Yosemite Sam, My Mother and Cancer: Healing From All Three

 

Yosemite Sam, My Mother and Cancer: Healing From All Three

Cancer and caregiving have introduced me to the terms, “vulnerable adult,” “self-care,” “Narcissistic abuse…” and “Grey Rock.” They are daily parts of my life now.

I try to soldier on. But, have you seen the cartoon, Yosemite Sam?

 “Dag gum, rootin’ tootin’ varmint!”

I devolve into him, maybe with steam escaping my ear holes.

My mother entered her care facility ten years ago after a crippling stroke. And I have been her caregiver ever since.

Who wants to experience some caregiving fun? How about the quarterly care conferences? These meetings cover all things resident: activity level, diet and an opportunity to voice anything that has become an issue.

I am Mom’s health care agent; ergo, I deal with any problems concerning her. However, my mother only sees me as the child playing dress up. That viewpoint, coupled with her nervous discomfort over uncomfortable matters, sparks her laughter at me during the meeting’s discussed topics. I ask questions and go over her stats with the social worker, dietician and nurse case manager. Her laughter becomes distracting, as all discussion stops.

“Mom, what’s so funny?”

“Oh, just something.” Her body convulses with giggles in her wheelchair. Eventually, we wrap up the conference and I end yet another fun adventure in caregiving.

And, once I am safely in the car, I can become Yosemite Sam. I vent, scream, sometimes cry. Imaginary caregiving guns blazing. My poor husband gets an earful during the two-hour drive back. Years of this dynamic.

And, for years, I convinced myself I could go on like this indefinitely. Mom’s elderly. I can tough it out.

Not so fast.

For, in 2017, I received my Breast cancer diagnosis. But even then, it took a while for me to access Grey Rock for my benefit, as well as for Yosemite Sam’s.

What’s Grey Rock, you ask?

It’s a technique practiced within the context of Narcissistic abuse and toxic people. The goal is to be as non-reactionary as possible, just like… a grey rock. To do otherwise only gets the other toxic person’s juices flowing, harming us further.

A year after my diagnosis, while grappling with both caregiving and cancer challenges, I discovered that my sweet, vulnerable adult mother was, more than likely, a Covert Narcissist.

That was a fun day.

Because of my abusive childhood, I knew there was codependency. Our lives were spent walking on eggshells and pleasing my dad, “or else…”

My mother was submissive. No voice. Abused.

But my mother could not face that reality.

And, I believe that she made a choice. Her refusal to see how bad it was, her desire to be taken care of, to be viewed as a “nice woman,” and to have affirmation any way she could get it, all led her to be covert about obtaining, maintaining and executing power, control and her “voice.” She achieved this via, me, the powerless child.

(I know, this is not an objective stance).

But my mother has been passive-aggressive with me my entire life. She doesn’t directly voice what she wants. She undermines. She comments. She asks a question, instilling doubt and guilt. She makes light of a distressing situation, laughing about it. But she does it all sweetly.

She did this even after my cancer diagnosis. She just couldn’t-or wouldn’t- get that I was preoccupied with treatment and healing, not orbiting around her. And that’s what she wanted. Me orbiting her until she dies.

Only now, there’s a possibility I could die before her.

So, I had frustrating conversations with her, trying to reason with her. That led to one exchange, exposing her victim mentality, a hallmark of Covert Narcissists. She told me that I disappointed her, even though what I was doing was recovering from my cancer experiences and practicing “self-care.”

To her, however, that was unacceptable.

Yosemite Sam was not only furious. Now, he was despondent.

Something had to change.

Okay, then, time to recalibrate. I’m still her daughter. I’m still her caregiver. But I’m also diagnosed. And, if I’m not physically dying right now, I’m certainly emotionally dying, suffocating in this dynamic.

I had to change. Mom wouldn’t. Mom couldn’t. She is the person she is.

Grey Rock would be my paperweight, holding my psyche together and keeping Yosemite Sam at bay. It’s not a perfect method, but it helps me, nonetheless.

Here are a few of the staple go-to phrases I’m currently using.

“I’m sorry you feel that way.”

For decades, I tried to reason with my mother why I could not meet her expectations. And that never worked. So, no more.

Whatever she says, be it guilt-inducing or martyr-filled., I respond, “I’m sorry you feel that way.” It plainly communicates I have heard her, but she is not getting any further past the protective barrier. Boundaries.

Sometimes, she insists on mocking me. Sometimes, she is quiet. In any case, I am resolute. I’m not giving in to her demands; I’m taking care of myself. Simple.

“That’s interesting.”

I use this response when Mom still insists that I should look differently and make lifestyle choices that would move me geographically closer to her. Perhaps, now, she posits that because of “the cancer,” the only logical option for me is to move into her care facility, residing right next door. Or better yet, bunk beds in her room! My husband could assemble a cot nearby for himself, I guess.

Ludicrous, right? Even with “my cancer?”

Mom wants me to revert to babyhood. I cannot comply. Breast cancer and whatever may result concerning it are not boo-boos she can make better.

So, to her remarks now: “That’s interesting.” I give no other spirited Yosemite Sam feedback.

“I’m hanging in there.”

I say this whenever we speak by phone and she asks me how I am doing. At first, she didn’t know what to say to that. Sometimes, she comes back with the question, “What does that mean?” and I retort with, “Just that, Mom. I’m hanging in there.” Sometimes, she laughs at me.

It probably frustrates her, sure. But that’s because she’s not getting “the intel” she desires, intel which gets her attention/sympathy from her care facility and intel which she can use against me later. That stuff has happened too many times.

Early in my diagnosis, I did try to inform her, with as little gore and fear as possible. She just didn’t want to hear anything other than “I am okay. I’ll soon be back to focusing on you again.”

But energy is finite now; I need to be mercenary. Yosemite Sam cannot get riled up as he once did.

Besides, even into her advanced years, Mom’s still “covert.” Sneaky. Agenda-filled.

She has not- and will not- change.  I must change.

“I’m fine. What’s going on with you?”

These responses address the “spin it around” tactic.

I strive to be boring in my answer and I quickly ask my mother what’s going on with her. Let’s interact concerning your life, Mom.

She usually doesn’t have much to say. It’s surface chit-chat. Unfortunately, that’s our relationship.

Distance is the Heart Healer

And I grieve and resign myself to that. Sometimes, we don’t get what we need from our important loved ones.

But I am worth being in a healing, peaceful place. Change concerning Mom is helping me get me there. I’m still her caregiver, but I do things concerning her more at a distance. I employ the speaker phone concerning her care conferences. I see her, but now, it’s less frequently.  I tend to her needs and issues as best as I can. And that is enough.

I love my mother. But sometimes, loving her can turn into killing me. I’m aware of that now. That stops now. 

I give myself permission to make it stop.

Yosemite Sam has calmed down a bit and I continue to focus on my cancer survivorship and well-being.

Copyright © 2021 by Sheryle Cruse