Essay
On Being a Mother
by Carol Berger (Israel)
Sometimes a lush cornucopia of hopes and dreams can be shattered by a few words. The future, which looked so bright and optimistic, changes from joyful light to dismal, almost hopeless, gloom. Plans made, scenarios envisioned, projects set in motion – all must be jettisoned to the garbage heap of disappointed dreams, and a new unwanted reality unwillingly accommodated.
‘Mum, Charles and I have finished’. These words from my 38-year-old daughter were enough to change everything – the future, the present, and even, in some incomprehensibly time-warped way, the past. All the events of the last 16 months − Louise and Charles as regular weekend visitors, Louise, happy, relaxed and in love, she and I enjoying each other’s company as we rarely had in the past, time spent with our extended family − all of it had happened and yet the recollection no longer brought joy but rather the sour taste of irrelevance.
I knew that there were ‘issues’ between them. You don’t get to your late thirties without accumulating some ‘baggage’. She had told me that he was ‘trying to sort his head out’ but she was hopeful that they would ‘get it together’. Oh, these psycho-babble phrases! masking in cliché the agony and work of true emotional growth, and the pain and effort of two young people striving so hard to join their separate lives into one.
And now it was over. The future was a barren landscape of loneliness shadowed with despair, hopelessness and uncertainty. Where would she live? They had been living together in his flat for the last few months and had recently found and were planning to move to a new flat together. How would she pick up the pieces of her life again as a single woman? Almost all her friends were married or in long-term relationships, and most had at least one or two children. How would she deal with the almost unbearable longing to bear children? She had so few fertile years left. The empty nest syndrome, so often discussed, pales into insignificance in comparison to the agony of the empty womb syndrome.
As for me, her mother, I exist in a unique state of being, created by the visceral knowledge of what she is feeling − I know her pain as though it were my own − together with the awareness of my total inability to lessen it or to change anything in the situation that caused it.
Are all mothers condemned to suffer this exquisite agony of helplessness and hurt when life deals harsh blows to their children? Is there any way to cut off, to accept that ‘it’s her life not mine’ and to focus on my own life with my husband, friends and work?
I tell myself that all I can do is to watch events unfold, love her, and be there when she needs me. Sometimes, as I go through my busy days, these thoughts make sense and are enough to keep the despair at bay. But when I wake up at 3 a.m. the hobgoblins of fear and hopelessness invade my mind, crowding out any rational thought or optimistic perspective.
Perhaps, with time, I will adjust to the new reality. Perhaps I will even come to see that it was all for the best and was needed for whatever the next stage in my daughter’s life is to be. But will I ever be able to distance from my child’s pain − or joy for that matter − to the extent that I can function with some degree of emotional autonomy? Being a mother is a biological role − why then does it feel like an existential state of being? Have I got the whole thing wrong? Does anyone else feel like this? Who can help me?
‘Mum, Charles and I have finished’. These words from my 38-year-old daughter were enough to change everything – the future, the present, and even, in some incomprehensibly time-warped way, the past. All the events of the last 16 months − Louise and Charles as regular weekend visitors, Louise, happy, relaxed and in love, she and I enjoying each other’s company as we rarely had in the past, time spent with our extended family − all of it had happened and yet the recollection no longer brought joy but rather the sour taste of irrelevance.
I knew that there were ‘issues’ between them. You don’t get to your late thirties without accumulating some ‘baggage’. She had told me that he was ‘trying to sort his head out’ but she was hopeful that they would ‘get it together’. Oh, these psycho-babble phrases! masking in cliché the agony and work of true emotional growth, and the pain and effort of two young people striving so hard to join their separate lives into one.
And now it was over. The future was a barren landscape of loneliness shadowed with despair, hopelessness and uncertainty. Where would she live? They had been living together in his flat for the last few months and had recently found and were planning to move to a new flat together. How would she pick up the pieces of her life again as a single woman? Almost all her friends were married or in long-term relationships, and most had at least one or two children. How would she deal with the almost unbearable longing to bear children? She had so few fertile years left. The empty nest syndrome, so often discussed, pales into insignificance in comparison to the agony of the empty womb syndrome.
As for me, her mother, I exist in a unique state of being, created by the visceral knowledge of what she is feeling − I know her pain as though it were my own − together with the awareness of my total inability to lessen it or to change anything in the situation that caused it.
Are all mothers condemned to suffer this exquisite agony of helplessness and hurt when life deals harsh blows to their children? Is there any way to cut off, to accept that ‘it’s her life not mine’ and to focus on my own life with my husband, friends and work?
I tell myself that all I can do is to watch events unfold, love her, and be there when she needs me. Sometimes, as I go through my busy days, these thoughts make sense and are enough to keep the despair at bay. But when I wake up at 3 a.m. the hobgoblins of fear and hopelessness invade my mind, crowding out any rational thought or optimistic perspective.
Perhaps, with time, I will adjust to the new reality. Perhaps I will even come to see that it was all for the best and was needed for whatever the next stage in my daughter’s life is to be. But will I ever be able to distance from my child’s pain − or joy for that matter − to the extent that I can function with some degree of emotional autonomy? Being a mother is a biological role − why then does it feel like an existential state of being? Have I got the whole thing wrong? Does anyone else feel like this? Who can help me?
Elenor Leveritt (Queensland, Australia): All parents can relate to this pain on behalf of an adult child. Unfortunately, it is a very common situation these days.
Esti Webman (Israel): Dear Carol, You are not alone. When
it comes to our children it is impossible to impose our rational
thinking over our feelings and protective instincts. I learnt to live
with it and accept it with love.
