Impostor Mommy and the Other Daddy

~ Hetty Eliot

Maybe they were playing with that supercollider again, because in October of 2023 I was shuttled off to another universe when my father called me from the ER while I was at work to say, “They found a brain tumor.”

Whoever it is that replaced my mother is generally pleasant, though she doesn’t know where she is or what year (sometimes even what millennium) we’re in or that she is bedridden and did not in fact go shopping this morning (or in the last eight months) or that what she is trying to chew is her sleeve and not a piece of toast or that there is no sunscreen in the binoculars.

She also seems to think there are two of my father.

My father offered her a slice of pizza and she said, “Let’s save it for when Daddy comes home.”

“Well, who am I then?”

“You’re Daddy.”

“Then who are you saving the pizza for?”

“The other one.”

This conversation actually sounds normal to me. Not sure how it sounds to you.

Glioblastoma is so bad that it rarely appears on most lists of the worst cancers, even though it is one of the worst. It’s like it doesn’t even exist, because it can’t happen to you or someone you love. And if it can’t actually happen, why put it on a list? Ironically, three weeks before she went off the cliff, I was recommended a video on YouTube about glioblastoma. I watched a little and scrolled through the comments, which were invariably doom and gloom, but clicked away because I figured it would never apply to me.

Guess I should have watched it. Though it wouldn’t have made any difference.

In the very wee hours of the morning, I read our text message conversations over and over, trying to find clues of when it started. I have read my diary a hundred times looking for complaints and worries about her. I remember the phone calls we’d have every night and how at one point I had hung up the phone and realized that I had talked for an hour and she had barely spoken. I have almost memorized the last full text conversation we had in which she described a strange bug she saw that looked like a stack of copper pennies that morphed into a tree.

My brain helps me cope by believing that the mother I see is not really my mother. The real Mommy went somewhere and was replaced by this lady, who is certainly undeserving of her suffering. But a mistake has been made, and once the mistake is found and corrected, my real mother will come back and everything will go back to normal.

I haven’t worked since October. I realized the other day that I have literally forgotten that many of my coworkers existed. I started thinking about the different departments and who worked in them and I was stunned that there were so many people whom I was very friendly with for over ten years and I haven’t thought of them a single time since I left. I doubt they think of me, either, now that I can’t fix their schedule or put their vacations in anymore. I’ve invited certain people several times to my place (and I literally live thirty seconds from my old job) to meet my baby but there’s always a reason they can’t at the last minute.

The two things no one wants to listen to are baby stories and cancer, so I’ve got two strikes against me.

You don’t hear very much about this cancer. There are no pink teddy bears and ribbons and t-shirts to peddle. In fact, the ribbon color for glioblastoma is gray. Gray. How appropriate. There isn’t much fundraising or awareness in comparison to the more popular cancers. I can see why. Caregivers and loved ones have nothing left to give. At first when there was a modicum of hope she could recover some cognitive abilities after surgery, I had a sort of desire to help people like her. I thought, maybe when my child is grown I can go back to school and become a speech language pathologist. But after a long slog of steady decline, I have no interest in such a thing any longer. There’s no point. I imagine many other people feel this way, especially once everything is said and done. Just want to walk away in fatigue and utter disgust.

It’s sort of fascinating to me, in a twisted way, how different my life is now compared to a year and a half ago. It is almost unrecognizable. What came before feels like a book that I finished and put back on the shelf. That stupid store I worked in has been replaced by hospitals and rehabs. Sometimes my face feels like it’s twisted. I can barely get off the couch sometimes but I have to because of my baby. If I didn’t have him who knows what shape I’d be in. Yet at the same time that I am miserable, I am also happier than I’ve ever been. I often think that being suspended in such mental tension between the greatest happiness and the greatest sadness cannot be sustained forever without something snapping.

In such circumstances as these, you do things you never thought you could. Relationships have been altered forever, some for the better, some for the worse. I have been amazed and bitterly disappointed.

I have some other topics I’d like to blog about, including writing. The truth is, my WordPress subscription auto-renewed and I’m locked into two more years, so I should blog and stop wasting my money.

Till next time.

38 thoughts on “Impostor Mommy and the Other Daddy”

  5. Cancer is a bitch. It is a curse that has no cure, only temperary treatments which may work on some, but not all.

    Feel sorry for your mother. And hey, my sister also had a baby last year. I personally think they are great. Though I don’t have the energy to keep up with one.

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    1. Ha babies do require a lot of energy. I don’t know what mine is going to be like at 2 years old if he’s this out of control now at 6 months.

      As far as cancer goes, it seems like many people don’t realize that it’s a million different diseases.

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  6. Dementia, regardless of the trigger, is a fucking mess. Watching a once good mind start the downhill roll is painful. It’s painful to watch people I didn’t particularly like before the stroke (or disease) forget where they are, who’s who. They look at a picture of a beloved pet whose loss created a relationship shit storm and query “Why is there a picture of a dog in here?” One doesn’t recognize her twin. Not that she’d speak if she did. Might as well be the wallpaper sales lady. Unusual your mother will attempt to eat anything, as most I’ve experienced don’t want food, finding the concept of eating repulsive. Sorry about your mom, and having to go through it. Nothing you could have done. Missing them before they’re actually gone is an unspeakable grief, much greater than after closing the lid and saying ‘Bye.” Hang in there.
    Yeah, you’re right, fuck a bunch of baby stories🤣 But finding black humor in your mother’s predicament, that’s right in there with retard jokes. Tasteless, sometimes painful, but nonetheless funny.

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    1. Thanks, Phil. This is like dementia with all the accoutrements of terminal cancer. I do enjoy engaging in black humor, with one caveat, that whoever’s making the joke earns the right to make it. Same thing as the statement “It is what it is.” That’s for the people who’ve seen it all, not the people who never show up. Not that I have any family members like that, of course.

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  7. How one dies is roulette, when is Yahtzee. Neither can be predicted. To anticipate one’s own is killjoy. To anticipate another’s is agony. To have death drawn out to a ragged, fragmented end seems an insult to all the joyful years that came before. But they did come before.
    In the end it doesn’t matter. Memento Mori. In the interim, however, I wish you less misery, more revelry. Your son should help with that.
    I value your life perspective and look forward to future reflections and observations. -AM

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    1. Thank you Mole. I’ve started looking at my life as discrete chapters or books. I used to buy into the one bad apple spoils the bunch mentality, allowing new unpleasant developments to taint everything that came before it. Now I just think, that was then, this is now. I look around and I see other people’s plans being smashed all over the place, so why not mine. Life is so unfair but what can we do? Just try to meet the moment I suppose and try not to have regrets. My son does really help. It’s almost like he knows what he has to do. I was worried he’d be afraid of my mother or ignore her because her eyes look a bit odd and her affect is flat, but he smiles and makes noises at her. There’s some sort of life and death mystery playing out that maybe I’ll understand someday.

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  8. The trite stuff, like our thoughts and prayers are with you, so sorry for your loss, it is what it is, haven’t watched a family member or friend or both endure the cruelty and survivors the agony of a experiencing a slow death sentence. I’m not sure which is worse, not knowing you’re dying, or being fully aware of the decay. And the rest of us from the guilt of helplessness in the face of either.

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    1. My mother doesn’t know what’s wrong with her and perhaps it’s selfish of me but I’m sort of glad of that because it avoids “difficult conversations.” Is that unfair to her? I don’t know. I don’t actually have any grand thing to say to her. The three of us always let one another know how we feel (for good or bad) because who knows if we’ll be here tomorrow. I think being aware of this disease would be far, far worse.

      As far as people and their trite expressions.. It’s hard to say. Some people (whom I envy) just seem innately good and compassionate, and even without experience, when they say they’re sorry, you believe them. Other people come up with an original formula yet it leaves you cold. Still others have gone to hell and back but they lack empathy for people dealing with lesser problems.

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      1. I would consider your Mother’s lack of awareness a gift. A discussion that could go anywhere from karma to the Holy Spirit. It’s much more difficult to watch a sentient person suffer painfully and deteriorate before your eyes. La La land, again, is a gift. For all of you.

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  9. I’m sorry to hear about your mother. To see the loss of a personality is such a jolting experience, and utterly sad at the same time. Courage.

    It’s good to see you back on the blogging landscape. Looking forward to baby stories!

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    1. Howdy Roy. Thank you. It can be hard to be brave but my father faces it all squarely, and I know my mother would do the same for me times ten.

      BTW I saw you moved back to blogger, I’ve got to check it out.

      ETA: I just thought about it, and saying my dad faces it squarely is not quite the right phrasing. He does engage in a lot of denial, but he seems to choose to do it deliberately out of hope. He faces his Herculean tasks squarely (I truly have no clue how he does it), but the mortality stuff he pushes aside.

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      1. Encountering the usual WP problems with liking and commenting–I’ll give it the ol’ college try, as we used to say. Just to say I haven’t been blogging much–but don’t give up on me!

        Later…

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      2. Hmm. The comment did work, as well as, eventually, the like star. And I just wanted to say bloviation. Is that anything like an epiphomatic machination?

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  10. Hi Hetty, I’ve tried to comment for several days but WP no longer likes to cooperate with my extensive bloviations. So to be short and hope this goes through, I pray your family will know mercy and love and grow stronger as you all endure this long goodbye. Your son will help you find all that you need to go on with a compassion and love that grows immeasurably with each day.

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    1. Hi Dan. Thank you for your kind words. My son does a lot as I described in my comment to Anonymole. If you told me a year ago I’d watch my mother have a seizure while I held my baby in my arms and stayed calm, I’d have said you were crazy. Or some fake polite version. (BTW I think I had the same commenting issue on your blog as well. If you ever have an extended bloviation, feel free to drop me an email.)

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  11. Hugs Hetty. Life changes in a second that we dont recognise our previous life. Oh gosh glioblastoma yes it the worst. Hugs. To you all. I am at a loss , what to say. Keeps gods company. Only he can support you in this tough time. Hugs

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