Contributing Writer – Amy Bazerman
My mother always told me she wanted to be a mother to me more than anything. When she was pregnant with me, she couldn’t wait to meet me. She was happy to leave her job as assistant head nurse in the delivery room and stay home with me. I was my mother’s world; she was mine when I was a baby and a young child. I slept in bed with my mother until my sister was born when I was five, much to my father’s disliking. I idolized my mother as a child; I only wanted to be with her. I had terrible separation anxiety when leaving her. I remember the first day of kindergarten, tears running down my face, unable to take deep breaths, fearing I’d never see her again. Relief would flood me when I saw her walking towards me at the end of the brief 2 hours apart. My mother was my safe space in a world that didn’t make sense to my overstimulated brain.
As I grew older, I noticed different pieces that made up my mother. There was the mom who nurtured me and expressed pride in everything I did. There was the mom who made dinners every night, played cards with her friends, and was always ready with a good joke. And then there was the mom who cried while my dad yelled at her and berated her. There was the mom who couldn’t stand up to my father’s rages against their children. There was the mom who worried nonstop about health issues: her health, my health, my sister’s health, my grandmother’s health, my father’s health, everyone’s health. I was on so many antibiotics as a kid it’s surprising they have any effect on me now. There was the mom who used to hide snack foods from me because she thought I weighed too much. There was the mom who carried the trauma of losing her father and brother at a young age, leaving her to care for her mother. There was the mom who considered herself a martyr because she worried for and did everything for everyone. There was the mom who judged and felt judged by how things appeared to the outside world. There was the mom who thought she could handle or fix everything without any help.
I remained incredibly close to my mother for quite some time. In my twenties, I talked to her daily, sometimes multiple times per day. When I met my husband, I described my mom to him as someone who could light the world on fire. He agreed when he met her. And then, my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer. The tumor was tiny, barely stage one. She had a lumpectomy and radiation following the procedure and started Tamoxifen. She went into complete remission after the procedures but ended up with Lymphedema in her left arm. During this time, my mother would become upset with me if I didn’t ask her about her many doctor’s appointments or check in with her about test results. Every phone call we had contained notes of disappointment in me for not being a more involved daughter in her medical journey. I was finishing graduate school and planning a wedding at the time, barely remembering the items on my to-do list. My husband suggested I take a little space from my mother and maybe talk with her less often. It was painful to do this, but it was also good for my mental health to take some space. During these years, my mother changed from a nurturing, happy-go-lucky, light-the-world-on-fire mom to one who lived in constant worry, fear, and disappointment. When my grandmother passed away, it all became worse.
My mother had a heart condition; it’s the same one her father and brother died of and the same one I have. When my grandmother passed, her symptoms started to worsen, and she started a new medication. She couldn’t handle the side effects, even if they were temporary, so she stopped it. Eventually, she had an invasive open heart surgery to cut away the thickened part of her left ventricle. As with many patients who’ve had open heart surgery, my mother developed debilitating depression. The depression, combined with her childhood trauma, the death of her mother, and a dysfunctional marriage, was a perfect storm. The once vibrant woman who could make friends by walking in a room was gone. My mother became a shell of herself. She moved up to Massachusetts from Florida in hopes that being closer to me and my sister would help. It didn’t. She moved back down to Florida in hopes that she’d feel better. She didn’t. We encouraged her to start medication to treat her depression and anxiety, which she tried. And then, she promptly stopped the medication when she had a side effect. She’d start and stop several medications, never sticking with one for very long. The mental health system, in general, is terrible, but in Florida, it is a disaster. The on-and-off medication regimen lasted for years, and my mother was never truly well.
When Covid hit, my mother simultaneously developed diabetes. She was isolated at home, living with my father and dealing with new diabetes medications. She wasn’t eating anything and was slipping further and further into the grips of depression. I began mourning the loss of my mother at this time, for she was no longer the mother I remembered. It was around this time she first attempted suicide by taking all of her sleeping pills. I was a mess. I wanted to help her, and more importantly, I wanted her to get professional help. I screamed inside from the pain of seeing the woman I admired and loved so much fade away into a ghost of herself. I felt helpless, frustrated, angry, and incredibly sad. I had suffered from post-partum depression after the birth of both my children, and I knew what she was going through. I begged my father to get her help and to make her stay on her medications, as this is what helped me through my depression.
Nothing worked. My mother slipped farther and farther into depression. She became irritable, angry, despondent, and isolated. She tried to take her life two more times before she succeeded. The doctors admitted her to a hospital and tried ECT (Electroconvulsive Therapy) with her as a last resort. She lost her short-term memory, which I believe was the last straw. The last time I saw my mother was 3 weeks before she successfully took her own life. She lay in bed most of the day and kept the curtains drawn in every room. She brought me to the bank and went through the safety deposit box, explaining which jewelry she wanted me to have. She sent me home with some of her favorite pictures and belongings. I should have known it was a matter of time.
Looking back, I always consider what I could have done to change my mother’s trajectory. Could I have dragged her up north to better doctors? Could I have tried harder to convince her how much we all loved and needed her? Could I have spent more time listening to her instead of trying to fix her? I could play the what-if game all day; just try me. But what-ifs didn’t help me move forward or grow. Instead, that game took up negative space in my head, making me dizzy and nauseous.
Through a lot of therapy, I finally came to realize that my mother’s illness and eventual suicide were never about me. They were always about her and her journey. Each one of us has a life gifted to us, and we hold the ultimate responsibility for how we choose to live or not live that life. I could sit here and think about my mother’s illness as a curse, or I can understand that it taught me so much about mental illness and mental health along the way. It allowed me to get the help I needed when I needed it, and it guided me in helping my daughter through her mental illness. It allowed me to advocate as a therapist and human, both personally and professionally. It has helped me work to break the stigma of mental illness in our society. In some bizarre way, it was a gift.
I remember my mother standing on our boat, radiant in her bikini. She was holding court with her closest friends, laughing at jokes, and making others laugh with her. On the more challenging days, I would pull this image to the forefront of my memory and hug it tight. I miss this mother every single day. I want to tell her all the amazing and not-so-amazing things going on in my life. Sometimes, when it’s quiet, I do just that.
If you are someone you know is struggling with depression and/or suicidal thoughts, please know there is help. We are never alone. Dial the Suicide and Crisis Lifeline at 988 to speak with someone.
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