Girls Gone Wild

The consequences of being a daughter.

Dear reader,

Before my mother developed dementia, being her daughter felt straightforward. If we couldn’t be together in person, birthdays and holidays—especially Christmas and Mother’s Day—called for cards, flowers, and a phone call, ideally before noon Eastern time. For decades, I upheld this standard. It pleased my mother, and helped soothe the quiet guilt I carried for living thousands of miles away and rarely visiting.

Now that my mother’s short-term memory sometimes lasts only five minutes, how to be a daughter feels less clear. My brother and sister-in-law still do things by the book. Yesterday, on Mother’s Day, they called Deb at 9 a.m. sharp to say “thank you,” and then went on with their day.

But when I woke up in California a few hours later, I didn’t know what to do. I’ve seen the fallout of reminding my mother about milestones—It’s my birthday?! and How could I forget Christmas?!—the shock followed by a wave of shame. Being the one to illuminate the gaps in her memory is excruciating. For a moment, she understands what’s happening to her. No holiday is worth that kind of pain. Maybe I’ll just call her and skip the mention of Mother’s Day, I thought.

I decided to reach out to my brother, hoping to get a read on my mother’s temperature—a crutch I rely on frequently. He usually knows whether it’ll be a good or bad day for Deb while I’m still asleep on the west coast. My days often start by getting caught up on the headlines.

Unexpectedly, yesterday my mother got to me before I could get to him. I was in the trailer, mid-stretch, when I saw the missed calls—several—and a string of heavily worded texts, thick with the hurt of a victim. My mother was a Hallmark casualty, and I was the villain.

My focus narrowed, my heart raced. I couldn’t believe it: on most days, she forgets what month it is, what season we’re in, where I live. But she had remembered Mother’s Day—and she was beside herself, convinced her children had forgotten.

Hunched over my phone, splayed out on my yoga mat, I abandoned my calisthenics and dove headfirst into damage control. I skipped the excuses, showering her with I love you, I miss you, thank you. But it was no use. Her mind had already written the story, and she was committed to the bit: neither of her children had called her on Mother’s Day—nor do they ever call, or care about anything that happens to her.

shop print

When I was a cranky, depressed teenager, my mother used to tell me how much my mood impacted her. “As a parent, you’re only as happy as your saddest child,” she’d say whenever I wanted to stay in bed instead of face the music of high school. I understood what she meant—it’s painful to feel helpless while your kid confronts the world’s horrors for the first time.

But that affirmation also taught me something else: that I was responsible for other people’s happiness. What followed were years of peacekeeping, of hiding how I really felt from the people closest to me.

Dear reader, I wish I could tell you I’ve outgrown this attitude. But I haven’t. I’m still scared of what might happen if I stop acting happy and someone notices. I still feel the urge to apologize for having a full range of emotions—especially anger.

What’s worse, I feel so responsible for my mother’s wellbeing that I’ve internalized her affirmation and flipped the script. “As a child,” I tell friends when they ask how she’s doing, “you’re only as happy as your saddest parent.”

Codependency is sneaky; it wears the costume of love. It’s also a choice—one I don’t have to make. I don’t want to live curled around someone else’s ache. Can I honor the sadness of my mother’s life story without letting it become my own?

A special kind of rage blooms in me when my mother’s reality contradicts my own. In other words, I lose my shit when she misunderstands me and there’s nothing I can do to fix it. I want to show her: we do care, we do call, we are doing everything we can to keep her safe, fed, and housed. But I’m no match for the conviction her dementia carries. Her mind has made up its mind.

I’m lucky to have people in my life who know my heart is in the right place, even when I’m ballistic. I let them see my anger. They aren’t afraid of it. They keep coming back.

I’m unlucky, though, that in the frenzy of trying to course-correct Mother’s Day 2025, I accidentally sent a text about my mother to my mother, instead of the person it was meant for. Another string of calls from Deb. Another cross-continental mother-daughter shame spiral.

Hours later, in army shorts and huaraches, I walked the neighborhood hurling football-sized rocks at the pavement, one after another. From the porch, my lover sipped his coffee and watched—quietly, with kind eyes.

By evening, my mother had forgotten everything. A blessing or a curse of dementia? I still don’t know.

Love,

Sky

1. Jacqueline Suskin
   reads at ROCK SHOP this Friday May 16th at 6 PM. CAN YOU BELIEVE IT? Book signing to follow. 735 Napa Ave in Morro Bay, CA. Bring a chair or cushion—I don’t have any. Kathryn de Lancellotti will also be reading.

   

2. Some new prints and print bundles (aka two-for-onesies) over at www.lordcowboy.com.

3. This delicious version of Shakedown Street by the Grateful Dead will keep you grooving, maybe in your kitchen.

4. Reading this book of essays by Alexander Chee in the bath every night.

5. My Brain Finally Broke by Jia Tolentino.