When Parents are Enemies

My mother passed away a few weeks ago. She died of the same condition my father died from two years ago -- hospitalitis. That is -- you go into the hospital for one serious condition, and while there, the treatment results in unintended consequences, like aspirating fluid into the lungs, central line infection, and finally sepsis, which causes death.

They were both elderly with ailments and while neither one was terminally ill, they were not averse to dying. Their deaths were terribly sad, but not tragic. They had lived lives of consequence, filled with strong and loving stories. Their most generous stories, regrettably for me, were not about each other.

They were snipers. They sprayed each other with bullets of harshness and of indifference. Any dried up piece of turf could become their battleground. My father salted the food she prepared without tasting it -- blast! My mother smoked her secret cigarettes in the bathroom and saturated the house with the sickly evergreen air freshener she used to mask the shameful smoke odor -- blast!

No hand holding. No mushy names for each other. Just the binding routines of taking care of a business and a family, which substituted for marriage.

As they got older and physically impaired, the animosity grew worse. He, once the boss of a manufacturing plant, only had her to control. She, once the supervisor of the office pool in that plant, only had her own tiny tasks left to organize. He griped at her for not getting the mail on time. She expanded her silence.

I think he really did love her and was clueless about how to ever show it in a way that could touch her. He felt his inadequacy, was defeated by its weight, and retreated into TV and food. I don't think she ever did really like him. She resented him for not being enough and punished him with her indifference.

Age and illness did not undo them as a couple. All the fractures had been there for decades, growing wider and deeper. Age and illness just represented a new terrain. It constricted the bounds of their world and gave them fewer distractions and places to hide from each other.

I loved them both. Admired them both. Not for who they were to each other, but for who they were to me and to the world. They were good and kind. They gave ceaselessly to anyone who needed their comfort or benevolence. They were smart and funny.

I often wonder what it would have been like to have had parents who knew how to love each other.

Do you have (or had) parents who are good to each other? What is that like? Are your parents more like mine? What's that like for you?