Farewell to the mother – why it is so difficult

You always remain your mother's child. Even when you're an adult. Our author has a long goodbye.

My mother. My mum. She is in bed and is my mom. And it isn't. Because her face looks so strangely waxy, so strange. Someone put a rolled up towel under her chin to keep her mouth closed. "Can you be alone?" The carer asks me. I can. Even when I'm scared. I have never been alone in a room with a dead person.

All parting is difficult

My grandparents died. My brother died. My father has died. But I never managed to look at them again afterwards. I couldn't, didn't want to. This time I feel like I owe it to my mom. Strange. My mind still answers now and tells me that my mother is dead after all and that she doesn't care. Okay, then I owe it to myself. Just as I didn't know whether Mom even noticed me when I accompanied her to death. For two days. I sat by her bed. I was talking with her. Did she hear me I don't know, she was so far away already. In a coma after falling out of bed in the home.

When your own mother becomes a child again

Mom had already said goodbye to me beforehand, and the dementia took her mind with it bit by bit. But she still smiled at me. Happy when I put a piece of chocolate in her mouth. Mama was like a child. My child. I wanted to take care of her. But I couldn't protect her from the disease. That was maybe the worst: this damn helplessness. At school, at university – I had learned that I could rely on my mind. That I can find solutions with him. But there was no solution to the slow disappearance of the woman who was my mom. I could only stand it and grieve.

Have I said goodbye in almost five years? Yes, yes. It may sound cold, but it happened automatically. I couldn't tell mom anymore about my everyday life, what annoyed me at work, whether I was lovesick, what my vacation was like. As a result, she moved further and further from the center of my life to the edge. Only to come back with relentless force when I visited her at home, her and her damned dementia. I got in line during these visits, my feelings, my powerlessness. Because I wanted to be a good son. Because it should be about mom. She was sick. She had to be fed and cared for. Was that too much for me? Oh yeah. It is said that you always remain your mother's child. And this child wanted one, his mom back. The adult then went outside to cry so as not to disturb the sick person.

To take away fear of parting

But nothing prepared me for this moment. Now that I'm sitting on the bed next door in a hospital where I saw my mother die. I'm about three feet away from her and I don't dare to get any closer to her. And yet I know that I can't leave this room without saying goodbye to her. Again my mind answers. Why talk to a dead person? She doesn't hear you anymore. You don't even believe in life after death. In the Buddhist monastery I was in when my soul couldn't push away all the deaths and the sadness and the pain, they told us that our dead are not gone. Because they live on in us. That's why there is someone I have to say goodbye to. Even if I'm terrified of it. And so I let my mind talk wisely, look my fear in the eye and sit on the edge of the bed. Like she used to sit on the edge of my bed to say goodnight to me. I put my hand on her arm and tell her to have a good trip. That I'm very, very sad, but that it's okay that she left.

After saying goodbye to mom – life must go on

Sometimes it's good to talk to someone about it. Sometimes I want to be alone with it. I've talked to a psychologist and a mindfulness teacher, with friends, and with my boyfriend. This is often a little hold, a little consolation. But I also feel that I am only at the beginning of a path.

Now that I am writing this text, I realize how many more tears I will cry. That there is a child that I have to look after now because it no longer has a mom. That it is important even in their early 40s to see this child and hug them. That I don't have to be ashamed when I cry because mom is gone. And that being sad is also a good thing, because it shows how much I loved her … love her. My mother. My mum.

Our author is a journalist. He hesitated for a long time whether to really write about something so personal and finally decided to do it anonymously. He couldn't have been so open under his name.

Brigitte 06/2018