Hello world... It's been a while. I'll come back to where I have been and what's been up with me in a future post, but I felt the need to hop on here today to process something big that is inevitable yet for me surreal.
My mom is dying and my processing is so out of body. I guess in hindsight we are all dying right?, but my mom is dying and I don't know what to really make of it. The truth is there will be a mental death long before her body gives out and that's a part that I am slowly trying to come to grips with.
A few years ago, my mother suffered from a series of strokes and since then I have encountered her slow mental deterioration. Yesterday was her birthday and although we talk off and on, hearing her speech concerned me. And for the first time I was faced with the reality that I can only put into these words... My mom is dying.
To know where we are, we have to know where we came from and the story of my mom and I and this moment in time, is such a complex story.
My mom is brilliant, plain and simple. Her previous life was full of light. My mom was an immigrant of Haiti, in her childhood in the states she suffered some form of abuse and through it all, my mom aspired to become a doctor. And not just any doctor, the most brilliant of doctors that one could be- my mom was a D.O. - Doctor of Osteopathy don't ask me to define it, or how it is different than an M.D , that's beyond me.
But here is what I know, my mother studied at Ohio University, in Athens, Ohio. When I was born my mother was completing medical school. Her residency program coincided with my early childhood having us living in different parts of Ohio.
My mother returned to Athens, Ohio to give back to the medical school that educated her and through that process became a vital professional, educating a generation to come behind her and serving as a general surgeon for two area hospitals, including the hospital I was birthed at.
Growing up, I don't think I quite understood what exactly my mother did. I just knew, there were long nights and weekend days spent at the hospital. One memory I have was going to the hospital with my mom while she was still in residency and she and her friend had to do some "assignment" on a cadaver. I was in my single digits, I didn't know what a cadaver meant. But I do remember walking into this room with my mother, smelling what I now know as
formaldehyde and seeing the toes of this person hanging over the edge of a medical table-- in hindsight I am glad I didn't have the height to see above the table, but that was enough for me to back out of that same medical room and find a seat in the hallway 😆
I knew that my mother worked hard, not only was she practicing medicine and teaching, but my mother was a Captain in the Army Reserves-- and now some of you who are reading this and know me very well, may know where my high capacity gene comes from.
My childhood memories are a jumble, in that I remember a lot of family-time where my mother wasn't there, where it was my dad, myself and later my cousin (whom my parents adopted). But then there are memories I have of my mother cooking, laughing- hearty joyfilled laughs, teaching me how to make fudge or peanut butter. Memories of my mother rolling massive carts of Girl Scout cookies through the hospital so we could provide my customers with their spring delights, every year we CLEANED house for my troop.
There is one memory when I started to put together, what a "big deal," my mother was, when she was selected to be the cover of an Alumni Magazine celebrating alumni who graduated from Ohio University. It was kind of cool seeing the first run of the magazine and my mother on the cover. And then getting to go to a fancy dinner where Barbara Ross-Lee, D.O and Dean of the medical school, and sister of the one Diana Ross, was in attendance- ask me about that memory later.
Photos courtesy of OU.edu
But just as quickly as that rise came, the fall came even more rapidly. The day I turned 12 years old, my mother kicked my father out of the house. My parents entered into a separation and began such a devastating divorce- it's oxymoronic to use that sequence of words - DIVORCE IS DEVASTATING, PERIODT. But this had drama in a way that, well they take the cake. For a year my cousin and I were between two homes, meeting with court appointed representatives to determine what our custody would look like.
There was a physical altercation between my parents at one point, the memory still comes back to me. Where I had to write a statement about what I had witnessed. A statement that yet truthful, harmed my mother. Through this year, my mother eventually stopped practicing medicine. At the time, I didn't know the circumstances and truth be told, I still don't, but later came to learn that it wasn't by choice and my mother lost her medical license.
Turning points in life are tricky, as I have gotten older and have had time to reflect on my family's past, I have been able to hold more empathy for both of my parents and the choices and decisions they made. I can only imagine what it has been like for my mother and what it must have been like in the moment, to lose something she literally worked her whole life for.
In that same magazine my mother was on the cover of, I have a copy, and one of the quotes from the article about my mother, states "
Charged with inspiration about the career she has chosen, Neptune-Ceran is poised to strive against all conceivable prejudices in order to fulfill her aspirations. ' Most people would feel that I was at a disadvantage being a minority, a female, and - considering the misconceptions which still prevail about the surgical qualifications of D.O. as opposed to M.D.s - an osteopathic physician,' says Neptune-Ceran. ' I, on the other hand, feel that these are the driving forces behind my perseverance.'
There is so much highlighted in between what is written here. There's an incredible feeling of loss, seeing this version of my mother. To know the brilliance literally at her finger tips. As the reality of her never practicing medicine began to become more real, it's only in the last few years that I have been able to grasp what an incredible loss that was for my mother. That her hands literally saved lives and the training she underwent, to start over, that had to be devastating (there's that word again).
But the thing about turning points is you still have a choice and my mother's ended up being tremendously hurtful. The summer before I turned 13, a year after my parent's divorce came underway, my mother breached custody and moved me to California- I say that nonchalantly, but the truth is, I was abducted. My mother never harmed me, always did her best to provide me with a good home, but it didn't prevent the harm that had already been created. My now 13 year-old brain, created a narrative that my parents' couldn't be in the same marriage, let alone the same state. That despite the fact that I knew, my mother withholding my ability to communicate to my paternal family and my childhood friends, I knew that if I said anything, it could mean my mother could get in trouble-- insert memory of being a witness to my parents' altercation. So home life, my emotional state, was interesting to say the least.
My mother did her best to maintain some professional experience, while still pursuing the restoration of her medical license. My mother taught in an elementary school in San Jose Unified School District, I think my mother was a bit progressive in her management of the classroom. I don't know if she was an aid or the main facilitator, all I know is there had been some interesting moments, when my mother asked me to borrow my Tupac so she could connect more with her students. My mother eventually lost that job and to be honest, I am not sure what my mother ended up doing for work after that. Whether it was random opportunities with the local church, or temp agencies, but my mother did her best to make ends meet. Through that season though, the woman I addressed as mom, was far from the ideals of what a mother is characterized as. For me, this woman broke up my family and forced me from the only community I knew. Additionally, my mom started suffering from what I believe was depression. There were many mornings when my mother wasn't the first one out of bed. Where I would rip off her comforter to push her to take her shower and drive me to school.
Testing the waters to brace the subject of my father, was a full on fight. That would result in some joint counseling session and my mother not hearing the wisdom of the medical professional in front of us.
There was one time, where my High School wanted to host a parents panel. I don't remember how it came up, but my mother, the doctor, was obviously invited to speak. But my mother's depressive state made me nervous about what that experience might yield. The day my mother came to speak, if felt like a good day, even though she wasn't practicing and hadn't for 2 years at that point, my mother could speak about practicing medicine so clearly, and in her reflection of her passion, my mother must have recalled her
turning point. Mid- speech, my mother spirals and starts talking about my father. And I just remember, shouting no, tears running down my face and quickly moving to the exit in the back of the auditorium that day. I don't know how the presentation ended, whether or not someone had stopped her and we never talked about it.
There is a lot more in between what I am going to share, but eventually my father and I were reunited. And due to a court order, I was to have no contact with my mother until I was 18. Confusion is all I can say defined that time. And through the years I wrestled with these senses of obligation of what society says responsibilities of family and family roles are to be. So when I turned 18, despite my confusion- insert hurt and anger. She was still my mother and there was and still is this yearning to have a relationship with my mother. The next few years were hard. Trying to rebuild something on a foundation that was already broken. For me, I barely understood my mother as a child, she was present, but with her professional obligations that presence was limited, despite the memories I have. Then you add, the abduction and a series of things that happened in between, my return to my father and that just adds to brokenness. Through the years that have followed my 18th birthday my mother and I have had an off-again, on-again relationship. The off-again following her trying to convince me to say the statement I wrote post witnessing my parents' altercation when I was 12 wasn't true. Or seeking that I would write a statement in her favor, that was unfavorable towards my father. And when I would say no, the result was anger, backlash and this drastic 180. There was a season I received letters from my other addressed to "
My ghetto daughter."
These should have all been signs that something wasn't right with my mother, but sadly mental illness wasn't something as clearly defined as it is now. And what's funny is mental illness continues to be one of those medical conditions that is least understood and so improperly diagnosed and services historically.
I have kept my distance with my mother, mainly because I was in the process of healing. But my mother's mental state had always been a tell in our relationship. My mother came to visit me in D.C. once. It was the first time I had seen her in maybe 2 years. I was taking a risk by letting her stay with me during her 3 day visit. Over the years, we never addressed all of the choices and how it impacted me and my late 20s self was ready to fight it out.
Photos, these preserved moments of time, that give you some proof of a memory of your past. The memories of my childhood had whittled down, through the abduction and then being reunited with my father. My father recorded everything- STACKS OF VHS were in our TV stand. When my mom abducted me, I made it my point to maintain these memories. Photo albums and small pieces of nostalgia. But when I was reunited with my father, those mementos were no longer in my possession. When I was reunited with my father, I was not allowed to reenter my home and collect my belongings. Instead, my mother packed up my things and with it meant my choice in what I received was not mine. So on this visit to D.C. my mother brings these photo albums. Albums of my childhood that I haven't seen in so long. In my head my mother was giving them to me, in hers she was just letting me see them. Whhhhhhhhhheeeeeeeewwwww, the fight that ensued.
It was in the aftermath of the fight, when I had finally calmed down, that I began to see the fragileness of this larger than life person. It's probably in this interaction that I started to really begin to come to grips with my mother's mental state.
My mother still had random jobs, but she was able to take care of herself- she had an income, she was still driving. She was an activist, from what I can gather, from a Google search, again BRILLIANCE.
Photo Courtesy Santiago Mejia, Special to the Chronicle
published for SFGate.com (September 2015)-
But her mental deterioration was still the backdrop. My mother spiraling on particular phrases, becoming erratic in her emotions, or the frequency of her phone calls after you had just spoken with her. Paranoia was clear, for a long time when my mother was more lucid, she would tell me her phone is being tapped, that her emails were corrupted. The anger and resentment of our past made it difficult to not get frustrated at the situation, because I couldn't name what was happening to her and I didn't want to deal with it. I wanted to be angry, I wanted to be hurt. I wanted to be mad at the woman who I blamed for drastically shifting my life when I was 12 years old. I wanted to hold on to that history, rather than settle in the reality of where we were now.
And because of my 3,000 mile difference, I didn't have to bear the weight of it. I could protect myself behind those miles and a phone call every couple of weeks. But when my mother had her first stroke, followed by a series of 2 more in rapid succession, I had to come to grips with the reality that, the woman I had been angry with for so long, was NEVER GOING TO SAY SORRY. And it meant that I had to being embracing this version of her as she was.
It's not easy and there are still painful moments. There is still a lot of confusion. I struggle saying " I love you," to the person who brought me into this world. Going to visit her shortly after her last strokes, was challenging. Confronting for the first time, the reality of my mother's changing, up close and personal. The woman who was constantly ordering bulbs of flowers, and forcing family bonding through planting of these massive trees and flowers on our 3.5 acres of land in Ohio, wouldn't go out for a walk, without having to be coached into it for 30 minutes. The former doctor spent long combative hours, just trying to maintain a pre-scheduled doctors appointment. At any mention of psychosis, my mother tenses up.
I can barely bring up my mother's medical care, social security, disability or anything without my mother talking in her code and essentially telling me it is not my business. So my mother is dying, the brilliant woman who entered this world 61 years ago is becoming a shell.
It's surreal, she's 61, she literally just turned 61, March 4, 2020. I am trying to navigate what choices legally, I have to make decisions for her-- a thought I couldn't have imagined if you told me I would do this 7 years ago. I am trying to navigate how to prepare my mother for as peaceful as an end of life as I can give her, recognizing that I am 3,000 miles away, that I am just now getting myself in order, financially and just in general. I am trying to navigate all of this, without having the support I would when this day eventually came.
The 11 year old me, dreamed into having her father and her big family on both sides, to walk this journey out. Grief happens in waves. For those impacted by divorce, the conversation is always had about the two people who are separating, but children have dreams for their families too. So navigating my father being my father, while I process this part of life is SURREAL.
I am navigating that there is a big part of my 34 year old life, that never really knew my mother. And there is a part of me that has to grieve that I may never fully know who Regine Neptune is or was. But what I know is, my mother in a sense is dying and it's heartbreaking to see BRILLIANCE become extinguished.
