Letting Go

Nearly two weeks had passed since the conversation with my mother. Each day I called my mother, hoping that she would answer the phone but not quite sure if she would. Each day I sighed slightly with relief when she’d answer, only then to become exhausted by her sobs. I tried to weigh each day if I thought she sounded as though she might agree to go to the hospital. I tried to comfort her.

During one such conversation my mother told me that she was so upset by my nephew’s trip being cancelled because she had planned to commit suicide while my nephew was visiting me out of state. She told me how she had been planning the suicide for months. She had visited me herself several months beforehand, believing that would be the last time she’d see me. My mother explained that she had become more calm during the previous months because she felt as though she had a plan – a final decision on specifically when she wouldn’t have to “be on this earth” anymore. Now that she realized her opportunity had passed, she was frantic. She felt trapped. She had planned to commit suicide during my nephew’s trip because she thought he was the “most sensitive” family member and because of that, she wanted him to be absent during that time. She also felt like I would be able to provide a stable environment for him during a traumatizing time.

I listened to my mother and began to think of what it would have been like, had my nephew’s trip not been cancelled. I imagined getting the call, having to compose myself, having to tell my nephew, having to quiet his inevitable feelings of guilt. I knew he would’ve felt guilty since he has become somewhat of a caregiver to my mother and sister already. I thanked God that my mother’s plans had been disrupted. I knew she was in pain but I still wanted her here.

It became increasingly more difficult to keep my energy level up each day after speaking with my mother. I found myself thinking about her while at work (partially because she would call me sobbing, while I was at work, asking for me to help her). After one week of this “suicide watch” I was exhausted. I had felt as though I had to carry my mother through these episodes on my back. I slowly began to realize that I don’t have that ability anymore. Maybe I never did.

There was one conversation I had with my mother during this time that was calm. My mother was having a better day. She was still talking about being suicidal, but wasn’t crying or particularly upset. I had spoken with my father earlier that day and he had asked me how I was doing. The question dumbfounded me. I hadn’t realized how long it had been since a member of my family asked me that. Now, I was speaking to my mother, she was calm and I was exhausted. I waited for her to ask. She spent the next twenty minutes talking about her thoughts and her doctors and her sleeping and eating habits. I listened and hung up the phone when she had finished.

Several days later, I was speaking to my mother when she finally asked half-heartedly, “well, what’s wrong with you?” Sure, it wasn’t the ‘how are you doing’ I was looking for, but it would do. “Mom, I’m really stressed out.” She paused, “Well…why? What's going on?” she said. “Mom, I’m exhausted. This has been exhausting. You don’t understand that every conversation I have with you in which you tell me in detail, how you plan to kill yourself, exhausts me.” No sooner did the words come out of my mouth, I regretted them. She was silent. “I’m just saying that this has been stressful for me too, that’s all.” She began to cry. “Mom…Mom, how are the boys doing?” I was able to shift her thoughts to the boys. I asked her enough questions to calm her.

The next morning I realized that I had a voicemail when I arrived at work. It was from my mother. She told me that she thought it would be best if we didn’t speak anymore. “You get upset when you talk to me and I get upset when I talk to you,” she said. Not an accurate view of events in my opinion. “So, I just wanted to tell you that. And I think it’s for the best. I love you, Emily. Goodbye.”

I wasn’t sure what to think. My eyes welled with tears, naturally because my mother had, for all intents and purposes, just wished me goodbye. I was angry at first, then relieved. I listened to the message again. Her last words, “I love you, Emily. Goodbye” were spoken with one of the most loving tones of voice I’ve ever heard from my mother. I sat, perplexed. It then occurred to me that the best way to frame this was that my mother was doing me a service. Perhaps, I thought, she loves me so much that she’s decided to let me go.