I’m Sorry (Grand)ma, I Never Meant To Hurt You
At many times in my life, I wish that I had a better relationship with my grandma. Now that she’s entered her later years, I’m faced with regret. I wish that we had fostered a better relationship, but I’ve come to understand she was there for me in the most important way.
There were times as a child when I’d get upset with my grandma, like when she’d gone into my weekend bag and washed my clothes for example. To child me, this was a big invasion of privacy; I was significantly upset with her, obviously, because I still remember it. I look at that action now with appreciation. Yeah she could’ve asked me to gather my things instead of going in my bag, but she sent me home with fresh, clean clothes.
Now that we’re older, we have a very pleasant relationship. It’s pleasant, but it’s surface. I update her on my major life events, traveling (after I’ve already returned so she won’t worry about me), etc., but I would never dig deep with her, and I wish that wasn’t true. Like, I would never tell my grandma about any enlightened thoughts I had, or who I’m dating, or any sort of deep conversation.
I think she feels that way about me too, wanting a better relationship. Like she felt about her daughter, an opportunity she’ll never get.
My mom had completely checked out at one point, which is understandable while dealing with mental illness, but like, why would she expect me to make my doctor’s appointments myself at 13 years old??
I’ve seen tweets like, I still ask my mom to make my doctor’s appointments in my twenties. While that’s a little overboard, 13 is crazy. And if I didn’t schedule appointments, they didn’t happen. If I didn’t come to her about my illness, it wasn’t talked about.
For those that don’t know, I’ve had rheumatoid arthritis since I was about 11. There were times when I would just go untreated. I wasn’t seeing the doctor; I wasn’t taking my medication properly. My arthritis got really really bad, to the point where I had to get a joint replacement because my elbow was fused together.
Looking back, I wonder why my mom let it get that bad. Why put me in charge of my own care? And if you see it getting bad enough where your child is struggling to walk and cannot move her elbow, why wouldn’t you intervene?
Intervene is exactly what my dad did though. After he saw me struggling with my mobility, he questioned me on my health. He pointedly asked what my doctor said, if I’d been to the doctor, if I was taking my medication. I told the truth, which understandably resulted in anger toward my mother. I’d admit, I felt a sense of relief that my dad was there to protect me when they’d exchanged heated words about the ordeal. It was me and my dad against my mom, which was okay to me then because girl, why would you be making me do this by myself??
Like that time when I got on a new medication and my hair was falling out. I had washed my hair, and asked her to help me carefully comb through it. She declined. I couldn’t see to get the tangles out, and I just remember clumps of hair coming out into the comb, tears of frustration and anger for my mother and the situation streaming down my face.
I’m struggling, you see me struggling, you’re supposed to love me, so help me when I’m struggling? Please?
Maybe this trigged my hyper independence, why I struggle to ask for help. But how could she help me if she couldn’t help herself?
Dad took over for a while, then I aged out of the free healthcare for low income kids and my mom declined to take action. I was without insurance, with my illness worsening.
My dad had exceeded his capacity to help, dealing with a host of his own medical issues, so he got my grandma involved.
Once my grandma and dad linked up and she caught wind of my predicament, she swooped in to save me.
I mean, I cannot thank this lady enough for the initiative she showed me. She got me insured, picked me up and took me to all of my appointments, she got my joint replaced, she made sure I saw every doctor I was supposed to see, she paid every medical bill.
When she picked me up from the hospital following my surgery, I broke down in tears when I expressed how grateful I was for her and her taking over. How thankful I was for her is something I will never be able to fully express.
It’s funny that I should think to tell this story, because in the thick of my illness, my mom would always call me a trooper. I thought about that the other day. But the truth is, I shouldn’t have needed to be a trooper.
I just wonder why I had to even go through that. If mental health was a priority for my mom, maybe this whole ordeal would’ve never happened. It’s funny how it trickles down like that.
While I may never get the relationship I want with my grandma, we had the relationship that I needed and I’m grateful for that. I used to blame her for not showing love in the way that I wanted her to, but maybe she was showing love the only way she knew how.
I hate to feel like I‘m always picking on my mom, but this is my truth. And while I understand that she probably was not equipped with the tools to be the mom I think I needed, I now have to process that fact in my own time.
The title is a reference to Eminem’s Cleanin’ Out My Closet lyrics, “I’m sorry mama, I never meant to hurt you..” but I put (grand)ma cause this post is primarily about my grandma, get it?
