Who Takes Care of the Family When Mom's Sick?

The first few days after Murray died, Mom, Walt, Marty, Hazel and I really bonded, although none of us touched each other physically. We bonded via cloud communication. We're not a super traditionally religious family, except for Hazel, but she’s open-minded. Murray asked that we not have a funeral. So we’re having an internet memorial to Murray. We’re posting videos and notes and pictures and memories on our Facebook pages and in our emails to each other. Mom's handled everything really well. We've talked on the phone several times and via email and on Facebook. In one email she had sent us a few months back when we first got the bad news, she said this, and it impressed me how committed to acquiescence she was: “I've been of no help and cry at the drop of a hat. Even writing this makes me weep. The news about him sounds hopeless. We have so little control over others except to love them….Love, Mom” At first I blamed Mom for not doing more. For not getting Murray therapy, for not immediately rushing to his side when he was diagnosed with liver failure, for letting him make up his own mind to live the way he wants even if it kills him. It’s as if Mom has some kind of wise understanding that we’re all going to die someday and we must stand back and love each other the best we can. I was able to find some understanding of what it must have been like to be my mother right after Murray died and I had my four year old daughter Stella to take care of. I couldn’t. It was as simple as that. I couldn't hold down anything, even water, so the anti-anxiety meds weren't able to get into my system to work. All I could do was cry and vomit and run to the toilet to have diarrhea and moan back in bed and do it all over again. Stella didn’t need to see me like this. Again. So I had my husband Hank call his brother Mike to see if Stella could come spend the day with his family. She’s always asking for playdates with her cousins. They happily agreed to take her. But as Hank and Stella, bundled up in their coats and hats, came to kiss me goodbye in the bedroom I couldn’t stop sobbing thinking, “I can’t take care of my baby. I’m too sick to care for my baby. It’s my job to care for my baby and I can’t do it.” Later, after a long post-hysterics nap, I awoke with a clear head. I laid there in bed, alone, not really looking at anything. And I thought. This must be how my mother felt when she couldn’t take care of us, either because she was sick with a nervous breakdown or sick with doubt over how to handle whatever crisis was presented to her. I wouldn’t want someone to blame me for finding someone else to care for my daughter while I attended to my own health care needs. My mom did the best she could with what she knew and what she had. And so do I. Period.