Mallard Duck Envy

Have you ever seen a mallard duck, up close and personal? Have you watched their mannerisms? This a.m. on my 10 mile run, I couldn’t help but notice them. I kept seeing them in pairs in the canal. Their green color twinkled. They’d dip their bodies in & out of the water over & over again. It was as if they were doing the breast stroke. The water droplets would run over their heads & quickly repel off their bodies. They dipped over & over & over again. I thought they must have liked the feeling of the cool water running over their bodies & yet they’d stay dry each & every time they’d dip. 

They looked completely content.

I wish I could be more like a mallard duck. I wish I could experience hard things & allow it to roll off my back, the way the water droplets roll off mallards over & over again. I wish things didn’t get to me so much. I wish I could accept that my mom is miserable most of the time, she lacks joy, lacks happiness, sees the glass as half empty most days, & is just waiting around to die, instead of taking life by the horns & living her best life. 

Her & my stepfather require round the clock care. I miss the mom I once had, the one that took time to ask about my life, would listen to rock n’ roll every now & again, would get her nails done, would wear fun earrings, put on bright clothes, play tennis, & run miles & miles without a single care in the world. Those days are long gone & have been gone for years. It’s as if my mom were two different people, mom before me mental illness struck & mom after mental illness struck. I miss my mom. It’s hard. &, for me, it does not get easier. It just doesn’t. I have a lot of healing to do.

The day before yesterday, I pulled into the driveway after a brief conversation with my mom. She had to let me go because she was on the verge of an anxiety attack. She had a funeral to go to & her ride had forgotten to pick her up, so she had to call for a taxi. It’s always something- always a catastrophe with my mom. Everything is so serious, so dramatic, so immediate, so anxiety ridden. I love her, but it’s hard to talk to her.

I was listening to “Fix You,” by Coldplay. 

“When you try so hard, but you don’t succeed. When you get what to want, but not what you need. Stuck in reverse.”

The words hit me like a ton of bricks, for I’ve spent years making it my responsibility to make my mom happy, if only for a moment. I’ve exhausted myself trying so hard. It’s as if I’ve been treading water for years & I just began to weep. I cried & covered my face with my hands thinking of my mom’s pain and sorrow. If I could just take it way, make it better. If I could just get her to smile. Just once. I’ve tried so hard to wipe away her sadness. I send cards. I e-mail pics. I call weekly. I tell jokes. I pick out thoughtful gifts. None of it changes my mom’s disposition. She’s monotone & sickly & complains about everything. & yet, she has round the clock care, a loving family, and is not terminally ill. It could be so much worse, you see, so much worse. The Parkinson’s is tough, the dementia is challenging, & new aches & pains emerge daily. & for some reason, it’s most of all we talk about. & sometimes, it gets to be too much for me to bear, too much to carry, too hard to hear, & too much for me to listen to. But, I have to, she’s my mom, & so I push through. I listen & I offer my advice & I love her.

I weep for her. I weep for my stepfather, his inability to see, his lack of independence, his inability to stand unassisted, his horrible hearing, his reliance on multiple people, daily, to keep him healthy & alive. I am sad that he speaks of those that have long died as if they are still alive. His mind is going. I cry that he curses at those very people that care for him. He doesn’t know better, but it does not make it easier for those that love him. His mind is going. It’s going. I cry because I want him to be out of his misery. I want him to be happy.

I called to speak to mom, today, as a few days have passed. She goes right into her bowel movement status. Cringing, I asked about Vince. She asked if I wanted to talk to him. I agreed. I started to think of the things we’d talk about: the weather, the Giants, his health, etc.

Mom made her way to his recliner, & said:

“Vince, it’s Melissa.

“Who?”

“Melissa!!!”

“Who?!”

“Sorry!” she says… & then I hear a click.

Surely mom did not hang up the phone. I waited. & then I heard a dial tone. I waited. 

She’ll call back. 
She’ll call back. 
No call back.

I’ve concluded my stepfather no longer knows who I am. His dementia has gotten worse as of late. I can’t describe the pain. He’s been in my life since I was 8. I’m 40. That’s 32 years. He doesn’t remember me. 

Am I not worth remembering? 
I can’t.
I just can’t.

I decided to shelf the pain & go on a run anyway. Vince can’t run & while he’s not living the life he wants, maybe I can live my best life in his honor. Maybe I can live the very best life possible & not allow them to pull me down.

God it hurts so much to be forgotten.

I ran and ran and ran and ran. I watched the mallards as they dipped and dipped, allowing the water droplets to roll off their faces & backs. I watched as they splashed and played with their friends with complete joy & happiness. I admired. I envied. I wished.

I wish I could be a little more like those beautiful resilient mallards. 

Just a little bit.

Sent from my iPhone