Today should have been my mother’s 52nd birthday. As far as I’ve heard, nobody seems to have any clue what causes glioblastoma. There’s really nothing to blame but bad luck. And try as they might, doctors don’t seem to be able to do much about it once it hits. It’s also not genetic, so I guess my chances are as good as anyone’s of reaching my 52nd birthday. Time will tell.
I’ve never managed to really bring myself to write about my relationship with my mother. I feel like talking too much about the difficulties will overshadow that fact that, no matter what may have transpired, my mother loved her children intensely and wanted only the best for us. She made a lot of sacrifices to give us the things we wanted, and she was always involved in our lives.
But she could also be controlling, overbearing, and even cruel from time to time. I’m sure I wasn’t a perfect child. I know I can sometimes be difficult to get along with. Any good Freudian could easily deduce that most of my crippling insecurities probably stem from verbal lashings from my mother throughout my entire childhood, and even after I left home. But there are a lot of people out there who had it a lot worse than me, and I didn’t end up hooked on drugs or on welfare or anything like that, so I guess it all worked out in the end. I know for a fact there’s no such thing as a perfect parent.
I often wonder what my mother would say to me if she were still alive. People like to tell me she’d be so proud of me. Well, that’s a nice thing to say isn’t it. Chances are, even if she was proud, there’d be a healthy dose of criticism to go along with it. That’s just how it was. But I always wanted to make her proud. I always wanted her to think I was the best. That’s all any child wants.
Every year, we celebrate my mom’s life by eating way too much and laughing much too loudly. I think that’s what she would have wanted. I wish I could know for sure.