In the same conversation as the parody of Dorothy I mentioned that it would never have worked having my mother move in so I could care for her. I jokingly said if we were both under the same roof, one of us would have had to die.
I told him my mother had come to stay with me after I lost my only child. The few days she was here she said things that were so heinously cruel that at one point I actually contemplated throwing her off the second floor deck. I told her to go home.
One would think that after a lifetime of belittling, demeaning potshot at her daughter that even a narcissist wouldn’t be cruel enough to kick a grieving mother when she was down. Oh no, even then I was fair game.
This was after my brother and his family had flown into town for the funeral and he had made it perfectly clear that he felt my son deserved what had happened to him. He was so blatant in his dismissal of Gabe’s death that a friend had pulled me aside to tell me “Your brother is a complete asshole.” No kidding – he had a lifetime of training from my mother.
Gabe had wanted to be cremated and I felt the need to be there when he was transported to the crematorium. I wanted to make sure he had the things I wished with him – a book we were both reading The Road Less Traveled by M. Scott Peck and a small flower arrangement from me. It was the last thing I could ever do for him, so I went and basically tucked him in for the last time and followed the van to the crematorium. I watched the casket get wheeled in and then drove home knowing I would never be able to do another thing for my beloved child ever again. I was beyond devastated.
I dragged myself into the house and found my mother at the kitchen table. I plopped down in a chair completely spent. I had nothing left.
My mother looked at me and smugly said “Dick (my brother) and I have always talked that you and Gabe were too close.”
My brain exploded on multiple levels.
They talked about us? When Dick treated us like complete crap, couldn’t stand to be around us and knew nothing of our lives, he dared to talk about us?
Too close? How the hell can a mother and child be too close? Oh, sorry – we loved, respected, and absolutely trusted the loyalty of the other. Silly me – I thought that’s the way things are supposed to be.
And the timing. I was without question at the lowest point I would ever be in my life and my mother couldn’t resist the opportunity to stick a knife in and twist it. Or as the image shows, give me a helpful push off the cliff.
I slammed out the back door to stand on the second floor deck in a rage over the fact my mother’s cruelty evidently had no limits. When I realized I was thinking how much I’d like to grab her frail little body and throw it over the rail, I decided it was time for her to go.
I went in and told her I needed to be alone and asked her to go home. She couldn’t believe it. Why did I want her to go? She thought she should stay a week or two. She wanted to “be” there for me. If she stayed a week or two one of us would end up dead and I wasn’t sure whether it would be homicide or suicide. She had to go.
I couldn’t get her out of the house fast enough. Losing a child is beyond bad. Having a narcissistic family who uses it as an opportunity to inflict more pain is incomprehensible.
So to my friend who made the “She was only trying to help” comment when I told him about throwing my mother out after my son’s death – be careful about making judgments when you know nothing of which you’re talking. It kind of smacked of “We always thought you were too close…”