I will be forever grateful that I got sober in time to help in the care of my mother in her dying days, even with my hands tied by my sister. As a child, I always cursed my Turkish appearance, for I was the sole sibling who looked Turkish, with dark eyes, hair and complexion. Many years later, I embraced her culture, taking the time to relearn the language even better than I ever did as a child, finally taking the time to learn to read and write Turkish while significantly increasing my conversational ability. When she was approaching the stage of her illness that she would become increasing immobile, I convinced her to go with me for one last hurrah -- to return to her home, Istanbul, to see her beloved sisters one final time. I will forever cherish those memories, forcing myself to remain awake in the wee hours of the morning as she gabbed on and on with her siblings until even they could remain awake no longer and reluctantly retreated to slumber. Only I have the memories of her happiest days since dads death, watching her newly reenergized although greatly weakened by cancer by the sights and smells of her childhood home. For hours upon hours, I heard stories of her youth, stories I had never heard before. I made my cousins take me to places she could not go, like the family cemetery plot that housed her parents, taking many pictures from many angles to share with her when I returned to my aunts home. The travel itself was always a nightmare to my mother, and I am proud that I was adept enough with travel to take control and to ease her stress and worries. Later, when I was in the throes of my active drinking, my mother had convinced me to give her all of my Turkish jewelry for safekeeping. In cruel irony, upon her death, I was not privy to her home as my siblings took control of the distribution of her possessions. On this cold autumn day, I finally went through the few things that were left behind... for after her home was scavenged of all value, I was finally invited to join my siblings for the task of clearing her apartment. Gone were her beloved rings, promised to my niece and daughter. Tragically, even items of sentimental value to no one but me -- like the flower earrings with green stones that my grandmother purchased for me when I was eight -- and subsequently, pierced my ears with nothing but needle and thread. Through all my crazy years, I had held onto those earrings as a memento and memory of my own loving Ananne. Ironically, one piece of jewelry left behind in the rubbish of costume jewelry my mother had favored in her later years was a ring -- unobtrusive, modest, of little value. Its face was a small rectangular black stone, onyx, one of the stones prevalent in Turkish jewelry, similar to silver among Mexicans. The gold was Turkish, for Turkish gold did not have the bright yellow finish we see here in the US; instead, it has an almost copperish hue. In the center, a stone so small it is not readily apparent if the stone is a diamond chip or part of the silver setting -- no matter, for I immediately recognized the ring. It was the ring my grandmother wore on her left hand for as long as I had known her -- I knew it immediately! In her later years as her familial tremor grew worse (another trait I inherited), ones eyes could not stop watching her shaking hands, shaking as tho with palsy, as she prepared meals for her beloved family, all the way till the end. So although I no longer possess the gold pieces my mother had kept for me for safekeeping, pieces I purchased with my own money, I do have that sole ring. Left behind as rubbish, I realized I had recovered a piece of my heritage that had been overlooked and dismissed. In my will, I have designated that ring -- now proudly worn by me on a continuous basis, to go to my beloved niece Ellie... I hope her parents will share the story of a hardworking woman widowed at a young age, forced because of the culture to live forever in the debt of her in-laws to support her and her three daughters -- Ayla, Meral and Tulin. As a child, I was told a bit of Turkish lore, that one childs life will echo that of her mother. Like my grandmother, my beloved Meral Teyze was also widowed at a young age. And while I, though certainly not widowed, am alone in the days where I should be reaping the benefits of my many years of hard work. Unfortunately, my children will never know these stories, will never know the years of sacrifice to ensure the best for them, for that knowledge will die with me. I hope though, that my lifetime love of reading will be passed on to their children, for even when I was eating mac and cheese most nights, I still managed to subscribe to various book clubs for my young son. One of my most cherished memories will always be his bedtime, when he would run to his bookshelf -- a bookshelf that had once been mine as a child -- to select his nighttime reading. Many nights, I was so exhausted from my long hours as a single mom that I would fall asleep beside him. Will he remember that, one day, when he reads to his own children? I wonder. My guest bedroom is dedicated to my mother -- it houses the various Turkish knick knacks and candles that once graced her home. Somehow, I managed to save the drawings of Turkish mosques and other sights that I had purchased on our last trip. Those pictures, along with my sole picture of my mother, create a mini memory of my childhood, my mother and the me who was once a beloved wife and mother, now destined to live and die alone, for I dont even have access to the photo albums and boxes of memories I had lovingly collected over the years. Instead, I am left with my memories. Will the kids ever know, for example, of the boxes of drawings that I carefully dated and labelled and stored away for them one day? I purchased a cedar trunk to store the few things of my mother that cannot be displayed. Today, I pulled them out for the first time since I put them away. A few scarves, some old shoes much too small for me (and for her, her vanity insisted her shoe size could be a 7 if the shoes were cute enough, but she was never smaller than an 8!)... I thought about donation, but simply cannot give away the few belongings I was permitted to have. The scarves still have a weak scent of her, of her beloved perfume (which she sprayed sparingly, and I didnt much like)... I buried my face in them, inhaling her, hating her for leaving, but loving her so very much. I have lost so much in my life... my ex now owns the house into which all my retirement money went. Now, with the possibility of losing my social security, I may become fully destitute. Even before the accident, I was unable to work -- now, simply walking my dog around the block causes me hours of subsequent pain. I live in fear daily... but today, with the powerful aroma of my mother filling my nose, I was able to go down memory lane a bit, and had a good, long cry. I needed that, crying is for the weak and I refuse to become a quitter. I dont need to quote the AA-speak to know that I have done all that I can to become reacquainted with my family. I cannot continue to wallow in guilt and despair, for self-pity and self-loathing will only result in more of the same. I am me, with all my flaws -- but a few strengths have hung on, despite the odds. I am a good person, an honest person, who lived so much of my life trying to please others. In the twilight of my life, as I am closely approaching 50, it is time that I give up the negativity and begin to live the way I believe Mom and Dad would want me to live. For Dad, today, I will read your beloved Stephen King in your absence...
Posted on: Sat, 19 Oct 2013 17:46:27 +0000
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