Family relations

I am writing this here, because I have limited access to this page for just a certain few (hi, btw), so I know the people I am writing about won't be able to read it.  But I have so many thoughts running through my head that I can't get out, and writing it always helps.  This entry might not make much sense.  It is definitely stream-of-consciousness, and I don't think it has a conclusion.

Mom was a planner.  But there were a lot of things that my mom didn't plan on.

Getting cancer.  Getting leukemia.  Dying so quickly.

Those were probably her top 3.

But I am sure that if she could talk to me right now, she'd probably add "Allison estranged from family" as something she didn't plan on, either.

Since the funeral, I have talked to my mom's sister twice, and my grandpa once.  These conversations have been very stilted and formal.  All of the familial bond is broken, and we have resorted to polite pleasantries.

Why?

Because apparently I didn't follow the "rules" that you are supposed to follow when one of your parents is dying.

(wait.  I said to myself that I would try not to be hostile.  So let me rephrase.)

Because I screwed up.

About a week before mom passed away, I posted a picture on my Facebook account.  Everyone knew that my mom didn't have much time left.  But I posted this picture anyway.  I posted it because it was how I wanted to remember my mom and dad.  They didn't always have the easiest time.  And the last few weeks were incredibly hard.  But I love every single thing about the photo.  I didn't see how my mom looked.  I saw how my dad looked at her.  And I knew that it was probably the best way to explain to people exactly what was going on, and how perfectly God was working in our family (within the context of one of the worst situations possible).

I did not anticipate that it was the thing that would finally push me over the "edge" with my mom's dad and sister.

Since my mom's decision to come off of treatments, I was making them very upset.  She was going downhill quickly, and I wasn't doing things the right way.  Nick and I went to Puerto Rico (we were shooting a wedding).  It was an incredibly painful decision to go, but I knew that mom would want me to go, since she had told me that herself.  She was not the same person when I returned--it was amazing how quickly she deteriorated.  I was told by another family member that "I should not have gone" to Puerto Rico.

When I came back, I did what I could when I was at mom and dad's, but I was also working and training for a marathon--both things that mom was very excited about.

The last week, I tried to be as available as possible.  I came after school every night, and stayed late.  My classroom performance certainly suffered, but I was doing what I could.  I will admit, there were a lot of times when I felt very helpless.  The process of watching someone die goes through different waves, some of which are much harder to deal with than others.

I was not there every day for the doctor visits.  I was not there to give her baths and change her clothes.  I was not there when they brought the hospital bed into the kitchen, and when she cried knowing that people would see her in it.  And I have to deal with that every day.  But at the time, I was doing what I felt was the right thing.  My sister had been able to come up for the time I was in PR, and she came up for a long weekend after that, as well.  My mom's best friend, and my dad, and her sister and her dad were there, so I felt like she was in good hands, and I could go work.

Not everyone felt that way.

When I returned from Puerto Rico, mom didn't have much time left (she died a little over a week after I got back), so I wanted to be as involved as possible.  I tried to be proactive, since I hadn't been able to do much before that. Instead of being helpful, I was seen as trying to "take over".

Then I was scolded about the photo.  I had "embarrassed the family".  I knew how my mom felt about her looks, and "she would be so ashamed" that people were seeing her that way.  And I "should apologize to her."

....

Since that night, I have not been able to relate to my aunt and grandpa.   At the funeral, They told Ashley, "You did such a good job with your mom.  Not Allison, but you."
All of what they have said has just reinforced the guilt I feel over having not been there for my mom at the end.  I was there, at her bedside, when she slipped away from this earth.  But it wasn't enough.  I had screwed up too much.  I wasn't there for the daily doctor's visits...


I don't even know where I am going with this.  But I am just SO ANGRY.  I cannot get over what they said to me.  I cannot get past it.  Every time I see them, I feel it again and again.  I didn't do the right things or say the right things.  I might be projecting what I think they are feeling, but I haven't had any communication with them at all, so I don't know if anything has changed.

I saw them both when I went back to Ohio.  I didn't make extra plans to see them, I saw them when I saw the whole family on my last Sunday there.  This is mainly because I don't want to see them.  I don't want to talk about all the things we probably should talk about.  I don't want them to bring up how I failed my mom, or disappointed the family, or them.  I don't want them to ask how many times I have been to mom's gravesite (because I haven't been at all).  I don't want them to bring up the picture.

I don't want to do any of it because of the open wound that still exists.  I now take everything they say, and run it through some crazy filter.  Like they are attacking me all the time, or making pointed remarks.  My grandpa was holding my cousin's baby, and when I went up to say hi to them, the baby turned his head.  My grandpa said, "Yeah, I'd turn away from her, too."  And I automatically run that through this they-hate-me-still filter, and it just makes me angry.

It's like the process of watching my mom die is this open wound.  And the feelings of my aunt and my grandpa are lemon juice that was poured on top.  And after it all was over, I put a band-aid on top so I couldn't see the wound.  But putting a band-aid on it didn't help--it just means it hasn't healed.  And every time I see them, or think about them, the band-aid is taken off and lemon juice is poured over it again.

I can deal with my mom dying.  I can deal with moving.  I can deal with not having a baby yet.  I can deal with not having any friends.  I can deal with some of my family being mad at me.  But not all of them at the same time.  I can't deal with that.

Which is why there is still lemon juice.