By Melissa Bauer

I’m 28 years old and sitting in a stiff vinyl chair across from my mother, watching her chest rise and fall, in a deep sleep. We are in the hospital. An IV pole stands between us, the clear tubing snakes around her arm and into her hand, delivering medicine through her body in a rhythmic drip.  

Drip.
Drip.
Drip.

I’m thinking about how I’ve watched my mother use and abuse her body for decades now. How we’ve enjoyed countless lunches at our favorite Mexican restaurant despite her ballooning weight gain and failing heart. I smile guiltily thinking about how she would often spill cheese dip over her taut belly, and then announce, her voice loud and boisterous, “Just saving some for later!” while I discreetly looked around, embarrassed, hoping no one heard her.  

Drip.
Drip.
Drip.

My rumination is interrupted by the sound of the blood pressure cuff deflating. My eyes drift up towards the monitor, 220/110 flashes across the screen in red, and an alarm sounds waking my mother. Startled, she looks over at the monitor, then at me. She smiles sheepishly. Her plump lips flatten, emphasizing the gap between her two front teeth. 

I feel the gap between us widen. She’s embarking on a slow and certain end to her life. And I’m square at the beginning of trying to figure out mine.   

“This friggin thing!” She yanks on the cuff, which is tangled in with her gown. “No wonder my blood pressure is so high!” She scowls as she tries to untangle it, but then stops herself and looks over at me. We both know a tangled blood pressure cuff is not to blame for her failing heart. I’m a former ER nurse, now working as an infertility nurse. I thought I would love the fast pace and adrenaline rush of the ER, but instead it scared me. So I chose a path where I could help create lives instead of save them. All the while wondering if in my quest to help others build their families, I was slowly losing my own.  

My mother and I never talk about our feelings. Instead we shove and suppress our emotions with food or gloss over them with comedy. When my dad was dying and we were sitting vigil at his hospital bedside, my mother looked over at me and said, “Want to go to lunch?” during the nursing shift change. No, I don’t, I wanted to scream at her, I’m scared to leave him, but instead I mumbled a meek, “Sure.” So right now, without anything to numb my feelings, I’m nervous to reveal to my mother how vulnerable I feel. That when I think about losing her too, the air leaves my lungs. Because without her, I’m afraid I’ll lose my way. Instead, I do as I always do; I play along, chortling lightly as I gaze out the window. A nurse enters our room.  

“You look familiar,” she says to me, redirecting my attention as she administers more blood pressure medication through my mother’s IV.

It’s my mother’s sixth hospitalization in twelve months.    

“I’ve been here a few times,” I say, my words sounding colder than I intended. My anger hangs in the air like a ring of smoke. I look over at my mother and she smiles self-consciously at me as if to say sorry, but I know that she is really only sorry that she was caught. Caught in denial and our time together is nearly up.  

***

“R-E-S-P-E-C-T find out what it means to me!” is booming through the overhead speakers, silencing the ever-present clamor inside my head. I come by anxiety honestly even if it’s not from the woman who gave birth to me. I was adopted at four years old from foster care; my biological parents were deemed “unfit” and my adopted parents were looking to add to their family, so they chose me. 

Growing up, my mother would make a big show about how I was “chosen” by them, parents who not only loved me, but also wanted me, which I interpreted to mean that at some point, I was unwanted. I will struggle with feeling secure my entire life. But today, I push those thoughts aside, shout to project my voice, in between grunts and huffs, as my mother and I move through circuit training at Curves Fitness. 

“Great job, mom!” I yell. She guffaws and shimmies, her obese belly jiggling beneath her white t-shirt. I am 21 years old and my mother is 59 years old. We are opposites in nearly every way.  She is tall. I am short. She is large. I am tiny. She is messy. I am meticulous. She is brash. I am sensitive. But despite our differences, or maybe in spite of them, I love my mother and feel protective of her. Even though when I am with her, I still sometimes feel a little lonely. I’ve grown used to people saying to me, “That’s your mom?” when they meet her for the first time. And her blunt reply, “She is adopted!”

Let’s pretend I’m not, I want to say, because I desperately desire to feel like I belong, to her, because she is my mother and I am her daughter. We will always be tied together, even if it’s not through blood. But these are my insecurities, not hers, so I allow her to openly pull back the curtain, even if I would rather keep it closed.

***

I’m in my first semester of nursing school and living at home after a brief stint of living on campus. My older brother moved out long ago. I decided to move back home to be closer to my boyfriend, but within months of living here my mom has a stroke in her right brain stem while my dad continues his ongoing battle with emphysema. One Saturday morning, my mother walks into my bedroom. Her perfume fills my lungs, the familiar lush green floral notes of wild moss and fresh jasmine mixed with the pungent odor of cigarette smoke and Folgers coffee.  “I think I’m having a stroke,” she says, her speech slurred. “WHAT?” I croak and bolt upright in my bed, not quite awake, wondering if I’m still dreaming. “Does my voice sound funny to you?” she asks me, and it does, it absolutely does. But still I sit, silent for a beat, the ceiling fan hissing and whirring above us, too stunned to take action. And my mom just stands there, in my doorway, helpless. Her saggy green eyes boring holes into my armor. I can hear the TV humming in the background, my dad yells, and alarms ring loudly within. I jump to my feet, adorn my clothes, and race to the emergency room, wondering if we’re too late. 

***

I’m sitting on the couch, alone, with tears smattering my splotchy red cheeks just two days before my 32nd birthday.    

My mother has been dead for three years.    

I’m 39 weeks pregnant with my first child, a daughter, and I’ve been up since 6:30 am thinking of her. My mother. My boisterous, never met a stranger, let’s just laugh until all of our fears fall away mother.  

As I sit here, weeping, I’m thinking about what kind of mother I will be to my daughter. In what ways I’ll make her cringe. Make her smile. In what ways we’ll be alike and how we’ll differ. As I feel myself falling from the precipice of daughter to mother, I’m scared to let her memory fade, knowing that in doing so, I’m moving on without her. 

We were like magnets, my mother and I. Two opposing forces that often repelled one another, but also pulled towards each other as we tried to close the gap between us. And we did.  Because in spite of the clash in our personalities, I can see now how her love anchored me.  How it still anchors me. Especially on days like today, when I’m having a hard time. Her love feels like a weighted blanket wrapped around me, hefty and sturdy, reminding me of home. 

Guest essay written by Melissa Bauer. Melissa lives in Milton, Georgia with her husband and two young kids. A former nurse turned stay at home mom; she has been writing about her journey through grief, loss, motherhood and healing since the death of her parents in 2010. Her work has appeared in Full Grown People, The Manifest Station, and Coffee and Crumbs. An avid reader, writer, podcast junkie, and mindfulness advocate she is passionate about living authentically and with gratitude. She values connection, laughs when she shouldn’t, and ultimately hopes her writing resonates with you. You can connect with her via email at melissa@melissabauerwrites.com.

Photo by Lottie Caiella.