“Your granddaughter needs to go to a hospital in Nashville for her depression,” I told my 95-year-old mother. “She’ll be away for a few months.”
My mother sat in silence. After my father died at 83, she moved to a retirement home near us in Asheville, North Carolina. I looked around her small room and saw the photos of her seven grandchildren, including my daughter, all smiling.
“You mean she won’t be home for Christmas?” she asked.
“I’m afraid not. But the doctors think this is best.”
“You’re making a mistake,” she said.
I couldn’t explain further. Mom never asked for details, and I was relieved. She wouldn’t understand that my 19-year-old daughter, whom she adored, had been addicted to heroin in college and was now in rehab.
I wanted to turn to my mother for support but didn’t trust I’d get it. Mom believed a woman’s role was to hold the family together. “Keep your figure to keep your husband,” she’d say. “And always control your children.” She was upset that I had a job while raising my kids, instead of being a stay-at-home mom like her. She often saw me as doing something wrong, so I assumed she’d blame me for my daughter’s problems. To avoid her criticism, my visits with Mom became shorter and focused on tasks.
Women have long been pressured to be perfect mothers. They’re often shamed for doing too much or too little for their kids. To avoid judgment, I drove my two children to every practice, performance, game, and match. I took time off work to volunteer in their classes, helped with homework, and made sure we had home-cooked meals five nights a week. When they got older, I tried to let go as recommended in parenting books.
Still, my efforts didn’t stop my daughter from becoming deeply depressed. She turned to alcohol in high school and drugs in college, and I felt I had failed her. I needed help but was ashamed to admit it. It was 2014, and the opioid crisis was rising, but heroin use wasn’t widely acknowledged on college campuses or in “good families.”
After a month in rehab, my mom had a mini-stroke. More would likely come, the doctors said. I prepared for my vibrant, complicated mother to die soon. Surprisingly, her declining health made her softer, and me more forgiving.
I began checking on her several times a week. When I left, we often hugged for a long time, whispering “I love you.” We never talked about my daughter, but I felt Mom knew there was more to the story.
My daughter was making progress in rehab, and I hoped she’d come home soon. Then I got a call from the facility in Nashville.
“Hello. This is the nurse. Everything’s fine,” she said. But if everything was fine, why was she calling?
“Your daughter had an accident. Her blue jeans caught fire, and she has a third-degree burn on her calf. She’s OK, been to the hospital, and is resting here now.”
I stared at the phone, wondering how quickly I could drive to Nashville.
The nurse handed the phone to my daughter.
“Hi, Mom. I’m fine but tired, so don’t come now. I may need a skin graft.”
After we talked, I went to see my mother. She was weak, taking more naps, and having more mini-strokes.
“I have bad news,” I said. “Your granddaughter burned her leg and needs an operation. She’ll be in the hospital in Nashville for a few days. I’ll drive there tomorrow, but I don’t want to leave you.”
“Of course, you must be with her,” she said.
“Promise you won’t go anywhere until I get back?” I joked. She smiled and nodded.
“Now listen,” she said, looking me in the face. I expected disapproval, advice, or concern. Instead, she said, “You’re going to get through this.”
It was the first time she expressed belief in me without criticism. She had always given love, but not unconditional trust.
As I left her room, I felt lighter. My constant guilt and worry about her, my daughter, and myself seemed to evaporate. Despite the uncertainty, I felt confident and calm.
At the Vanderbilt burn unit, I stayed with my daughter for five days. It was a precious time. I listened to her talk about her friends in rehab, hopes for the future, and things she was learning. I painted her toenails bright green, and we ate sandwiches from a nearby deli. I openly shared with her, apologizing for not understanding her pain and expressing sadness about my mother’s decline. At one point, I let my daughter hug me while I cried.
The day before I left, a nurse brought pain pills. I watched my daughter pretend to swallow them, then hide them.
“You must have dropped this,” I said, handing her the pills.
“Thanks, Mom. You’re right.” She swallowed them and smiled. The nurse left, confused.
“Why did you do that?” I asked.
“I thought if I saved up three doses, I could get high.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m sorry, Mom,” she sighed, looking out the window.
We sat in silence. I couldn’t believe she was willing to endure pain just to get high. I knew I couldn’t help her recover or insist she get better for my peace of mind. It would be a long, tough journey for her. I tried to think of what she needed to hear from me.
When I left, I didn’t give my usual pep talk. I stopped trying to be a perfect mother. I stopped trying to control things. Instead, I held her hand and said, “You’re going to get through this.”
While I was in Nashville, my mother had a major stroke. I rushed to see her once home. She was lying in bed, paralyzed on one side, able to say only a word or two. I held her hand and said, “I love you.” She nodded. Four days later, she died.
When my mother said, “You’re going to get through this,” I thought she meant my challenges with my daughter. After she died, I realized she meant I would get through losing her and all the struggles of life.
I’ve tried to give my children the gift of trust, believing they can handle whatever comes their way. Sometimes, I fall back into old patterns of fear. But thanks to my mother, I now practice my mantra: “You’re going to get through this.”
