“That’s a lot for a person like me to handle,” she said.
Did my mother understand what she had done by keeping me home all those years? I didn’t push her any further. We had come far enough—I had said what I needed to say.
* * *
THAT SUMMER, my mother’s mother—my grandmother, Dorothy—passed away from colon cancer. I gave my mother money for the airfare so she could say goodbye. I didn’t go to the funeral; I couldn’t leave the children.
My daughter, Nicole, was still struggling. Along with her seizures, she was experiencing serious developmental delays. We went to every doctor, tried every medication, every possible approach.
In 1995, when she was eleven years old, Nicole underwent brain surgery to remove an abnormal area of cells that her doctors thought might be causing the seizures. During the surgery, her surgeon discovered a tumor that had been there since birth. After the tumor was removed, the seizures stopped, but Nicole developed psychiatric problems. She was frequently disturbed; she began hearing voices; we were dealing with behavioral issues. She was diagnosed with symptoms of schizophrenia. Nicole started at a day-treatment program for severely emotionally disturbed children; it was a caring, supportive place where the staff did everything they could for her. Thanks to the program, I began to go to see a therapist with Nicole each week. This was the first time in my life that I had access to mental health professionals, and I began to understand what it meant to advocate for someone’s care.
I was the mother of three now—my younger daughter, Danielle Robyn, named for my sister, had been born in 1991. Since having my children, I had thrown myself into my role as mother, determined to be involved in their life in ways my own mother had never been. The same was true of my marriage. I had tried to be the perfect wife for my husband. I got up in the morning, I dressed the part, I said the right words, and I smiled at the right times. But now, at the age of thirty-six, I realized that, at my core, I was deeply unhappy.
I decided to start having sessions with a therapist for myself. The therapist asked me, “Nyna, when you look in the mirror, who do you see?” I sat for quite some time trying to get the words out before I realized there was no way for me to answer that question.
The therapist explained to me that in order to begin to find the answer, I was going to have to look back. She helped me to see that, like so many women, I was terrified of becoming my mother. That despite all my efforts to escape my mother’s influence, I had inadvertently followed in her footsteps. I had left home at a young age, just as my mother had done. I had modeled, just as she had done. I had given up my career to move out of the city and focus on being a wife and a mother, just as she had given up her career. I had three children, just like my mother. If she could crack—slipping through the fragile net of life—what was stopping me from doing the same?
I knew what came next in the story, and I was determined to do everything in my power to avoid it. My children were depending on me.
* * *
FOR MORE THAN a decade, my mother lived at the shelter by choice. No one could legally force her to leave, as much as we tried. But then, in the summer of 1998, that choice was taken away from her. She collapsed in the street and was taken to Lenox Hill Hospital, where the doctors discovered that she had heart problems and needed a pacemaker. She refused to let them fit her with one, and no one could persuade her to change her mind. At this point, the shelter staff explained that without the pacemaker, they could no longer take care of her, and for legal reasons she wouldn’t be allowed to come back to the shelter. By now, my experiences with Nicole had taught me how to be an advocate. I worked closely with my mother’s social worker to find a place for her, locating an adult home in Sachem on Long Island where she could be cared for. I knew my mother was going to miss Manhattan and her routine there, but I also knew that for the first time in many years she was going to be someplace safe.
My mother traveled to the adult home in an ambulance, so she would have medical supervision while in transit. I drove ahead, so I could be waiting for her when she arrived. I remember staying to help her set up her room, like a parent with a child going away to college. It didn’t take us long to get her settled; she had hardly any possessions, just a few items of clothing, her watercolor set, and some books. I made sure she was comfortable and had been introduced to all the staff. Then we said our good-byes. I hugged my mother and told her I would come back soon, holding her in my arms. She was so tiny, so fragile.
For so many years, I had wanted my mother to be a mother to me. I longed for her to do all the things I saw other mothers doing for their adult children. Even a simple interaction, such as going for lunch and catching up, was so fraught and complicated for my mother and me. When she couldn’t provide these most basic aspects of motherhood, I had felt so sad and frustrated. But that day at the adult home, I understood. I could no longer expect her to play the role of mother in my life. I needed to be the parent now.
In the months to come, I drove out to see her as much as I could. She would often
