By Rudri Patel
You cannot tell anyone. His disease. His instructions.
For almost five years, my father mandated that we stay silent about the cancer that took his life. But this story is not about him. It is about my mother.
My mother became a prisoner of his secret. As much as I understood my father’s desire to exact a small piece of control over his illness – her voice, her needs, her happiness faded, as we pressed mute on her story. For the duration of his disease, my mother took on multiple roles: wife, caregiver, nurse, and confidante. She never missed an appointment to the oncologist or a hospital stay or a trip to the lab for “routine” blood work. Always by his side, her concerns became litter on the road. No one wanted to pick them up because his needs took precedence. She complied with the unwritten rules.
How could she talk about her fears and sadness when he was the one who was dying?
I knew that she suffered. In random moments – in the line at the grocery store, in the middle of the waiting room, and in our living room – she shed tears when my father slept or could not hear her. I witnessed her grief and in my mind, I saw myself extending my hands to comfort her. But as she cried, I stood back and only said, “We will get through it, Mom.”
Inside, my guts were churning and I was yelling, “Walk over and put your arms around her.” Instead, I stared at the wall, paralyzed with the collapse of both of my parents.
I wondered if my father ever realized the toll his disease was taking on my mother. Did he notice how she experienced her own depression? Often times when I visited, I caught her spending hours in front of the television. It was her only escape, yet this single act grated on my father. He thought television was mindless and annoying. I could hear him from his room, his voice raised: “Turn the television off. That’s enough.”
Without hesitation, my mother reached for the remote and did as she was told. My father denied her the only coping mechanism she had to deal with his disease.
My mother was accustomed to limited choices. Her East Indian background had decided her destiny: She grew up in a conservative household in Chembur, India, “choices” did not appear in her vocabulary, and it was her own father who determined her schooling and selected the man she married. At age twenty-one my mother entered an arranged marriage and spent the next forty-eight years living in her husband’s home and in accordance with his opinions.
For the duration of his illness, my mother kept her emotions close to her chest. And then it happened. My father died. Although she had ample warning of what was to come, the bullet from wife to widow was quick. For almost two years after my father’s passing, my mother cried the same way – in the quiet and in the dark. Although the secret of his illness was no longer a concern, my mother struggled to find a place for her voice and her grief.
How would my mother begin again?
****
I am in my office sorting through some paperwork and I hear my cell phone ring. My mom is calling. I pick up and she begins with this:
“Rudri, I went to the local YMCA and saw something I’d never seen. Line dancing.”
I laugh at her words.
“So Mom, did you dance too?” I ask her with a smile on my face.
“Oh, no. I didn’t dance, but it was so much fun to watch.”
We end our conversation and tears fall for my mother. I feel a jolt of pride. I contemplate the breakthroughs she’s made and for the first time, I see my mother as a woman with emotions, opinions, and the ability to make choices. She exhibits wonder at her discoveries as she looks at life through a lens that she can call her own.
Her path hasn’t been easy. For two years after my father’s death, she bounced from my home in Arizona to my sister’s apartment in Dallas. Desperately trying to find her footing, I sensed she wasn’t completely happy with either option. She started talking about living on her own and I dismissed her intentions. I couldn’t imagine it, but she’s proved me wrong in so many ways.
For the last eighteen months, she’s lived alone in her apartment. This may not seem like an extraordinary feat, but I doubt she ever contemplated a life without my father in it. And I didn’t either.
Each day, when I speak with her, I hear the voice of a different woman, one who shares the rhythm of her new life with a broader circle than ever before. Just last month she invited new friends over for coffee and cake. Her world had always been exclusively Indian, but now she has friends that span the globe, from Brazil to Japan. When I hear her voice, the excitement I haven’t heard for years is remarkable.
I am certain there are moments when my mother misses my father. But what I also know is that my mother’s taught me not to dwell on what is not. She’s maneuvering a terrain not as a widow, but as a woman with a new voice. The one that says she is strong, independent, and able to make decisions.
Her voice. Her life. Sometimes she stumbles, but at last, she climbed out of his secret.
© Rudri Patel
Rudri Bhatt Patel is a former lawyer turned writer. She spends her days balancing motherhood and writing about culture, grief, and parenting. She is a freelance writer for parenting and cultural sites and is also at work on a memoir about grief and life’s ordinary graces. You can find more of her musings on her blog, Being Rudri.
Read more from the Mother Daughter Series here.
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Wolf,
Thank you so much for encouraging me to write this piece. It is an honor to be a part of this series on mothers and daughters.
Absolutely beautiful, Rudri. This piece hits close to home for me. My mother and father married when she was 16 and he was 19. Shortly after their 63rd wedding anniversary my father died of a brief illness. Because my mother’s life revolved around him, I was concerned of how she’d continue alone. In the three months since my father died (and during his illness) my mother has handled life with incredible strength and grace.
Susan,
I am certain your mother is learning to find her way, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t difficult. She’s probably recounting many memories and missing him more than she can express. I hope she finds comfort in the memories that they shared. I know she is probably leaning on you and others to help walk through the days when she feels lost.
Thanks for your words and as always, your support of my work.
This is a lovely post Rudri….And such a wonderful transformation for your mother. When my father nursed my mother through cancer and alzheimers we thought it would be the death of HIM. Instead after about a year and a half he started seeing a woman he and my mom had known for years (a widow by that time) and fell madly in love. Watching how he went from grief to such happiness was such powerful lesson in the human spirit. It ain’t over until it’s over! Your mom’s story sounds similar to me in that your mother has the rest of her life to recreate herself any way she chooses. Thanks for these important reminders! ~Kathy
Kathy,
I love that your father found his new beginning. When we are consumed by grief, it is so hard to even imagine how are loved ones will manage to get through it. But you are right, the human spirit is resilient. I am so happy that my mother realizes that she has freedom to make choices and really feel the magnitude of her decisions.
Thanks for stopping by and commenting. I am grateful that you shared your father’s story.
I love this story. Having been married for more than 30 years, but with much more independence than your mother had, I can only imagine how hard this transition was for her. She is truly inspiring.
Thanks, Judith. An Indian widow carries a stigma that only she understands. Her childhood and her cultural backdrop determined so many of her choices. To break free from that thinking requires a tremendous amount of courage and spirit. My mom has taught me that the only way out of a hole is to climb out of it.
Thanks for reading and commenting.
Rudri, the stark honesty of this is both painful and beautiful. Any time you write about your parents, the words hit deep mark. xoxo
Kitch,
My parents have influenced me in so many ways and I am navigating through that terrain in my writing. I am grateful that my exploration resonates with you. As always, Kitch, it is a pleasure to see you comment on one of my pieces. As you know, I am such a huge fan of your insights and words. I look forward to your contribution in the series.
Beautiful and Inspiring!
Thanks, Parul, for reading and commenting. xoxo
Rudri, some of your most amazing writing is about your parents and culture. I’m so glad that D. asked you to contribute to her series.
I love this powerful piece and how you gave us a lens on your mother. We’re going through something similar right now in my elderly and frail father-in-law’s recent recovery from a risky surgery. He has been temporarily moved out of his home in order to rehabilitate and what we didn’t think to expect was the impact on my mother-in-law who is now alone and facing the imminent decline of her husband of 50+ years. Your honesty here helps bring our attention to the often forgotten survivor. And what an inspiring story about your mother this has turned out to be.
Thanks, Cecilia, for your generous comments.
I know that my mom’s needs slipped to the side. We didn’t navigate my father’s illness with her in mind. In fact, my sister, my mom, and I, ignored much of our personal lives in an effort to help my father. Of course, this decision, came with a huge price. I think it is so important to engage in self-care. And it may appear as “selfish” but it isn’t. I think we all learned that the hard way.
I know your MIL will be faced with some important choices and she is straddled between concern for her husband and the questions of “What now?” I think asking her to think about her needs and what she wants becomes paramount in trying to minimize the collateral damage that comes when a loved one falls ill.
This is a stunning piece, Rudri. It is so interesting to see our mothers in the light of our own adulthood.
Windy,
My vision of my mother changed after having my daughter. Also, I’ve realized as time passes how much my mom had to keep it together during my father’s illness. She needed attention too, but we couldn’t see that in the middle of everything.
As always, I love seeing your comments on my pieces. I am proud to know you not only as a writer, but also as my friend. xoxo
This is so beautiful. Honest and inspiring. Thank you for sharing.
Thanks, Alisa.
My mother called me this afternoon and she choked up in tears. She said she loved the piece and that meant so much to me.
Thanks for your support.
Thank you for sharing such a personal piece about your mother, Rudri. How beautiful to see her blossom – flowering into her own pleasures and working her way into light again. Because I love photography, I especially loved the transition from black and white photograph to living color. She is lovely. It’s always inspiring and thoughtful to read your writing about family and especially, the grace and respect you show to your parents.
This is so honoring to your mom. I love to hear you talking about her new adventures. I bet she feels wonderful after reading this!
Thanks, Ker. She read the piece and cried after finishing it. She felt inspired by all of the positive comments and really loved my perspective on her journey as a woman and a mother.
Rudri, this is absolutely beautiful! You conveyed the emotions that your mother must have been feeling while having to remain silent and stoic. Your mother’s transformation must be exhilirating some days and downright scary other days, but it seems like you have embraced the newness that is shining through her since the loss of your father. I am so glad that you shared this deeply personal piece. Your writing is gorgeous.
Amy,
Thank you for your kind and supportive comments. My mother stumbles with this “new” life, but she now experiences so many different feelings that were not part of her relationship with my father. I am certain that it is difficult and that some days feel harder, but my hope is that she keeps moving forward.
Heartfelt, painful and beautiful. I love the piece you wrote. You honor your mom.
Thanks, Ayala. I know that you often honor your parents through your poetry. I find that writing helps me navigate the sadness and the happiness and offers a greater clarity to my relationships. As always, I appreciate your support. xoxo
I also am very glad that DA asked you to participate in this series. Your honesty is amazing and your Mom’s story is very, very inspiring. Thank you!
Thanks, Heather. My mom’s journey is one that continues to impress me. I am equally grateful to DA for leading this series. I’ve peered into many of the essays and am struck by the many shades of mother-daughter relationships.
This is an amazing piece Rudri – your writing is very striking. And I’m sorry for your father’s loss but happy your mother has found her voice and independence 🙂 Have a great one! -Iva
Iva,
Thanks so much for reading and offering your kind words. I appreciate your condolences. My mother is working through this new phase in her life and I hope she continues to soar.