My Biggest Fear Was Disappointing You

I remember being in maybe third grade and coming home from school to my mom’s daily “welcome home” hug. As she was hugging me, I broke down in tears because I was so scared to share with her the bad news I had been carrying around for the most part of the day. I had to tell her that I, her perfect daughter, got a check on my calendar. A check in my Catholic grade school indicated you had done something disappointing. If you received something like ten checks, you got a demerit. If you received a lot of demerits you were one of the bad kids. I could barely breath as she hugged me because I knew I didn’t deserve her love and affection. I, Bonnie Anne Dugan, her little loving sweetheart daughter, was now a bad kid. I had disappointed her and I deserved the worst punishment she would give.

Except she didn’t punish me. When she pulled away from her loving embrace she cupped my face in her hands and and asked with a look of concern, “Bonnie, what’s wrong?” After crying for a good amount of time, I finally blurted out, “I got a check. I’m so sorry, Mom!” I kept my eyes closed as I waited for her to lay it on me. No TV, no playing outside…I deserved it. After a few moments of silence, I finally opened my eyes and looked at my mom who was smiling back at me.

“Why are you smiling?” I asked.

“Because you’re so hard on yourself, Bonnie. It’s just a check. It’s not the end of the world.”

“But, Mom. Only the bad kids get checks. This means I am a bad kid.”

“No, sweetheart, this means you’re human.”

My biggest fear has always been disappointing my mom. She was such a gentle and kind soul and she gave me so much love. I felt like I owed it to her to be the best kid possible. That was the least I could do, right? What I learned was that this would set me up for a series of disappointments throughout my lifetime because whether I liked it or not, I was human and I would make mistakes….many, many mistakes. I guess you could say I am a bit of a perfectionist and when one thing goes wrong, that means that I am wrong. For example, today I noticed a minor error on the cover of a publication I am working on and I have not stopped looking at it and critiquing it. My mind has wandered from It’s not even wrong to You are a complete failure. How could you let this happen?

My mom, on the other hand, was always waiting with open arms, regardless of my mistakes. In my mind, that unconditional love she gave me was not fair to her. She deserved the perfect daughter and me, being human and all, would never be able to deliver that. But, man, I really tried to come close. I tried so hard and I, always without failure, let myself down because I could never meet my own expectations of what I thought she deserved.

“Bonnie, you think too much. You try sooooooo hard.” This was a statement my mom used often. She liked to emphasize the “ooo’s” when she was making a point. In fact, just a week before the “nightmare” she was telling me that exact phrase because I had invited my sisters over for a “sister night” and I wasn’t sure if she and my dad would want to come over so I never said anything but then I felt bad and wound up inviting her the day of and apologized for it being so last minute (I know). I am beating myself up now for not having her over that night. It would have been the last time we ever hung out. It would have been the last dance party on my deck with her. One of the reasons I thought it was fine was because that following Saturday, I was supposed to hang out with her. My husband and I planned on going to a fundraiser with my mom and dad, along with my sister and her boyfriend, and we were all looking forward to it. My mom even texted me saying, “I am so excited you’re coming. You deserve a break!”

But that night took a turn quickly and I am still, six months later, trying to figure out what the hell happened? How is this nightmare still a reality? I am ready to wake up.

April 6, 2019 started off as a great day. I slept in later than usual with my husband Henry and texted my mom at 10:29am saying, “We’ll be there today! And I have a surprise for you. (I was giving my mom a cellphone) Did you guys want us to pick you up?”

My mom swiftly replied, “Hi great...glad your coming tonite…I think we’re okay to drive up…I’ll ask Daddy and get back to you…(kissing face emoji).”

After this text, I went upstairs to my office - where I am sitting now to write this blog - to finish a paper for grad school. Afterwards, I went for a run. On my way back, I was feeling happy. I finished my paper and I was about to hang out with family. I called my mom at 3:30pm to let her know Henry and I were going to come over early to give her her surprise and that we would all drive together to the fundraiser. My mom didn’t answer so I left her a voicemail. About fifteen minutes later, as I was chugging water to quench the thirst from my run, my dad called me. This was strange. My dad rarely, if ever, called me. I answered.

“Hey Dad.”

“Hey sweetheart. Listen your mom got really sick. I’m not sure what happened but we are not going to make it tonight. You and Kate should still go though.”

“What? No. I was only going to see you guys. I was just texting mommy. She was fine. What happened?”

After a series of questions, I determined my mom either had food poisoning from a hot dog she ate the night before or she caught the stomach bug from my niece and nephew, who she also watched the night before.

My dad insisted that my sister Kate and I still go to this fundraiser. After much hesitation and push back, I reluctantly agreed and told him I would swing by to pick up the tickets. I felt a little more at ease, given my investigation, but I hung up the phone, still concerned, but mostly disappointed that I wasn’t going to get the chance to hang out with my mom. I sat on the couch and talked to Henry. “My dad sounded worried.”

“I’m sure she’s fine,” he replied.

Since I wasn’t going to surprise my mom with her gift anymore, I decided to take my time getting ready and going over. I grabbed Vitamin Water and crackers as a “I hope you feel better” gift and Henry and I were on our way. We walked in the house and I put them on the kitchen table. My dad came walking down the steps and handed me the tickets.

“She’s finally resting.”

“Can I go upstairs to see her?”

“I don’t know. I finally got her to fall asleep.”

We walked outside so as not to wake her up.

“Okay, well tell mommy I hope she feels better. I left Vitamin Water and crackers on the table.”

During our last exchange, I felt an urge to go upstairs but ignored it because, like my dad said, I didn’t want to wake her up if she finally fell asleep. Knowing my dad was still concerned, I offered to take them to the hospital. I knew that this was a ludicrous offer given my mom disliked hospitals and, like we all agreed, she just had the stomach bug. She would be fine.

Two hours later, we would learn that my mom was not “fine.” My dad called my sister to say, “Something is wrong.”

We said our goodbyes to my uncle, my aunt, and my parent’s friends who sat at our table. She’s just dehydrated. We all agreed on this.

Henry and I were the first ones to pull up to the house. The car was still in movement when I jumped out. I ran in the house. “Dad!” I yelled.

“Up here.”

I ran up the stairs to my parents room. I called 911 immediately. The ambulance was there in minutes. They asked what was wrong. I told them I suspected she was dehydrated as she had been throwing up all day.

As they put her on the stretcher, my mom started seizing. That’s when we all knew this was much more serious, even though our instincts had already told us that. I volunteered to ride in the ambulance with my dad - something I am both grateful for and agonized about. The torturous visions from that ride will always haunt my mind.

A feeling of pure panic and desperation would accompany me for the next 60+ hours. I am instantly brought back to this feeling any time I think about it. Still hopeful that this was all “fixable,” I sat in disbelief as a doctor came into the family room, where my dad and I sat just minutes after entering the emergency room, and told us, with a grim look, that he suspected my mom had a “giant” aneurysm that burst. His tone indicated a lack of hope for a good outcome but I refused to believe this. What? There is literally no way this could be happening. My mom was just fine. We were supposed to be dancing and laughing. This is all a sick joke. The others in my family would soon get to the family room and I would sit there with the images of my mom in the ambulance and the news from the doctor, unable to tell them because, if I told them, it would make it true. Instead, I prayed furiously clutching the rosary we found in my mom’s purse as we waited the dreadful eight or nine hours she was in surgery. The doctor’s didn’t know if she would survive the surgery. She just needed to survive the surgery, I told myself.

She survived the surgery but, again, the doctors were not hopeful with the outcome. I did not care. She survived the surgery! She had made it through. I knew my mom was a fighter. The next 40 hours would be a roller coaster of emotions as we waited, with desperate hopefulness, for any slight signs of improvement. There were some but not enough. At around midnight on April 9, after just getting home from the hospital, we would get the call from my dad that told us to hurry back. This was it. Our mom’s heart was giving out and she was not going to make it.

Stunned. That’s the only way to describe the feeling that would come next. I was utterly stunned. My mind, soul, and body could not process and accept what was happening in that hospital room.

I should have went upstairs to check on her. If I would have just went upstairs to check on her, I would have realized something was wrong and I could have saved her before this happened.

For the last six months, this thought has been on repeat. Though a part of me does believe, thanks to therapy and the constant reassurance from those I love, that this is not my fault, I still feel like that little girl who got a check on her calendar.

I am sorry for disappointing you, Mom. My biggest fear has come true. You, my “person,” my cheerleader, my advocate, and the one who loves me unconditionally despite all of my “flaws” is gone. I am disappointed that, even though we tried, I wasn’t able to give you a grandchild to be a “Cak Cak” to before you left. I am disappointed that holidays or any gathering will no longer be as fun without the life of the party there. I am disappointed that I won’t receive the “thinking of you texts” with the images of the motivational quotes because, somehow, you just knew I was feeling down. I am disappointed that I will no longer hear, “Bonnie you think too much. You try soooo hard.” I am disappointed that we can’t do our normal exchange of, “I love you. I love you more. I love you most. I love you infinity.” I am disappointed that I can no longer hear you call me your sweetheart. I am disappointed that I won’t have any more dance parties with you. I am disappointed I won’t see your smile or hear your laugh. I am disappointed every time I log onto Facebook or Instagram and see girls my age with their moms and children or hear people talk about their families with ease, without having to deal with such a tragedy. I am disappointed I will no longer feel your incredible loving embrace of a hug that could melt any problem away.

But, most of all, I am disappointed in myself that I couldn’t save you. I think blaming myself keeps me connected to your physical life on earth and prevents me from having to accept this excruciating new reality that none of us want.

I love you infinity, Mom, and I am sorry. I am sorry for being human.

Love,

Your Sweetheart.