Here Comes Pushy

 Pushy is just another word for bossy.

Strong females with a flair for organizing and leadership are described by these words and more derogatory terms all the time.  And they aren’t meant as compliments.

Strong males with a flair for organizing and leadership are never described as pushy or bossy.

We all know why and I’m not going to rehash it here.

My mother was a strong female with a flair for organizing and leadership.  She was a career woman in leadership roles in the 70’s long before this was considered normal.  Although, I’m still not convinced it is normal because we still see so many of those leadership roles going to men.

She also gave birth to five children, cooked dinner for us every night and fell asleep by eight o’clock on the sofa.

She never really retired.  After leaving her career in human resources (back then it was just called “Personnel”), she began a new career in real estate.  But after the sudden death of our father and her husband of over 45 years, her health began to fail.  Finally, five years after his death she was diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer.  She did not want to fight it and a short time later she quietly left this earth at the young age of 70.

After Dad died I put every ounce of worry that resided in my body toward caring for my mother.  She didn’t really want my attention.  And it was clear that my fretting got on her nerves.  But I couldn’t stop myself.

I organized and led everything I could in regard to her care.  But being a strong female herself, she pushed back.  She would not be controlled by me or any other of my siblings.  She was going to do this on her terms.

Not long after her diagnosis she was laying in the hospital with quite a few of my family members around her.  They were all talking and laughing while she seemed to be asleep.

I walked into the room and had not uttered a word.  Without opening her eyes she said in a clear voice, “Here comes Pushy.”

Everyone in the room started laughing except for me.  I can be as self-deprecating as the next person but her words stung.  I was the one conferring with her doctors.  I had even fired one of them after consulting with her because he was rude and cold and did not treat her with respect.  I was coordinating home health care and organizing these same family members for nightly shifts so she would have someone with her 24 hours a day once she was discharged.  I was spending every waking minute worrying about her care, her finances, her state of mind.

And all she saw was that I’m pushy?  Who did she think I learned it from?

I pushed my anger down.  I wasn’t going to allow resentment to get in the way of organizing and leading during the last months of her life.  Someone had to do it and while several of my siblings were always available to help, none of them seemed as driven as me to be in charge.  After the “pushy” comment, I found I resented them too.

After only a couple of weeks at home, it was clear Mom’s condition was degrading quickly.  All of us kids worked full time and Mom wasn’t totally comfortable with the home health care workers we had coming in to help during the day.  She needed more care than we could provide.  We managed to find a hospice facility that could take Mom and it turned into a Godsend.

It was a beautiful, peaceful place.  And we all learned that it existed just as much for the patients families as it did for the patients.  At once I felt relaxed for the first time in ages.  I didn’t need to organize or lead anything.  I didn’t need to worry if the home health care person would show up on time or at all.  I didn’t have to worry about when she ate or got bathed.

I got to sit with her.  Talk to her. Hold her hand.  Tell her stories.  Laugh about stupid things we all did as kids.  I got to tell her how proud I was of her and all that she had accomplished.  We talked about how funny Daddy was and how much we missed him.

She was in and out of consciousness by this point and we knew we were close to the end.  But every once in a while she would have a moment of total clarity.

“I’m sorry I called you pushy”, she said quietly.

“It’s ok.  You know I learned it from you”, I laughed.

“I’m not pushy!  But I guess I can be a little bossy”.  I laughed again.  And then realized she had already fallen asleep.

Thanksgiving Day came but we didn’t gather as a family.  With Mom in hospice none of us felt like it made sense.  It had always been such a wonderful tradition.  Everyone came, she cooked like crazy.  It was always loud, slightly chaotic and filled with laughter. 

In the wee hours of the next morning, while all of us slept, she died.  I was awakened by my phone ringing at about 5:00 am and knew what was on the other end before I answered it.  My sister calling with the news that Mom was gone.

I cried and grieved, of course.  But in some ways I was glad for her.  My mother chose her manner of death once faced with her prognosis.  She was ready to join my father.  She had never been the same since his death five years earlier. 

 At her funeral her best friend spoke.  She told us that Mom had told her she was ready to go because she felt like all of her children were in a good place and could live fully without her.  This wasn’t stated in a self-pitying, empty nest way.  She was optimistic about each of our futures.

 She had done her job.  She had successfully launched her brood out into the world.

 She no longer needed to organize or lead.

 She left that job to me.