When my dad died unexpectedly, I lost my partner in navigating issues with my mom, Sue. I’ve written about the dynamic a bit. He provided counterbalance and love, patience, and insight when I needed it the most. His was the one and only voice that could cut through when mom was out of control.
Amidst the swirl of decision-making after he passed was the prospect of where mom and my disabled sister, Lisa, would live. They’d made a life with dad on the West Coast…in delightful and sunny California while the rest of the family remained in the Midwest – including the hubster, our DD (darling daughter) and myself. It took a few months but mom realized staying in California was probably not a good idea.
At first she said the visit would last just a week or two – meeting with realtors lined up to show her options – and she and Lisa would then head west to deal with listing their home and tending to logistics. A week…or two…at most, she said.
You know what’s coming, don’t you? That ‘scouting expedition’ turned into an extended stay. For sanity’s sake, I blocked most of the extreme episodes from my mind but suffice it to say every day was a circus. Besieged by antics of all sorts, our household became chaos central. I wrote about one of those episodes last week in Mother’s Day Magic…fun and games… with brownies.
But today? I want you to see the side of my mom, Sue, who was a tortured artist. The image of our home at the time, the sweet black and white colonial snipped in above, is one that she painted. When she and Lisa returned to California, mom recognized she’d been a terror, so she painted an apology gift. One of her outlets for anxiety and depression was painting and she had greater and lesser success depending upon her sobriety or lack thereof, but this piece showed genuine effort, less drunkenness.
A week after they returned home, I received a heavy, awkward package. I unwrapped it, peeling back layers of bubble wrap and brown kraft paper (bound together by an entire roll of packing tape, I’m sure of it) and a single sheet of paper tumbled out. A note from mom:
“Your home is beautiful and I know I didn’t make the visit easy but I’m grateful. In my mind, yours is a happy house and I tried to paint it that way. Love, Mom”.
Was that Sue’s way of expressing what Van Gogh (one of my favorite tortured artists) tried to convey when he said this?
Sue was often unable to relish the harmony and music within. While not acclaimed like Van Gogh, she shared an artistic torment and receiving her note, accompanying the painting of our house, was a moment I’ll always hold dear.
A little more? Our friend dear Dr. Stein reminded Wynne and I this week of a beautiful word, ‘lagniappe’. Check out my lagniappe… for you… in my post on Heart of the Matter, revealing the motivation I sought to write about my mother in my soon-to-be-released book, “Surviving Sue”.
Vicki 😊
Victoria Ponders 
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