I Forgot to Forgive

Today I had an uncomfortable memory and realized I had not forgiven my mother's third husband for making the last year of his life a living hell in 2012 for her.

My sister, who was very close to my mom, was dying of metastic breast cancer that had gone to her brain. My mom wanted her close by so she could visit her. 

At 88 years of age, it was too hard for her to get to Washington DC. We moved my sister from her apartment in DC to a facility near my mom in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, for her last days.

For those 16 or so weeks, my mom's life revolved around making breakfast and lunch for her husband, then making a treat to bring to her daughter, then driving fifteen minutes to the facility and spending a few hours sitting bedside, then driving home and making dinner.

My mom dropped 40 pounds fast. She kept going, but the emotional toll of her first-born being so very sick, the endless healthcare hassles, and all the caregiving was very, very tough.

Then she made the cardinal sin of picking up something for dinner because she was too tired to cook.

That was the final straw.

Her husband knew what she was facing every day and the agony in her heart. He saw her dragging herself out of bed and wasting away. 

But he was mad. He felt he was not getting enough time and attention. He did not like being left alone for so long. He didn't clear the table of his dishes, so she had to also face that after a long day. 

But he was absolutely outraged that his dinner was compromised.

It sounded unbelievable to me. I checked in on them as soon as I landed from California to help out again with my sister. In fact, my mother's partner of 28 years was so incensed that he told me he would leave my mother if she didn't tend to her responsibilities to him. 

After picking up my jaw from the floor, I immediately got them a personal chef. That lasted 5 days before the chef was fired by the man of the house. 

My mom kept going for another month until her precious girl, after celebrating her 60th birthday with pastrami on rye in bed, could no longer speak. There were 18 tumors roiling in her brain. 

A few weeks later, she was released from the pain that wracked her and died peacefully. My mom called me to tell me the news as she held her hand.

About six months later, my mother's husband at 93, was brought to the same facility. His body was failing. He refused adult diapers, and she could no longer care for him at home. 

She faithfully drove to see him every day. One long day, after arriving home and eating a nosh and doing his laundry, she drove back to bring him clean clothes. She put his clean sweatpants on and kissed him goodnight. It was dark when she got home. 

Early the next morning she got the call from the facility that he had died in his sleep. She took comfort knowing he had clean pants on.

My mom died 5 years and 2 hours after my sister. She always missed her baby girl and her husband. 

With this writing, I forgive him.