Closed Doors

 

John has been gone a month at the time I'm writing this.  One month ago today, I kissed his forehead and walked out of the room leaving his physical body, my dearest friend and great love, behind.  I realize now that I was in a state of shock.  Operating normally enough on the surface but reeling with sorrow underneath.  Holding myself together for the sake of my children, but bereft.  Probably not hiding it very well though I supposed at the time that I was.

But two things happened that I have not shared.  Two other griefs, which are wrapped up in losing my beloved.  The Sunday morning of his last day, when I'd been told he'd passed away, before I went in to see him and he miraculously regained consciousness, one of the first people I called was my brother.   I told him John had died. "Well Terri, it's going to happen to all of us at some point.  I'm sorry."    I asked him to please let Mama know.  

He did not.  

My brother will not call.  He does not call.  He does not acknowledge my existence.  Why I called him, I cannot tell you.  

That afternoon, as John was breathing his last breaths, Mama began texting me.  I explained to her that I was at the hospital and John was dying.  She kept telling me she couldn't come to the hospital, that she didn't know what to do.  I kept texting back there was nothing she could do, and I didn't expect her to come to the hospital. Eventually I passed the phone to Samuel who made some reply that seemed to satisfy her.  

On the day after John's death, while I was alone, I called Mama to tell her what had happened with John.  I assumed she'd want to know.  

We've had an ongoing argument for months.  All her calls go straight to voicemail, and her voicemail inbox is not set up.  I've asked repeatedly that she allow me to look at her settings, or for my niece to look into it.  She steadfastly refuses.  

So, I texted her and said "Mama, please call me" when my phone call didn't go through.  She texted back, "What do you want?'

I reminded myself not to read tone into text and was about to text her a reply when my phone rang.  She asked immediately, in a very hateful way, "What do you want?"  I told her I'd wanted to tell her about John.  "I suppose you want money for his funeral!"  "No, we've made all the final arrangements already."  "Well, I just knew you wanted my money to pay for his funeral.  I know you spent every last penny you had on redoing that kitchen!  You don't have a penny left."  All of this said in the most hateful tones.  And all of it the most erroneous thinking on her part!

I sat there stunned.  Hurt.  I know I spoke to her, telling her briefly that John had a heart attack, and I recall I said towards the end of the brief conversation that if she called me and I didn't answer, to please understand I didn't want to talk to her.  Then I hung up.

What I didn't say, what I couldn't say, was, "I just needed to talk to my mama..."  I couldn't tell her that. Not with her acting as she was.

Every time I think she cannot possibly hurt me more, I am surprised by the pain she can inflict. My husband had been dead 14 hours, and her biggest concern was for what my loss might cost her, nor for what I might be experiencing.  Never at any point in the conversation was her concern for me. 

I've not only sat with the grief that my husband is gone for the past month, but I've also sat with the grief that this woman I've called Mama has no compassion or love for me at all.  Nor does my brother have any familial feeling for me.  And to be honest, I had never felt so very alone as I did following that phone call.  Even losing John, knowing he was gone was not quite as lonely as knowing I had no blood relation, beyond my children, who cared one whit for me.  

I wanted comforting.  I wanted my mama.  I might be 67 and more than fully grown, but I needed the comfort that one expects from a mother.  

What on earth was I thinking?  Truly, what was I thinking?

And the contact she's made since has been to text, "I'm okay...Love you both..."  Perhaps she's forgotten. Perhaps she's doing it on purpose. I don't know.  I don't have it in me to try to sort it out.  But it's like a fresh stab each time she sends that message.

Last night I sat on the edge of my bed and cried.  I cried for the husband I miss and no longer have in my life.  I cried for the foolish woman who is little girl enough yet to think that someday her mother will display some sort of love towards her.  I cried for the birth family I have who are very much alive but truthfully are far more cold and dead to me than John can ever be.  

I have no choice in accepting that John is gone.  

I make the choice to accept that I do not want a relationship of any sort, not in name or in fact, with my birth family members any longer.  Not a decision I make lightly, but one I make for myself right now and in the future.  I can no longer willingly inflict that sort of pain upon myself.  

I've examined and re-examined myself over the past month. I've asked myself if hurt and anger have clouded my thinking.   But on this point, I am quite clear.

I do not hate them.  I do not harbor unforgiveness.  I recognize that I have no strong emotions, beyond my grief at how those two encounters played out.  I do have that.  But mostly, my overwhelming emotion is that I'm done.  I'm finished trying to pump life into something that isn't there.  I'm underwhelmed with my relationship despite the efforts I've made.  I just want it over and finished.   

Some doors are shut for us, without any willingness on our part to shut them.  They are not going to open again, not in this life.  But some doors we have to choose to close behind us forever,   

No goodness is going to come, nothing worth having will ever come out of that door. I choose to shut it tight, lock it and walk away.  And I do it without any remorse, or anger or regret.  It's time to let go of things that were never mine to hold.