Finally, narratives at the end

Spread the rest of Mom’s ashes with my Dad’s in Grosse Pointe, MI, joined by some dear friends. He was her soul mate. They died 43 years apart. As she would have said, it was a great party. too bad I couldn’t be there. My narrative about my mom is still quite fluid. Sometimes she’s amazing, loving, and engaged – all in. A pathologically optimistic survivor. Other times a reluctant, troubled, somewhat abusive mother. At the end she was a hoot  — and the stories follow. Mostly, I think how alike we are. I’m loving, amazing, troubled, optimistic and a hoot. Narratives are coloring books with pages of the same outline, colored with different crayons, paints, markers, within the lines, outside the lines. I’m alternately relieved and uncomfortable with the narrative of troubled mother. Sort of like the narrative of me as disabled rather than healthier than I’ve ever been (except for the MS). Troubled and disabled are true.  I just can’t live there for too long – 5 minutes as a time? I’m affected by other people’s narrative about me, especially negative ones. When I’m strong, my positive narrative trumps, when I’m weaker, the negative narratives wear me down.  What narratives do you have about yourself and those in your world? How do they affect you and them? Narratives are certainly magic levers of best health. Oh, ma, the narratives of you are spiced with love.  I miss them all.