Heroine

Today, on our way out to see a patient who lives 18 miles from town, the social worker and I were discussing the difficult tasks one family member has taken on in order to insure a good end of life for her mother.

The daughter in question, whom I’ll call Arly, is here from Connecticut to visit her dying mother. She has made the trip several times a year, and has been paying on a funeral plan for a long, long time. Her mother, I should mention, is not a wealthy woman who will be leaving an estate, not even a small one.

The dedicated care, in itself, is not rare, but it is also not commonplace. The thing that makes this particular mission unusual is the relationship between these two women. Arly was sexually abused by her father from the time she was an infant. When she caught him doing the same thing to a much younger sister, she turned him in to the police, and he was sent to prison. She had to be removed from the home because her mother was so angry with her and treated her so badly for reporting him.

Arly’s mother has never said she was sorry that it happened, or even indicated that she might be. Forty years after the fact, Arly is here to tell her mother she forgives her for not trying to stop the abuse. She wants her mother to be able to die in peace. She knows her mother will probably not reciprocate, but she wants to give her the opportunity. Even if mom doesn’t say a word, Arly will know she did what she could.