New Essay: "Menta"

In my new essay I explore the imagination of reconnection years after loss. Loss of control, betrayal and hope are themes I have been wanting to explore here. Thank you for reading.

Menta

When I am asked what my mothers name is I hesitate to say Menta. I get mixed responses. Most people are confused because she's not Spanish or Italian. Some think it's just a beautiful name. A few don’t say anything at all. I knew my mother’s name was special, although I’ve never known why she has this name. It’s special to have a name like hers in Eastern Connecticut surrounded by the likes of Michelles, Patricias and Susans. Menta starts smoothly and finishes with a plosive. I love saying her name. I’ve never met anyone with a mother like mine, name included. 

…

I imagine pulling up to 101 Ridge Road, my childhood home, my mother waiting for me to arrive. It’s a fantasy setting, a crisp fall day, the sun peering from the cottony clouds and the scent of baking spice clinging to the air. The pebbled driveway remains the same with a patch of grass mounding in the median. The quaint two story house is visible from the road with a closed porch front facing. The two bay garage remains closed, only open during vehicular maintenance. My mother patiently waits inside to greet me warmly. It’s the home we’ve known so intimately and a place of respite. I’ve been waiting to see her for so long, as long as my imagination stays strong. 

I’m 35 now, the age my mother was when she gave birth to me. When I was younger I would ask why she wanted to have me well into her thirties. My brother and sister were born before she was twenty. Fifteen years and two miscarriages later, she had me. “We wanted a child to grow old with.” The nest was about to be empty, a dream for most parents. The case being made was contrary to most families. A therapist once told me that my family’s structure isn’t “common.” I’ve always known my home to be anything other than ordinary. 

The strongest relationship I had until high school was with my mother. Secretly I held the closeness to myself. It was uncool for your mom to be your best friend, but she was. It’s starting to make sense why my parents wanted a child to grow old with. I’ve had deeper conversations with my mother at five years old than I’ve never had with friends. The connection felt necessary like we needed each other. Twenty years after my mother passed away, I’ve attempted to connect again, though it’s never the same. 

A friend of mine was starting her own intuitive healing business. She revealed a gift she has for mediumship. I offered to be one of her first clients also writing a testimonial for her website. We had one meeting. There were ways my friend utilized her gift to let me know my mother was coming through from the other-side. My chance to reconnect had come. It’s typical to ask, “are they proud of me?” I doubt anyone from the other-side says, “Nope.” Of course she’s proud of me, but I walked away with information I already knew. I asked, “why didn’t she fight more?” My friend closed her eyes and gathered the communication. “She says she didn’t have anything to hold on to. She was ready and knew you would be okay.” How does someone in pain with their final hours know this? 

The second time I was connected to my mother was on a podcast. I agreed to be on a show with a medium based in Charleston. Medium’s have different abilities and varying strengths of connection. Instantaneously my mother came in. Apparently on the other side there is no malice, there are no grudges. My mother was forthcoming with her pride in my growth and how well I’ve managed despite how traumatic childhood was. She observes me now like the fun creative child I’d been. The medium drew concentric circles on a piece of paper symbolizing how we’re supposed to carry our youngest/happiest feelings into adulthood. My mother sees my life now as things coming “full circle.” 

My imaginary car sits in the driveway and remains idle. I’m afraid to turn off the engine because the moment will finally feel real. I can peel away and drive home at any time if I keep the keys in the port. Breathing is sporadic and inconsistent. The beads of sweat form at the base of my hairline. My pulse crescendos capable of forming words. I wait to see if my mother peers from behind the curtain seeing when I’ll come in. My gaze is fixed on the door hoping that she’ll come out and lure me in. The wait is unbearable and I turn off the engine to welcome in the calm from foliage whispering above. 

…

I failed English class my freshman year of high school. My sister, who attended the same high school, told me how much she disliked this teacher. I idolized my sister and trusted her word. Her sentiment ultimately carried a negativity that clouded my judgment and I never tried to succeed. Failure ushered in disappointment and it was agonizing to sign up for summer school. I had a choice to not fail and here I was forfeiting my summer plans to spend two hours a day in school. Everything felt off leading up to the summer. I knew I would pass with flying colors, but I didn’t know it would be my last summer with my mother. 

Routine wasn’t something I was expecting from summer school. It provided structure where it was absent before. After two weeks I’d come to enjoy going to class. Everyone I went to high school with passed and the kids in class with me were from the host school. The teacher knew right away I was capable and passed me right along even though I knew it wasn’t my best work. One day after class, we trickled out into the parking lot awaiting our transportation. Within an hour everyone left, I remained alone and upset my mother hadn’t arrived. I watched the road in front of the school with furious attention. A half hour later I gave up once the teachers started to head home themselves. I assured them my mother was late, however, I had no idea if she would even come. My stomach harbored an ache of disapproval and fear. What happened to her? 

I had walked the streets of Willimantic before with my brother and it would be a half hour walk to his apartment. I knew he had air conditioning and I could let myself in with the key he secretly kept in the mailbox. Arriving at his apartment I magically thought my mother would be waiting there, but no car was in the driveway. Once inside, I called and called and called, no answer. The nausea crept up to my throat and worry sent me into an anxious spiral. My brother would be home from work in an hour and that was enough to keep me calm. When the bus pulled up to let him out, he seemed shocked and yet not surprised I was there. “Okay buddy, well I’m sure mom has something she’s doing.” The dismissal of my feelings being abandoned at summer school pissed me off. 

It was dark when my mother pulled up to my brother’s place. She miraculously knew I would be there. Could I have walked two plus hours home to Chaplin? I demanded answers but I receded just happy to know she was okay. She apologized that one of her appointments had taken too long. How could a doctor's appointment last until 8:30PM? I went to sleep that night and she warned me that it might happen again but she’d be better about making sure someone would be there to pick me up. One day my sister would come and another my father would pick me up. I disliked the randomness of seeing who would show up each day. To me, it was unfair. I didn’t know what was going on but I didn’t ask questions either. 

I finished summer school, passing with an A. Perhaps it was the teacher all along. My mother told me she was having blood clots because of the birth control she was still taking into her late forties. She advised that it would be best for me to stay with my father and start the school year with him until things were better. I was used to staying with my father at this point. Since my parents divorce, the summers meant he would get to have me more often than the normal weekend duty during the school year. The more time with him the less he would have to pay in child support. I was used to not having a say at this point. The decision had been made.

Leading up to school I found most days to be quite miserable. I’d listen to my step brothers fight over the dumbest things. I would wait upstairs mindlessly napping during peak heat under a ceiling fan on the couch. The phone rang. On the caller ID I noticed it was my father. I picked up the phone and I could not register his tone of voice. In between words there were long pauses and sniffling. “Your mother had a stroke.” I knew he still loved her by the weight of this phone call. In my teenage brain, I wasn’t sure what a stroke meant. Now, my father and I are both crying over the phone. “She’ll be okay, but she’s in the hospital now.” 

I started the school year in less than ideal circumstances. I gained weight over the summer and I wasn’t living with my mother in my childhood home. Within weeks of being at school I noticed my grades were suffering as I daydreamed most of the hours I was in class. I told my chef instructor about my mothers condition and they allowed me to make a “get well cake” for her. I delivered the cake from school (five minutes walking distance) to the hospital. I saw my mother with an i.v. in her arm and a nurse by her side. She assured me that she would be better soon and that if all goes well I can move back in with her. I was still confused about what a stroke does to the body or the mind. My mothers words gave me peace. Things were looking up. 

I went to visit her at home when she was released from the hospital. My sister picked me up and drove me to the house. I believe my father was too emotionally fragile to make the commitment. We talked about the blood clots and how she was on blood thinners to take care of them. “Once I get past this, I want you to come back.” We rounded out the time by taking a photo of the two of us. A mother and her son. Once the photo was developed a sentiment that was always shared became solidified. “You look so much like your mother.” 

School was lighter, easier, within reach. I started to care again about myself and going after what excites me. The culinary portion of my high school was where I excelled. Cooking allowed me to hone in on a task that never asked for much in return. Cooking was an outlet when I needed one the most. I was now waiting for my chance to get back to my old life. The one I knew but had changed due to my parents divorce. At least I would be in the home I felt secure in. When my father came home from work the following week, he visited me immediately. He held me the same way he held me when I found out about his infidelity. “Your mom had a second stroke.” 

Rushing to the hospital with my sister in her Ford Mustang the twenty minute car ride lasted the equivalent of two days. The first minutes of silence were too much to bear. The air in the car felt dense, thick with news of a magnitude I’m still trying to wrap my head around. 

“Mom has had cancer for over six months.” I couldn’t believe the sentence. I’m just learning you can survive a stroke, now she has cancer? How many things can a body endure? “We’ve all known she’s had cancer and you’re the last to know.” Betrayal undermines the deep seeded laceration my insides took that day. I could see the guardrails on the highway and how close they were to the passenger door, yet I wanted to throw myself from her car. The discourse had become clear, there was no consideration and now it's too late. 

We arrived at the hospital, my sister having to coax me from the car as my body foreshadowed the horror awaiting inside. My sister alluded to the state at which we would find our mother. “She’s lost her short term memory and now she’s completely blind.” No less than a few weeks earlier during daylight hours was I in this hospital visiting my mother under slightly better circumstances. At least now I know what plagues her. I was surprised when I entered the room to find my grandmother present. My grandmother divided her time equally between Maine and Florida. A couple of years prior she lost one of her daughters to cancer and now she was in the same boat with my mother. It was rare to see grandma but smiles and embraces were consistent. My sister and grandma chatted as I sat in a chair next to my mother’s bed. 

My mother’s stillness registered equally in pain and peace. I examined this buddhist poise she embodied. The suffering she was experiencing was masked by how well her body took to rest. Come to think of it, I had never really seen my mother asleep before. I was the boisterous child to always wake her up and give her a little freight when she was fast asleep. In proximity, I was close to her yet she felt alien to me. The woman that used to chase me around the yard with a frying pan to do my homework was now chasing cancer. Before I could gather myself fully, my grandmother wanted to alert my mother of my presence. 

“Hey Ment (a nickname my grandmother used for my mother) Robbie’s here.” She tossed, she turned and rejected the idea I would ever be in the room to see her like this. Her pain had taken physical action. Her fists pounded into the hospital bed throwing a childlike fit. “WHY, WHY, WHY, I TOLD YOU I DON’T WANT HIM TO SEE ME LIKE THIS.” Her ferocity rendered me numb. I wished I could’ve disappeared. Her eyes remained closed, a reminder to herself of the blindness. The fit of rage bubbling to the surface was unlike anything I had ever seen from her before. She had no power over her words or choices and those around her professing their love abandoned her wishes. I’m mad at everyone for not listening to her. Even though I know how sick she is, I still respected that she probably knows best. Her episode hightened and I ran from the room. 

I took refuge in a bathroom down the hall far enough to not hear any voice that could register as familiar. With the door locked I slouched to the cold tiles on the floor and layed in a fetal position. I knew how powerless she felt. Her and I were cut from the same cloth. No one came for me. I wondered when someone would save me from the bathroom. My tears began to pool on the tiles now absorbing into the grout, discoloring it. I wanted to rock myself asleep and pray this was all a dream or some visceral nightmare. The acceleration at which things were happening left me isolated with no autonomy. I don’t remember seeing a nurse or a doctor around, just some family members and the ominous glow from the bleak fluorescent lighting. I desired to lash out but feelings couldn’t evoke words. I found my sister in the hallway and we left abruptly. 

The inflammation from crying stung to the bone. My sister had more news for the car ride back. “They’re going to release mom from the hospital and put her on hospice.” I didn’t know what a stroke was but I knew about hospice. My mother hated hospitals and wanted to live out the rest of her days at home, the home she’d kept in the divorce, the home she created. It made sense to me. “So, that means she can’t climb up the stairs to go to bed, the only room they can put a hospital bed in is yours.” The discomfort inside began to take form in indifference. “Okay,” was all I offered. At this point, she can have whatever the fuck she wants. The next day some of my mother’s family reached out, “Hey, we think it would be a good idea for you and your mother to have a joint birthday party next week. How does that sound?”

Everyone gathered two weeks before my birthday, an additional week for my mother. Minimal birthday decor was scattered outside of my childhood home. The gathering was intimate and lacked a preexisting enthusiasm I had come to expect from my mothers side of the family. We had all been gathered like this recently after the funeral of my aunt Anna. Anna was a tormented soul. She embodied a lot of the family's buried trauma. As doting as she could be, she harbored vitriolic premonitions. Anna’s dichotomous disposition left many people ambivalent about her desire for optimism. What I experienced walking up to this party was partially what Anna must’ve known all along. You can be injected with hope and maimed by reality. 

My youngest aunt and uncle greeted me first, the initiators of the party. The cumulus were vivid above, almost begging to be touched. Foliage on the property was accepting its seasonal obligations. Conversation was eerily soft, almost whispering. My grandmother, a spitting image of my mother, appearing more like her sister. “Robbie, it’s so nice to have you here,” she made it seem like there was choice involved. My stepfather was cautious about showboating my mother around and seemed extra protective of her plight. Our arranged party contained an air of false ideation. What should’ve been celebratory carried a cruel optimism. 

After the reception of salutations a chair was placed as a landing zone for my mother to make her entrance. My stepfather ushered my mother from the house wrapping her in a blanket. Her reactivity was slow as if she was exiting a meditative state. I stood and watched her collecting her peace captured in the open air. “It feels like fall,” she said. She paused in between thoughts, a trait I’ve witnessed in people who are medicated or addicted. My grandmother approached her attempting to be a conduit in fulfillment of her motherly duties. In her blindness, my mother needed all the eyes she didn’t have. “Robert’s here,” my grandmother's opening line made me kneel by her side. “Hi Mom, I’m happy to see you.” A teenager, like myself, doesn’t always have access to valuable affirmations providing security. The pause she took was cloaked in guilt. After losing her short term memory from the second stroke, her recollection was shaky at best. 

My mother refrained from speech after my presence was known. Embracing her was tricky and required delicate attention. The severe pain locked away penetrating her bones rejected firm touch, especially bodily exchanges of devotion. I held her hands and rubbed them tenderly. Confused, I couldn’t understand why my family created this questionable arrangement. Her head bowed and the corners of her eyes revealed moisture. She was fighting in multiple ways. Fighting against the pain, but also fighting to be remembered as a strong woman. Two years prior she won back her autonomy by divorcing my father and reclaiming an independence she hadn’t experienced in a long time. What I saw in front of me was a woman yearning for any control. My mother wanted me to see her thrive and the burden of her illness removed any individualism she had left. 

As her tears left shiny tracks down the sides of her face, she promptly asked to go back to bed. This was my last exchange with my mother. Misconnection seemed to be the theme of the day. Why did everyone feel this party was necessary? The synapses were firing but everyone was too broken to receive the messages. I hid at the top of the basement praying to be whisked away with magical thinking. There was no way anyone would allow me to keep spending time with my mother. Everyone witnessed the failed attempt for connection. I was overwhelmed by the reality of fate. At fifteen years old I’ve come to know the taboo cycle of life most are sequestered from. In the frame of my previous bedroom door I collected my mother’s image as she rested in the hospital bed. My gaze confirmed to my mind this was it. 

Waiting for the sound of the bell to be released from school, my friends and I gathered around the lunch table. Five minutes prior to the bell ringing my instructor told me to head down to the guidance counselors office. When my school learned of my mothers cancer they took invested interest in me. I imagined the call was a check-in of sorts, some calculated report obtaining data on my wellbeing. Approaching the office I saw my father behind the wire lined window with my stepmother. The secretaries rose from their chairs in salute, yet again everyone knew the news except for me. 

The embrace offered by my father affirmed the inevitable. No words were said but I sensed all the eyes in the office on me. The attention pierced my nervous system into submission. I collapsed. Somewhere in my subconscious, under illusion, I believed my mother would survive. No one knew me like my mother did. Every act of kindness and teary glance surrounded me but all I felt was isolation. I longed to vanish. I didn’t trust what was happening. After all, my family’s admittance of secrecy was revealed a month prior. I trusted my friends, we shared a language of shock and despair. Their collective empathy could heal me in a way my family of fifteen years couldn’t. I learned quickly the difference between sympathy and empathy. Nothing about this time seemed to slow down as there were already discussions about my mother’s wake and funeral.  

Friends and family gathered at the funeral parlor trickling in with slow gaits and heads bowed in respect. A small group of friends from high school showed up in support. I watched my broken family still crumbling around me post the divorce and now the death. My friends energized me, whispering hope and the promise of a bright future. I would never judge someone’s mourning or grief, but my youth garnered me a profound sense of optimism. No matter how quickly everything happened, I still felt my mother’s presence. I believed I could call her at any time or get in her Toyota 4 Runner and head to the mall for a haircut. Reality, for me, hadn’t hit in the way it was displacing my family. 

During the lowering of the casket at the cemetery I captured the surroundings. My sister used to work at the catering hall of the neighboring golf course within eyesight. My brother's favorite sports bar was across the highway where he would black out in his wheelchair from rum and cokes. The party to celebrate her life was walking distance from the cemetery, yet everyone drove. The community center where we gathered was located across the street from St. Joseph’s Living Center, a place for the handicapped and elderly. I wondered if my mother survived would she eventually spend her remaining days in a similar place? I kept receiving an onslaught of messages and sympathy cards during this time, “she’s no longer in pain.” Yes, what a thing to be grateful for. My mothers suffering was over, but transference was in its primary phase. 

On the back lawn of my high school during graduation I waited patiently with my 150 classmates for our names to be called announcing us as the class of 2007. They called my name, I scanned the crowd and took in the moment. I searched for her, my mother that is. Everyday since she passed was marginally easier. My lungs held the air, I shook the principal's hand and grabbed my diploma with the other. She would’ve been here, clapping and standing as they called my name. The mind is a powerful force, if you allow it. She was there, my friends confirmed it, their parents did too. By that point everyone knew my story. The roar from the crowd was different during the reception of my diploma. My small graduating class saw what I went through and their cheer supported my survival, something I didn’t think I was capable of. 

Before I left for college I drove past my childhood home, now belonging to my stepfather. He told my brother my image was too reminiscent of my mother, too painful. We’ve never seen each other since. A few years prior I stood on the deck of that house, my home, and my mother promised me that it would always be home. When I drove by, the yard looked unfamiliar. The house itself had taken a new shape. I knew that home was wherever she was. In her absence, I’m accountable for creating my own home, wherever that is, whatever that may look like. I haven’t found something like it, yet. When I do though, she’s always welcome. 

…

Any medium you speak with will try to relay your questions to the other-side. During my second visit with a medium, she said, “on the ‘other-side’ there is no malice, no resentments.” Warmth and light are what “come in” during those meetings. You cannot help but weep when they say the inevitable, “they say how proud they are of you.” The affirming nature renders you powerless to belief. I know she’s proud of me, she made it known in her actions before she left. There never seems to be enough time for me to relay a message back to tell her how proud I am of her. 

I’m proud to be her son. Her legacy lingers in my neurochemistry. I carry her everywhere I go. We’ve traveled the globe, we’ve been photographed by the New York Times, we’ve even lived on both coasts. She’s with me when I’m depressed and can’t get out of bed. I have her by my side when I’ve had the most incredible day. We can share this because I’ve let her go. She exists only in my imagination. I’m now the age she was when she gave birth to me. I can picture us being friends, grabbing coffee, going grocery shopping, or just spending time with one another. She’s a brilliant woman, a painter, and a great friend. What I’d probably like about her most is how she is as a parent. She’s silly, forgetful, unhinged and wickedly loving.

I approach the deck, standing tall ready to enter the house. I can’t wait to see her. The knock doesn’t seem to render a response. This is family, this is home. The door is unlocked and I can’t remember if we’ve ever locked the door in the first place. I’m immediately hit with whiffs and smells of the last of the zucchini bread, smoky corn chowder and the pyrazines from green beans. My home feels smaller than the last time I came to visit. I suppose I’ve grown, only slightly but the cozy charm has always made this home feel confined. 

I call out, “Mom?” No answer. I’ll just wait for her to return from grocery shopping at Big Y or maybe she ran a small errand. The couch where she used to play with my hair when I rested my head in her lap envelops me from years of accommodation. I cross my legs and I can see the small cut out in the stairs where I used to poke my head out to spy on my parents when they were paying their bills or having Lipton tea while reading the paper. I slid the door open to my sister's old room, a room I once had myself. This room transitioned into an office, however it appears to be storage. I open my bedroom door, I can see the indent on the carpet where my mothers hospital bed was. The weight casting a lasting reminder. Surely she’ll be back soon. 

The basement still smells musty as it’s been flooded every year. I crawl upstairs to my mother’s bedroom. I cannot believe she sleeps up here, it’s closer to a crawl space than a real bedroom. My home is quaint, it’s filled with memories. I stare into the side yard from the window in the room where my crib used to be. My mother used to chase me out of the house with a frying pan to scare me into doing homework. I’m sure to our neighbors she looked possessed, but it worked. Upstairs across the narrow gap I looked out of the other window where our lush garden grew and we planted a Japanese Maple tree, my mothers favorite. Everything here feels the same and yet I cannot seem to recognize myself in the context of this place. 

It’s now dark and I turn on some lamps, happy that my family understood the harshness of overhead lighting. The house is speaking now. As a child I believed we lived in a haunted home. I’ve come to know that the beams and walls create their own conversation. She should be home any minute now. I close my eyes and begin to meditate, a practice I’ve recently started incorporating to calm my nervous system. I sound the mantra and allow myself to drift for twenty minutes. As I come out slowly, I understand my misrecognition. When a loved one dies it’s impossible to imagine they’re actually gone. You reason within and can’t comprehend that certain pleasures, conversations and laughs aren’t possible anymore. 

I used to call my mother after she passed, maybe she would answer. I knew my stepfather would be at work and I would take my father’s cordless phone to my room and dial my old home. I would hold my breath while the phone rang. It’s an automated answering machine where my mother added in our names. It’s the last piece I had of her, her voice. I would call nightly just to hear, “Menta, Buddy and Robert.” As a teenager I was getting a lot of house calls and my mother felt obligated to add my name to the list. Hearing her say my name was akin to her running her fingers through my hair, it gave me solace. 

Coming all the way to Eastern Connecticut I passed familiar landmarks, the Walmart my brother used to work at, the bakery we’d get bacon egg and cheeses at and Mansfield Hollow Lake. The trail of scenes from my past overwhelm my ability to make sense of the present. Why did I come? One day I tried to call my home phone and the answering machine was completely automated. The remnants of my mother’s voice were gone. What I’m doing here is quite precarious to my own mental health. My mother won’t be coming back. 

I’m now the age my mother was when she had me, 35. She was an artist, like the one I am today. We both have a fondness for cooking and enjoy rummaging around the grocery store. We walk when we need to think. We both work like dogs but love our rest too. We’re introverted Scorpios that love when fall rolls around. It doesn’t take much for us to find awe in the ordinary. I have this “magical thinking” we’ll both lock eyes again like the day I was born. We’ll realize we were meant to be a part of each other's lives as if it was destiny. This time though we’re reconnected as if fate wouldn’t have it any other way. What I love about us the most is that we’re both silly, forgetful, unhinged and wickedly loving.