What About My Cake?

By the time Mom’s 81^st birthday rolled around, I knew things would need to be radically different than previous occasions. Cancer, taking better care of myself and making stronger boundaries were all more important to me than making my mother happy. I now realized there was no “enough.” She wanted me to be the daughter I never was, nor could be, nor should be to her. No amount of my self-sacrifice was enough.

She didn’t see all of my attempts to be a good daughter, to love her and help her because she didn’t have to pay attention to them and admit reality. She had been catered to my entire life. Despite the abuse she endured involving my dad, nevertheless, provision was an issue Mom didn’t need to sweat. Bills were paid. Peace of mind was assured. And, beyond the monetary, there was the fact that people were orbiting around her, meeting her needs, changing the oil on her car, taking out the garbage, rescuing the damsel. There were things my mother never had to learn for herself because “someone else is taking care of it.” How much more now, as she was restricted by her life in a care facility?

But, meanwhile, I’m still on the outside, trying to figure out how to make things happen. All in a day’s work of being a caregiver, one might say. Perhaps. But now, things had to change. I could no longer achieve this feat as I once had. Something had to give; it felt like it was me most of the time.

So, her 81^st birthday would be dramatically different than the previous years.

First and foremost, I decided a month before, my husband and I would not go up to see her. From 2010 to 2018, we had made it a priority to schedule and attend her care facility’s birthday parties. Hours in the car on the road, putting on happy face performances, playing the good daughter and son-in-law. Forced smiles. Forced mother adoration. Energy expended. I could no longer do this. Cancer, yes, ever lurking in the background, changed my energy levels. And then there’s the money it took. Each birthday celebration cost my husband and I hundreds of dollars to make it happen. It involved buying a sheet cake, her birthday present, flowers, money for gas to make the trek up and back. All this for one day, yes, I know, her birthday, but still, one day. And not even that, for an hour’s birthday party at her care facility, we spent four, on the road. Expenditure outweighed the actual day itself.

And, I know. “It’s your Mom.” “It’s a special day.” “You never know how many of these days you’ll have left with her.” I tortured myself with these sentiments for years. From 2010 on, those thoughts kept me in the game. But I was losing the game. More to the point, I didn’t want to play any longer.

Another reason I decided not to attend her birthday? Mom’s reactions to my “grey rock” communication; she laughed at me. As I put into practice, non-emotional responses to her questions, like, “I’m hanging in there,” giving her no more details than that, she laughed at that, mocking me as only she could. Her laughter at me soon became the totality of our conversations.

I tried to maintain my grey rock position. But I still felt abused. Some of this, yes, may have been her stroke- affected brain and elderly deterioration. But, again, I’d lived with her laughter at me for my entire life. Some of this was just her. Whenever she didn’t like how I was acting and/or was too uncomfortable with what was being said, she deflected by laughing at me, minimizing my pain. Telling me I was too sensitive or serious or silly. I really was done with it. I now knew I had to severely limit my contact with her. I could choose to be around her…or not. Her laughter at me was disrespectful, painful and triggering. I decided I would not subject myself to her doing this. I could not. The upset could kill me.

So, I kept quiet about birthday party plans the two weeks leading up to her special day. There was no discussion of what kind of cake she wanted, what time we’d be up to see her. There would be no ordered sheet cake this year. I did mail her a birthday card and a heart pin present, but that was it. The day before her birthday, which was a Friday, I let her know we would not be up to see her. I made arrangements with the care facility to have someone take photos of her at the party, they, on their own, would throw for her.

When I spoke to her on the phone, I matter-of-factly stated we would not be there. I simply said, “We’re not up to it,” which we weren’t.

“I figured you wouldn’t be.”

“But we wish you a happy birthday and hope you have a great day.”

“What about my cake?”

There it was. Confirmation of what she really wanted. Sugar.

There is a scene in the 1983 film, “Scarface.” In it, Tony Montana, a scrappy drug lord, has risen to power so much so, he has gigantic mounds of cocaine on his desk. In his addicted state, he doesn’t just do a line of the drug. Rather, his entire face dives into one of the mounds and he snorts away. When he finally lifts his head, we see the telltale white powder around his nose and mouth.

I view my mother in much the same way concerning sugar. If she had her choice, there would be piles of the stuff at her disposal. I was, therefore, not surprised by her question, “What about my cake?”

I responded, in the best grey rock voice I could muster, there would be no cake from us. I didn’t know, at the time, someone from Mom’s care facility would bake one for her. It makes sense. A birthday party with no cake is a bit dismal.

But this interaction about her birthday, yet again, made things quite plain for me. In spite of the lip service, where, yeah, yeah, yeah, she said she wanted me to be happy and healthy, she wanted me to take care of myself, especially concerning my cancer diagnosis, it still came down to...

“What About My Cake?”

People will have all sorts of opinions about what I did. Some may call me petty, spiteful, immature, unloving. The will judge her 81^st birthday against her other birthdays, where my husband and I exhausted ourselves, placed orders, made arrangements, shelled out cash, suppressed our own thoughts and preferences to cater to hers. For every “petty” or “selfish” argument out there, you, the reader, have no idea how many times I tried with her. I silenced myself, just “took it,” was the bigger person.

Judging a snapshot.

That’s what’s going on here. I know, because I had done it myself, about my own predicament for the longest time. I kept trying to hang in there, telling myself it wasn’t so bad, I have precious time left with her, I should be a loving daughter. On and on.

But, cancer. Cancer shook me out of the spell I was under. And even that took still more time to happen. After all, remember my mother’s 80^th birthday and how we scurried to make that magical? All to only have her fall asleep during the party?

I reached an inevitable reality; I now had to be practical and mercenary about all aspects of my health, not just the physical. That was obvious. But the emotional, the mental, the spiritual? They were just as taxed, if not, more so.

All I know is that, on her 81^st birthday, I experienced the most peace I’d ever encountered. And I was aware of her birthday; I thought about her throughout that Saturday. But my husband and I were less stressed. We were able to breathe, not required to perform on demand. Mom was still celebrated; and I was taking care of myself. The two, here and now, were not mutually exclusive.

And that was a powerful thing to experience.

Copyright © 2020 by Sheryle Cruse