I’ve never been one to spend much time reminiscing at the end of a year.  I prefer to examine events and my corresponding actions at the end of each day, or within a reasonable amount of time.  This method provides me with more accurate input, as opposed to waiting until year’s end to try to recall everything that transpired.  The longer the memory, the more apt it is to be revised.  Can’t learn much from what didn’t actually happen.

The same goes for New Year’s resolutions.  Setting a number of goals at the beginning of a new year makes good sense – new beginnings, and all of that.  But, goals without objectives as to how they will be achieved seem to be setting one’s self up for nonfulfillment.  And, how many people do you know actually take time from after-Christmas shopping, and holiday party planning to delineate the steps to achieve lofty goals?

While I am not exactly changing my practices, I have just experienced one of the most unusual years in 2009, and I would like to reflect upon some of the events that contributed to my mood and outlook.

First, the miserable.  The worst occurrence of 2009 was the death of my feline friend, Max.  He was 12-years old, and his health and demeanor had declined over the past two years – after the death of my other cat, Fig.  Finally, in mid-September, Max’s kidneys ceased to support him, and he died.  I still cry every time I think about him, and for that matter, for Fig too.  I’m one of those soppy individuals who cries more at the loss of an animal friend, than I do for most people.  Max was a wonderful being – a friend and muse.  In his short life, he spent hundreds of hours by my side while I completed research and wrote.

Which brings me to the next miserable incident of 2009 … the angst I allow myself to endure at the behest of my mother.  We have never been close;  we have never really gotten along, but I’ve always been respectful to her, and tried to accommodate her needs.  She has always been difficult – narcissists usually are;  but since my father’s death nearly four years ago, her temperament has worsened, and it reached an apex this year.  In September, she was hospitalized with pneumonia, and placed in a medical care facility afterward.  She has been physically inactive for most of her life, and even more so within the years since my father’s passing.  Her days are spent in bed, listening to talk radio.  She has been cared for by a Romanian woman from the neighborhood, who goes into her home for two hours each day.  My mother’s choice.   After having been ill for a couple of weeks, her already weakened legs were not able to support her walking, even with the assistance of physical therapy.  Similarly, the muscles in her arms had also atrophied to the point where she is incapable of lifting herself up in bed.   As a result,  the difficult decision was made that she would remain in the facility since she was no longer able to  live alone.   My preference was that she would continue to live in her home until she chose otherwise, or upon her death.  Unfortunately, since she dismissed all of my (and other family members’) suggestions to make viable arrangements to remain in her home, decisions that she finds unpalatable were made for her.

So, why has this created misery for me?  Because my mother always requires a scapegoat … someone to be blamed for all of the woes that have befallen her.  For years I have heard from others that my  mother frequently speaks of me in disparaging terms, although she has never voiced any of those sentiments directly to my face.  And, she still hasn’t … but she has increased her circle of those to whom she complains about me.  I have abandoned her … heck, I abandoned my father when he was dying … I only visit her when I want money.

Growing up in the 1950s and 1960s in a Mexican-Irish-Catholic family, I was very careful to be the good girl.  I went to school, got good grades, glowing reviews from my teachers … essentially did whatever my parents and maternal grandmother asked of me.  As a teenager my most egregious deed was that I brooded.  I didn’t ‘run’ with a bad crowd, didn’t get pregnant (of course, I would’ve needed a boyfriend for that … another no-no in my mother’s rules).  I continued the good grades in high school, I sang in the choir, and I graduated a year early.  Went to college, always had a job, ‘dated sensibly’ … still didn’t get pregnant or do anything to embarrass or cost her money.  I eventually married (which was paid for by my husband, myself, and an aunt by marriage, who hosted the ceremony and reception), waited five years to have a child, and always remembered my mother’s birthday, anniversary, and other special days.  Same with my father; my mother’s numerous siblings, their children, and so on.  In other words, I have always done everything that has been asked (or implied) of me … within reason.  When my son was young, I returned to college to finish my degree (the one that was interrupted at the onset of my junior year when my mother advised me that she and my father could not afford to pay for my education beyond community college); and I realized in a psychology class that my son has Asperger’s Syndrome (AS).  I completed my bachelor’s in psychology, as well as a master of science in clinical psychology with an emphasis in educational psychology. Rather than sending my son to a public or private school, I educated him at home, and within the community, to better suit his learning needs.  At nearly 26, he is an intelligent, well-mannered, and affable young man, but I suspect that he will always require assistance with a number of living skills (particularly managing finances).

Miserable thing number three for 2009 was that after years of body pain, fatigue, and other chronic nuisances, my physician diagnosed me with lupus – when altogether new symptoms developed.  Not really a surprise, but still not something to place in the pleasantries of 2009 column.  Throughout my childhood, developing any kind of illness was viewed by my mother as a personal affront.  She treated me with such disdain because she felt that my simple head cold would translate into pneumonia, and subsequent, death for her.  Even though lupus is not contagious, I was not anxious to tell my mother of my diagnosis.  She was nonplussed by my announcement, so much so, that I decided to not call her afterward … rather, I opted to wait … to see if she would call me back in a day or two to check on me.  I waited two months before breaking down and phoning her.  She never did ask how I was doing.  In fact, one of the things I heard about myself was that she was angry that I never told her about having lupus, that she had to hear about it from one of her sisters.

I finally decided, after years of being forgotten and maligned by the woman who gave birth to me, that I can no longer  see or otherwise, communicate with her.  I will continue to pay her bills, and I’m clearing through years of accumulated junk in her house in preparation to sell, and help finance her long-term care.  She’s not going anywhere – literally or figuratively.

Three big uglies for one year isn’t too bad, though, right?  Next up will be all of the positives I experienced during 2009, and how I hope those experiences will shape what I hope to achieve in 2010.

Happy New Year!