do I feel guilty for living my life so far from my home? No. For not being able to spend more time with my mother before and during her illness? Yes, but she always encouraged me to live my own life, wherever it might take me. I am not sure what’s going on with me. I know I have lost my home and my roots in a sense, more so than when I emigrated, but that’s not it. I am unable to pinpoint the source of my gloomy feelings. They keep nagging, not letting go of me.
A couple of days ago I spoke to my neighbor, an Irish woman who moved to this country many years ago. She also left her home country, because she fell in love with an American man and married him. She asked me how I was doing and how coping with the recent death of my mother had affected me. So, I told her.
“Of course, you have these feelings, it’s clear; you haven’t been able to grieve properly. Your life hasn’t changed since you came back from the funeral; everything is back to normal. Your life in this country never included her, so you really didn’t have the opportunity to miss your mother. She isn’t gone from your life here, because she was never part of it. That’s the price immigrants pay!” she proclaimed.
“Wow! She is right!” I thought immediately. But how am I going to grieve and deal with my loss?

I decided that together with my husband and my children, I would conduct a little tree planting ceremony in honor of my mother. We chose a beautiful flowering tree to plant in our backyard that would always evoke fond memories of my mother. My children wrote letters to their Oma that will be buried with the tree.

I also wrote a poem. It helped me express my feelings and it provided me with a cathartic sense of power.


Lost Dementions

Lost in the twisted tunnels of the mind
Lost in the darkened rooms of an untouchable reality

A prisoner of incomplete thoughts

A human being
A mother, a daughter,
A lover, a friend
A shell of a former self

Apathy or emptiness?
Confusion or fear?

Loss of memory
Loss of dignity
Loss of freedom
Loss of emotion
Loss of self

A shell of a former self

A flicker of light in a dim and nebulous night

Dementia

Claiming a soul
Claiming a spirit
Claiming a life

Dementia.

Did the poem and memorial ceremony erase my poorly defined feelings and help me deal with the loss of my mother? Yes, to some degree. But I have realized that healing takes time and grieving is a necessary part of the process. I am planning a trip home next year that will be another step in sorting out my emotions.
I will always remember my mother. The distance between us is permanent, but I keep her close in my heart and my memories.