My mom. Were there ever two words with more baggage? I have two moms: my biological mom and the mom who is my mother. I can’t imagine what it would be like to adopt three children, let alone get them all in one year. First, my brothers. They were biological brothers from an orphanage in Germany. I came along a little more than six months later. One of my earliest memories of my mom is learning how to read using flashcards that she had made while my brothers were in school. Another memory is falling asleep to the sound of her practicing the cello. Both good, warm memories.

We were temperamental opposites. I am impulsive, outgoing, intuitive, lazy, and unambitious (I know there are more). She was driven, careful, painfully introverted, and the most self-disciplined person I have ever known. How did we end up having such a close, loving relationship? There was a lot of common ground in the middle. We shared high IQs, a passion for music and reading, and the love of a well-ordered household. Okay, that last one was a long time coming. We had a protracted war over housecleaning until I moved out.

As soon as I reached the age of reason (twelve or thirteen, or maybe never, according to some friends) I realized my mom was not like the other moms. This was a source of both embarrassment and pride.  Pride,  because she earned a PhD in biochemistry and went back to work when I started sixth grade. She was also an accomplished cellist. Embarrassment, because she wasn’t around, like other moms, and I knew some of those moms felt sorry for me.

I remember her cursing only twice. Once, in sixth grade, I missed the bus and she had to leave her lab in the middle of a timed experiment. “Damn you, Melissa” was as bad as it got. The second time she said that, I also got a slap in the face. I deserved both. I deserved worse that that, because I threw out the line that was sure to cut into her heart: “you’re not my real mom.” I must have been fourteen or fifteen that time. Is there a shittier age for mothers and daughters than eleven through sixteen? Why do so many of us make our mothers miserable at those ages?

Sometimes my dad had to step in. He was the one that explained when things were out of place mom got physically ill. He was the one who swooped in and put me in my place when I got too lippy. I’m naturally closer to my dad, we go together like peanut butter and jelly. Mom and I had to work at it.

I would say my parents marriage was a solid, loving one. There was true devotion on both sides, a quality that sounds quaint in today’s vernacular of love. There was no yelling or fighting (they had “disagreements”) and no one behaved badly. If you are old enough to remember Heckle and Jeckle, you’ll remember their schtick of exaggerated politeness (“Let me get the door”, “No, let me”). That was my parents, without the irony.

It was in 1993, six years after Katie was born, that things started unraveling for my mom. Dad commuted from Memphis to Denver for two weeks every month. The other two weeks he spent gardening, playing golf and taking care of the house. Mom worked full-time and played the cello two or three nights a week. She never weighed more than one hundred pounds, but she looked thinner than usual when we visited. “Don’t tell your dad,” she whispered, “but I weigh ninety pounds now.” Every visit after that she weighed a little less. She fell and hit her head. They moved to Tucson. She fell and hit her head again. Anorexia took over their lives, an endless series of rituals and schedules revolving around food.

I don’t know how my dad dealt with her anorexia. I vividly remember a heated discussion we had towards the end of her life. She was below seventy pounds by now, and my dad’s whole life was taking care of her. I was there for weeks to help out with some crisis (it’s strange that I can’t remember which one) and my thought was that he needed to get help for her. How naive I was. He told me quite forcefully that he had made the decision to do what she wanted and needed, not what he wanted for her. I had no choice but to respect his choice. Through the lens of time, I can see this decision was the more difficult, but humane one.

It would be easy to let anorexia define my relationship with my mother. I’ve struggled with the whys and can’t come up with anything, because she didn’t tell me anything. I didn’t keep many secrets from her, except the huge one of my brother’s physical and sexual abuse. Maybe she did the same for me. I miss her. I miss her more than ever now that I have Lyme. Mom also nearly died from ovarian cancer when she was just 43. She developed crippling rheumatoid arthritis when she was 50. Never once did I hear her complain. She woke up every day and worked hard at life, a lesson I learned by watching her actions. I will always feel lazy compared to her. I will always admire and love her.

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