To be a better parent, I'm just trying not to die

it’s counterproductive

Some people say the best you can do as a parent is reflect on how you were raised, keep the good parts, and leave the bad. You choose one thing and say, I won’t do it like they did. My one thing isn’t active listening or not spanking. I’m doing those, but they’re not my ‘generational healing.’ My number one parenting goal, after unconditionally loving my kids, has been not dying. And I’m not sure it’s a good thing.

When I was pregnant with my first in London, our friend sent me The Book You Wish Your Parents Had Read, and the whole time I thought, Actually, I don’t. My dad didn’t do a bad job. Maybe he was a bit intense about loading the dishwasher. Maybe my inherited compulsive tinkering isn’t great for my stress levels. But, all in all, I like how I turned out.

The worst lot of my childhood wasn’t something a parent could control. My mom died. And, well, I desperately don’t want my kids to have a dead mom.

It’s not even because I didn’t like having a dead mom. I have said it once and will again. That loss couldn’t be all bad… It made me me. But it’s still that sort of thing you wouldn’t wish on your enemies. I don’t think I even have enemies. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone. And certainly not my kids; those two beings I love more than life. And I love life.

Constantin Brâncuși’s “The Kiss” on the tombstone for Tatiana Rachewskaia

I recognize a fear of dying is a distraction from living and tell myself I prefer action instead of wallowing in anxious thought. Yet each day that I’ve aged beyond my mom’s last feels like a step further on an untrodden path where anything can happen. Great things. And also, potentially, unthinkable ones.

It’s like how, when my kids were helpless lumps, I’d scope hazards on their paths like a robot programmed to forecast and prevent problems, no matter the probability. I guess now that they’re sturdy, smart, and independent enough that any reasonable human could get them through their adolescence, my intrusive thoughts are no longer about their demise, but mine.

Recently, as my husband pushed our kids in a wagon across a street, I envisioned cars swerving at me, not them. I saw myself splattering in all directions. And the vision continued. I saw my husband on the sidewalk, shielding them from my remains, then soothing their grief for years to come.

This is what I mean when I say I don’t think this preoccupation is a good thing. It’s not constant by any means (don’t institutionalize me), but it takes me out of the moment. Even intermittently, it makes me the sort of partner who trails slightly behind the wagon, absentmindedly. And a mom who spontaneously cries and says shit like, “I’m just so grateful I get to be here with you,” when I ought to just be reading the book placed in my lap.

Last week, my kid said, “Mom, are you crying?” at dinner because my voice sounded faint. He rightfully recognized the pitch. But I wasn’t crying. I was just tired. Then I wondered if it was a normal kind of tired, or the sort of tired I’d feel if I was dying.

Could I be dying? I mean, I am, but like now? How would they feel about that?

Long ago, I confronted mortality in theory. I read a dozen books on the topic. This theory helped me ask questions like why would my mom’s soul and mine sign up for back-to-back repeating traumas? Surely souls would care about generational healing? But I couldn’t rest on my superconscious laurels. I knew I now had to confront my mortality, physically. So I decided instead of worrying, I’d take care of myself.

This week, I got a primary care doctor for the first time in my adult life. She’s a compassionate queer, a decade older than me. I told her about my energy levels, the new ovulation pain I’d been tracking for over a year, and how my boobs still leak milk even though my youngest just started in public school. We talked about my family history. My voice cracked when I answered her question about how old my mom was when she died: “32.” She said that people like me — by which she meant 34-year-olds, not hypochondriac offspring of cancer patients — often found their way back to her office after their 20-something-era absences. I said, “Hmff,” and smiled. No matter which books we read, or which books we wished our parents read.

I did the blood test she ordered, and saw the dermatologist where she referred me. Everyone told me I was fine. Healthy. Normal.

That night, our kids tucked into bed, I hugged my husband near our kitchen sink, and my knees gave out. I cried on his shoulder. He held me up.

“I’m worried I’ve been a bad mom, and a bad partner.”

“Why?” he said.

“Because I’ve spent too much time worrying.”

I was overwhelmed. With relief, sure, but mostly grief for those moments I’d spent ‘healing’ something no parent can control, an attempt that took me away from what I wanted to protect.

“That’s ridiculous,” he said. And he kissed my forehead. And I cried a little more. Then I slept next to him.

Our kids didn’t crawl into our bed. And in the morning, we pushed them to school in their wagon and talked. On the walk, our eldest told us he was afraid of the teacher who shouts a bit too much. Then our youngest said, “At school, I’m scared.”

And I said, “Why, baby?” And he said, “I miss Mom.”

“I miss you, too,” I said. “But Mommy will always come back for you.”

On the walk home, I looped my arm around my husband’s elbow.

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