By Denise M. Rucci

Fountain Hills AZ

“Mommy, my head hurts,” I moan, taking her hand. She walks me home from kindergarten, helps me into pajamas, tucks me into bed, and calls the doctor. He tells her there’s no reason for my terrible headache. That’s when I confess my secret. Every day after school a boy waits in the hallway and with a punch to my face knocks me to the floor. My mother’s eyes widen. Her spine straightens, jaw clenches. The next morning, she doesn’t walk me to school – she drags me behind as she strides down the pavement. At the school she places me in a chair, barrels into the principal’s quarters and slams the door behind her. I hear loud voices. Then she emerges and escorts me to class. Not only does that boy never bother me again, I never see him again.

Why was I afraid to tell my mother about the bully? After all, mothers protect and defend their children. Well, I didn’t want to upset her. All her life, she fought her own bitter enemy, an insidious, unrelenting monster that took her on uncontrollable rides filled with dizzying highs and plummeting lows. It knocked her to the floor and left her helpless. Any problem, even minor, would unleash it. My mother suffered from crushing manic-depression.

When she was able to hold her monster at bay, my mother Sarah (the American version of her given Italian name, Sarafina) was like any “normal” mother. She nursed me through mumps, measles, and chicken pox. She kept a watchful eye as I played with our neighbor’s gargantuan Doberman pinscher. She held me tight as we giggled on spinning, speeding carnival rides at the Jersey shore. But when the monster overpowered her, she would slowly disappear. First her personality faded then she left home to seek inpatient treatment. And while she was gone for anywhere from two weeks to two months, she continued to protect me in her own unique and thoughtful way. It took me over forty years to realize that.

Thanks to my mother, I was self-sufficient by the time I was nine. She taught me how to cook, bake, clean, iron, shop for groceries and manage money – essentially, run a household. The first time she invited me to the stove, I stood on a chair to sprinkle oregano into a pot of her luscious tomato sauce and mouth-watering meatballs. When she showed me how to dust knick-knacks, she knelt down and explained pride in a clean home. When a relative sent money for my birthday, my mother took me to the bank and taught me how to open a savings account.

The practical skills my mother painstakingly taught helped me to stay grounded amid my enormous confusion and sadness whenever she was hospitalized. I got myself to school, did my homework as the laundry spun, prepared meals, fed and walked the dog, dusted, vacuumed, mopped, scrubbed, and still found time to play dolls and organize softball games with my friends. Responsibility kept my mind off my worries. Routine fed me scraps of confidence, nurturing my strength to keep going. Work became my shelter when the monster took my mother away.

Sure, I sometimes harbored bitter resentment toward my mother for what felt like abandonment, for leaving me like some modern-day Cinderella with all these chores. Mostly, though, I’d cry myself to sleep missing her while she was in the hospital, and to help her heal, present an immaculate house and straight A’s upon her homecoming. Other times I’d be glad she was gone, thankful I didn’t have to see her so very ill. During those periods, laden with guilt and anger, the laundry would pile up as my grades fell.

Year after year my mother swallowed the tranquilizers her doctors prescribed, fumbled her way through occupational therapy and endured electroshock treatments, all of which provided only temporary relief. She never found her magic cure. For the mentally ill, there is no “snap out of it.”

Through it all, my mother managed to parent my sister and me while holding down a job as a crossing guard. For 15 years she put in long days expertly managing the busiest intersection in our little town. And when my father retired, she surprised him with $10,000 saved from her earnings.

Today, I realize my mother knew exactly what she was doing the first time she thrust a dust rag into my tiny fist. Growing up, I saw her as an illness, not as a mother or even as a woman. I didn’t know who she was. The monster came between us. But toward the end of her life, I had an opportunity to get closer to her. I discovered the remarkable and fascinating human being within.

Two days after Mother’s Day 1993, my mother suffered a devastating stroke, rendering her paralyzed, unable to speak, and in a nursing home until her death two years later. I visited faithfully, feeding her home-cooked meals, reading to her, sharing my career and athletic achievements, and keeping her abreast on the Hollywood gossip she so adored. At first, I did it out of responsibility. After a while, it became my routine. Eventually, I did it out of love. Ironically, it was the first time we really communicated. I was getting to know her and she me. Perhaps the monster had finally given up.

As my mother neared her end, I spent days and nights holding her hand and telling her I loved her. I thanked her for being such a wonderful mother under such horrific circumstances. I apologized for my anger. She struggled to smile and I felt a slight squeeze in my hand.

Now that she’s gone, I meditate on my mother in what has become my most powerful form of prayer. I thank her for showing me courage in the wake of despair, love in the wake of uncertainty. I once believed I’ve succeeded in spite of my mother. I know now that I’ve succeeded because of her.