When I was in high school, I had a social studies teacher named Mr. Luke. He was honest about everything and pulled no punches, straight talking and slightly cynical, and I loved him. At the time, he was the most authentic adult I knew.
He used to drop truth bombs on us before anyone even knew what a truth bomb was.
One that made a lasting impact on me was the one about the baby boomer generation outnumbering our generation (gen X) and that by the time they (boomers) had reached old age/retirement, chances were that we, as a generation, would have a severe disadvantage, and end up in the unenviable position of caretaking for aging parents and our own children at the same time and, statistically based on the fact that women were waiting longer to have children, combined with divorce rates climbing. Statistically, it would also be women doing it all on their own. I remember thinking at the time that he must be wrong, yet also feeling claustrophobic. And determined. I would not let that happen to me.
I don’t know what ever happened to Mr. Luke or how long he ended up teaching at Melville High School in Hamilton, New Zealand, but the concepts he taught stuck with me.
Fast forward 30 or so years, and I’m feeling that squeeze. Here I am, divorced, solo parenting, and carrying the mental load of my own aging parents, especially my mother. Which is a clown car of emotional baggage on its own.
My mother and I have never enjoyed a close relationship; I was never destined to be one of those girls who gushed that their mother was their “best friend.” I could never live up to my mother’s expectations. From a very young age, I constantly heard that I was “too sensitive” and “just like my father” I never knew what these things meant, but by the way she said them, with disdain and contempt, the words spat out of her mouth like acid, I knew it wasn’t good. My apparent skills and talents were also spoken about with a mixture of disdain and scorn, dappled with high expectations and smugness, “of course you can/are good at -insert thing here- that’s from me,” I don’t have many memories of understanding, validation, or acceptance from her.
But still, I hoped and always imagined we would find common ground and have a satisfying relationship at some point. Right up until my early 40s, when I moved with my small family to the other side of the world, the plan was that our son (who was 4 years old at the time) would go to school in my country. My mother even moved to be closer to us, which was nice-ish, right up until my son asked one day, “why is Nana always so mean to you?” A massive wake-up call for me. And just like that, the blinders were off.
Never being satisfied with being an expert at my own problems, I asked her.
This resulted in an adult tantrum, complete with yelling and accusing on her part, throwing out the old standbys: “you’re just like your father’s side of the family,” and “you’ve always been too sensitive,” along with her mocking laugh I knew so well. I finally had the presence of mind and perspective of maturity to ask for clarification, especially on being compared to a family I never knew for so long. She tried to suddenly paint them favorably and encouraged me to establish relationships with them. But it was too little, too late.
At the time, Mum and I made peace and agreed that some sort of therapy would be the best thing to do, but first, she needed a break and had to go to Australia to visit some friends.
Long story short, therapy never happened. She came back and decided she had to move to Australia to be closer to her friends and the country she loved so much. She immediately started packing, and a month later, she was gone. K. bye.
The support system was gone. My husband’s father was ill, and we were at the 2-year mark of our living in NZ; we either paid thousands of dollars to extend visas and apply for permanent residency for him, or we cut our losses and returned to the USA at that point, I figured that I couldn’t possibly say to my beloved husband, “Do you love me so much you may never see your father again?” And we also did not have $5,000+NZD spare to send him home for a quick visit. It was a difficult decision. So, back we came. I was heartbroken.
Little did I know what was in store for any of us. (Does anybody?)
And here we are several years later, my mother aging and lonely in a big city on the other side of the world because she had to live there. She says she’s poor and lonely (although she has a better social life than me) and chose to be there. I’m divorced and on the other side of the world, raising my teenage son.
It makes for some sobering moments for me as the eldest child; she has had a few health scares that I think are mainly brought on by her loneliness and realizing she is living out the consequences of her own decisions and choices.
I talk with my sister a lot, neither of us is in the position to swoop in and rescue her financially, and it has been challenging to hear and see her put herself through everything.
I have no tidy ending here; I don’t know what’s going to happen. And with everything I have been through in the last few years, I don’t have the emotional capacity to take responsibility for her. Maybe I should have paid more attention to Mr. Luke because I don’t know the answer.
Recent Comments