August 25, 2017
To whoever is responsible, I have no choice, David Wolfe:
The Doubts of Life
“Cherith hates her mother and made what people wants then She just MADE!! She’s a G______ German guard on to HITLER or Stalin! To her be being!”
These are some of the things my mother would write from time to time after her last stroke. Sometimes she wrote them because of something I did. Sometimes they would come completely out of the blue. However, most of the time, everything she wrote was the opposite.
She wrote because she lost the ability to speak in sentences after her last stroke. She could speak. She could speak words. But, she also lost the ability to hear speech, or process speech.
At the time, she wrote this one, I am sure like all the others, I put it aside as something that she was having to go through and not a real personal reflection on how she truly felt. Sometimes we say things out of anger, hurt, frustration, or pain that are not really true. At the end of all days, what would we really say about how we felt about those we loved or things we care about – that is truly the truth. What we believe the most – the real truth.
The first time she started writing, I was not completely aware of what was going on. We had company. My mother worked with exchange students, we had two adult women staying with us. They were sisters of a Spanish tour escort that had worked with my mother years previously when she was well. My mother did a good job of hiding her strokes, and her poor health to her friends, employers, co-workers, and her husband who simply couldn’t understand. I was the only one with the privilege of trying to fix the damage done from the stress people placed on her. It used to make me so angry. She just loved people and wanted to be happy. No one had any idea until it was too late how poor her health was.
I had come home from work and all my father said to me was, your mother’s having one of her episodes. My father is completely ill-equipped for thoughtful emotion at least when his family is concerned. It was as if she just needed to have a button sewn back on her jacket. She had locked herself in her room, a habit she did often. When I got in her room that night I had no idea what was wrong. She looked fine. She could walk and move. I tried talking to her with no response. My mother went to a pen and paper and starting writing nonsense.
“Two girls now tonight,” is what she eventually wrote. She kept pointing to it. She kept motioning to it. I don’t understand. What do you want? I don’t understand that doesn’t make sense I kept saying back. Eventually I said out loud, two girls now tonight. Which she seemed to understand and it seemed to satisfy her that she wanted me to say it out loud.
You see, my mother had been having mini-strokes for many years. Some much worse than others, but she always recovered. At least, that is what I thought then.
Two girls now tonight. I think she might have been worried about taking care of the visitors. You see, she was sitting at the dining table talking to them when she had a stroke. She had a stroke in front of people. They didn’t understand what it was or what to do. They didn’t understand they should have called 911. My mother went to her room and shut the door.
After leaving my mother’s room that night, I told my father they needed to leave. It was more than my mother could take care of and I was working, my father was working it was not a time for visitors.
The following morning their brother the former tour escort picked them up as he was living locally. I will not forget as I walked them to his car how upset he was. He told me, I am sure it had nothing to do with them. And, he asked for them to stay. Who does that?! Of course, I said no. I think I didn’t say anything. I think I just walked away from the car. Some anger is too great for words.
I wasn’t always quite sure how to take care of my mother. I had to respect her wishes while she had all her capacity. The day the Sheriff came to our home to serve papers for diminished capacity which is what happens when you place someone in a nursing home from your own home and not the hospital, I was grateful he was kind and understanding. Perhaps he already knew, a person doesn’t become a caregiver for the money. It is a terrible thing for a child to see the loss of dignity in their parent. Which is one of the great crimes of illness, disease, and poor health – the lack of dignity. Sickness is cruel, calloused, and unfeeling it knows only destruction.
There was a time I took my mother to the dermatologists, she had previous skin cancers removed and there were a few concerns. She must have practiced in her head. She must have practiced guessing how and what the dermatologist was going to say, and when. I never had to help, interpret, or write anything. When the dermatologist left the office, I was so proud of my mother. A few things were removed they were not a big deal. The dermatologist had no idea my mother couldn’t hear her. It was like she was my old mother again before her strokes. Perhaps, I shouldn’t have been proud.
With each stroke, there was a loss of self of herself. Physical ability would return, I could see her brain working again, yet it would come and go as if it – it, stroke – had a right to take over, to live, and be.
If I had my life to live over, would I? What would I change if anything? I used to believe that I would do everything exactly the same. But, now I am not so sure.
Looking back, I would have changed my course when I was still seventeen. I had met the man who would soon ask me to marry him. Visiting some family friends in California, I had the opportunity to stay with them, get my GED, and go to community college there. Unfortunately for me I didn’t quite realize everything that was going on at the time. I should have stayed there, then. My world would be so different, and most importantly of all, I wouldn’t be where I am currently.
If I had stayed I would have finished college so much sooner in life. I would never have gone to college in Florida. I would never have worked in Florida. I would not be living here. I would have actually married, I am sure. I am guessing I would have been married before my thirties. Because I used to be such an easy woman to love. I wouldn’t be here like this middle-aged, all alone, without the possibility of any hope any longer.
If I had stayed I would never have met David Wolfe. If I had stayed I would never have met James Franco. If I had stayed my mother would still be alive and divorced from her husband, and they both would be remarried and happy.
If I had stayed I would never been engaged to that man who because of his actions left something I can never get rid of no matter how many pictures I burn, shred, or throw away.
If I had to do it all over again – I don’t know the answer anymore.
Today, I would.
Cherith J Gjestland
WE - DO NOT AGREE! 