Sue and Dot. Dot and Sue.
Photo: Bridget Ryan Snell
By Sue Rocca Fischer
I NEVER WROTE MY MOTHER AN OBITUARY. Her ashes are still un-scattered in my house. It’s been three years, and I still can’t let her go. How do I say goodbye to my mother? The person who gave me breath, who taught me how to live, who sacrificed so much for me?
I can’t.
She sacrificed, she stood by me, she shaped and molded me, she understood me better than anyone. If you have a great one, she has your back like no one else could or will.
I had a great one. We all know how great our mothers are; This is why we are obsessed with them when we’re young. We don’t let her of sight or give her a moment’s peace. Then, we go through the stage of pulling away and breaking their hearts.
God, do we break their hearts.
Yet, they keep loving us. Eventually, with luck, we become parents ourselves and realize the soul-crushing love our mothers have for us.
I always knew to my core that I was the center of my mother’s universe. In some respects, she didn’t have a lot of choices about who her favorite person was. I am an only child, and my father died when I was six. But she didn’t have to pour so much of herself into me. She didn’t have to choose my feelings over dating or scuba lessons, but she did. She didn’t even try to convince my 8-year-old self that scuba diving wasn’t dangerous; she just knew it would be too much worry for a little girl who had already lost her father.
Now, as a married woman with two young daughters of my own, what my mother accomplished is even more astounding, because she did it all while struggling with mental illness. I try to imagine it; the love of your life dying, the grief and paralyzing fear that you now bear the sole responsibility for everything. Having to still work, pay bills and do all the other mundane things required to keep life going. But that’s what moms do, right? Unless their brain chemistry doesn’t let them.
“SHE WAS COMFORTABLE IN HER OWN SKIN AND AUTHENTICALLY HERSELF. GROWING UP WITH A BIPOLAR MOTHER, I LEARNED TO CARE A LITTLE LESS ABOUT WHAT OTHER PEOPLE THOUGHT OF ME, AND MORE ABOUT BEING A GOOD FRIEND AND NEIGHBOR.”
My childhood was marked by having to put my mother in the hospital because of her bipolar episodes. Our next-door neighbor who helped care for me called it “Spring Training” because it happened every Spring to one degree or another. There are numerous stories that I now tell with humor, and I’m sure many more stories that I don’t remember because I was too young. We did not live close to family, so during my mother’s manic phases, it was the neighborhood and her amazing friend group who stepped in to help. But through it all, her love for me was what motivated her to get help when she needed it, which was always such a powerful reminder to me of our bond. I know there are children of mental illness who are left behind in some really terrible ways.
I think because of my mother’s struggles with mental illness in a time when people didn’t understand it and certainly didn’t talk about, she had great empathy for other people. She taught me that people are people, no matter what! It doesn’t matter where you live, who you love or what you look like. And I’m not sure if her bipolar fueled her love of life, or if she would have been as just as adventurous and resilient without it. But goodness, she was an amazing mix of attributes. She was always unapologetically true to herself. Yes, she could be ornery as hell, but she never put on airs or tried to be someone she wasn’t. She was comfortable in her own skin and authentically herself. Growing up with a bipolar mother I learned to care a little less about what other people thought of me, and more about being a good friend and neighbor.
She taught me so well and effortlessly about life. How did she do that? I struggle to walk all these tight ropes with my kids. Do I let them go to Sephora and buy skin care at 9 years old? There is no way my mother would have ever stepped foot into Sephora. Raising girls has always been hard, but with social media today, it’s even harder. I wish Dot was still here to ground me and my children, and remind us of what’s important. She taught me how to be a strong, independent woman and that a little struggle is important. She taught by example as well as exposing me to as many different experiences as possible. She gave me my love of nature (cussing every new strip mall being built) and water (getting us on the water at every chance). She endured freezing ice skating lessons at ungodly hours on Saturdays, horseback lessons, skiing—all the sports. How did she have time?
She lived widely and was so accomplished. She was a skilled knitter, wood refinisher, boater, gardener, carver, rug maker, birder, camper, hiker, athlete, and traveler. And she never met a stranger; she talked to everyone. She tried teaching me all her hobbies; some stuck, some didn’t. But I don’t do any of it as well as she did. What she instilled in me is a love of life and a pride in who I am that I desperately want to pass on to my daughters.
I find myself wishing I had more time, wishing I could remember everything. Heck, I even knew everything about her. But our heads never remember all the things that our hearts wants to. All you can do is know that the love stays. I’ll be over here struggling to pass on those life-lessons to my daughters that Dot Rocca made look so easy.
