David Boles<p>My mother, <a href="https://www.bmlfh.com/obituary/wilma-boles" rel="nofollow noopener" target="_blank">Wilma Jean Boles, died on June 24, 2024</a>. She was 85-years-old. Her death was unfortunate, and unnecessarily gruesome in that, in the end, she chose not to walk, or eat, or take her medication after a major surgery; the only thing she desired was a quick death. My mother always fought for what she wanted, and sometimes what she wanted is what nobody else wanted, including her death. Wilma never really recovered from elective surgery she had on May 23, 2024 to fix a perforated diaphragm where half of her stomach and part of her colon were stuck in her chest cavity, placing pressure on her left lung. Her surgeon believed she’d been living with that condition for more than 25 years; and he also believed there was “no good reason” for her not to recover and get better. As I have worked to come to terms with Wilma’s death, and the first 23 years of our life together, <a href="https://bolesblogs.com/2016/02/03/the-narcissistic-mother/" rel="nofollow noopener" target="_blank">I am surrounded by — and often hunted with</a> — the memories of my mother’s life, her successes, her disappointments, and her ability to continually confound the unwary. I have also realized, but not quite yet accepted, that no matter how hard I try, or how fast I may run, I will always be “Wilma’s Boy.”</p><p></p><p></p><p>When you are born into, and grow up in, a small village in Nebraska — North Loup, to be exact — there is an exacting sort of lingering punishment of social norms that always percolate and surround your every moment. You must always behave. Everyone knows who you are. You are a stranger until you have been defined by someone else. I quickly learned, in my many visits to my mother’s hometown of North Loup as a young child, that associations and relationships matter more than character.</p><p>When you’re a stranger in town, you don’t get introduced as yourself by name. Others introduce you to those who ask about you by using your familial ties. You are constructed in space by their name, not your name in time.</p><p>“Oh, that’s Bill Vodehnal’s grandson.”</p><p>“Sure, this is Wilma’s Boy.”</p><p>With those credits you do not own, you’re in.</p><p></p><p>Once those small town ties have been mentioned, and accepted by others, you are bound into a new community in a strange and fitful way. You now echo in the hills of your kin and you scream in the valleys of your ancestors as if you yourself were born and bred along the banks of the Loup River.</p><p>But there’s an expectation that comes along with all that sudden belonging.</p><p>You don’t speak up.</p><p>You don’t misbehave.</p><p>You are quiet until spoken to.</p><p>You are being watched by the town, and analyzed by unseen eyes, and you are immediately, and always, judged by societal agendas; and if you do the wrong thing, even by a little bit, you not only bring shame upon yourself, but upon your family as well.</p><p>“Wilma’s Boy, indeed!”</p><p>And that’s how the small town mentality inks its way in your bloodstream. You are always aware of timestamp belonging, you always want to fit in, you always become hypersensitive to those around you who are trying to look for the smallest fault to exploit and conquer.</p><p><span>In response, you become harder, more stubborn, colder, and inflexible, imagining yourself as stoic and suffering. You have values. You have strong beliefs. You don’t like strangers without association. You define first, lest you be defined last.</span></p><p><span>You are embedded into not wanting to stand out, but also wanting to be someone, and yet you are expected to always do your humble best. That dichotomy fosters an immobile sense of self that is always in motion while completely requiring stasis. You survive that way just fine in a small town, even as a young, named, visitor, but when you take that communal baggage out into the deeper, wider world, the temptation for flexible social norms to break you becomes even more powerful the harder you try to escape and not just settle for</span><a href="https://bolesblogs.com/2010/11/05/you-dont-have-to-be-where-youre-from/" rel="nofollow noopener" target="_blank"> <span>being where you’re from</span></a><span>.</span></p><p><span>My mother was the daughter of WIlliam Henry Vodehnal, the village pharmacist: “Bill’s Girl.” Wilma was born into the malingering dust of the Great Depression, and she was slender, and beautiful, her entire life. She had Scarlet fever as a child, and became Deaf in one ear. She struggled to understand, to listen, and to communicate, the rest of her life. She never accepted her disability.</span></p><p><span>I would have loved to have met my mother when she was in her early teens — just to get a real sense of who she was born to be, and to try to understand what she believed. I wanted to know her childhood dreams before life turned on her, and before the promise of her future just became about survival and belonging.</span></p><p>My mother left North Loup. She toured Europe. She graduated from Nebraska Wesleyan University in Lincoln, Nebraska. She got out! And then, for some reason that I still do not understand, she decided to get married to a university classmate. A classmate who, after several years of a strained marriage, would become my father.</p><p></p><p>And that’s when it all changed.</p><p>That’s when the collapse of a life happened.</p><p><span>That’s when “Wilma’s Boy” was born to save a marriage that was still doomed to fail, and yes, not even being a first born son was enough for my father to stay married to Wilma. The divorce judge ordered him to stay with Wilma for five days after my birth, and then he was free to go live and cheat with the woman he was seeing. He later sired three additional children.</span></p><p><span>His alimony was to pay, for 10 years, the mortgage on the new home they built together and to pay $100 a month in child support until I was 18. That is the sum total of me knowing anything of value, or of substance, about my father. I do not understand him. I would not recognize him on the street. I have not set eyes upon him for 55 years.</span></p><p><span>I never understood why my mother chose to marry my father. My mother was not a romantic. She was a hard realist. From their start together, there was no real excitement, or engagement into a sustainable future. I get the feeling there was some sort of slow motion, underwater, push, neither of them fully understood that, after each left their own small town for a bigger city, and after earning a university education, the next natural step expected of them was to get married as soon as they graduated. That’s what you did back then in the radical Sixties. You got married, built a home, and had a child. That’s how you fit in the new modern world. That’s how you named your family with tendril roots.</span></p><p></p><p>And that was the beginning of the landslide disappointments for my mother. Divorced at 26, stuck with a five-day-old infant, and no job — she was lucky to find a fourth grade teaching position at a public school right across the street from her new home that provided for her for the next 35 years.</p><p>I know my mother felt held back by me, even if she didn’t directly blame me, because I know my mother had higher ambitions than just being a single-mother-divorcee in the 1970s and only teaching the fourth grade.</p><p></p><p>A bit later, Wilma married again, settling for another loser who came with three sons, and was subsequently divorced again a few years later.</p><p><span>Double divorced, but still stuck with a son who failed to save the first marriage, my mother sank into a deep, lifelong, depression. She vowed never to be married again, and to never tempt the perils of love another time. </span></p><p><span>That glowering darkness scraped the bits of joy and the residue of life from her every second of every day. She was an expert at covering her real feelings in public. Her upbringing in a small town — where you put on the mask in public, and you wept, and let loose your monsters, and invented new demons, but only in the privacy of your own home — served her well at work.</span></p><p>However, living with her was an entirely different experience.</p><p>Later, she privately lamented that in each of her failed marriages, she had to buy all the diamond rings. Her second husband kept his ring, and put the diamond in a tie clip.</p><p></p><p>As a child, as long as I did exactly as my mother said, no questions, no quibbling, life was acceptable.</p><p><span>In order for me to survive, and to try to escape into safety and sanity, I became her “performing puppet” where I would act in plays, and make her proud, and I was pressured by her to be involved in community events in order for her to appear to be a good and supportive mother. It was all staged without any underlying substance or passion, but Wilma was never happier than when she was receiving an award, or while she was shouting out support when I found success in her shadow.</span></p><p><span>My <a href="https://bolesblogs.com/2007/03/05/the-first-betrayal-a-five-dollar-beating/" rel="nofollow noopener" target="_blank">misbehaving was never an option</a>; and I was the perfect child: the perfectly miserable, malformed, disconnected, and forlorn child stuck in a distant, cold, and loveless relationship with his mother.</span></p><p></p><p><span>Yes, over the years, I’ve learned the hard way that not all mothers are willing, or capable, of loving their sons; and not all sons are capable of loving unloved mothers. </span></p><p><span>It all can spiral into a vicious circle of regret, and pain, and failed expectations that all ultimately become so untenable that either things will explode, or things will slowly, and deliberately, break apart.</span></p><p></p><p>And that’s what happened.</p><p>We broke apart.</p><p></p><p>Together, my mother and I tentatively, but without saying so, came to understand we really didn’t ever like each other. Love? Sure. Like? Not so much.</p><p><span>Oh, we played well together when others were watching — I know how to act the role of “Wilma’s Boy” really well — but deep down there was never any real connection to family, or to love, or to respect, or to understanding what was really happening between us. </span></p><p><span>I sometimes wonder if it may have been too painful for her to ever really love anyone for fear of losing that idyllic small town adoration she longed for, but never really found in her personal life beyond North Loup. Thinking about that often makes me terribly sad for my mother.</span></p><p></p><p><span>After graduating from the university, and at the tender age of 23, I escaped to New York City and graduate school. I never looked back. I grey-rocked my mother for the last 20 years in order to preserve my own independent sanity, and to try to come to terms with the fluffy confection of a braided prairie education. </span></p><p>Wilma had her secret life without me.</p><p>I had my life without her.</p><p></p><p><span>I always considered myself her third divorce that was never consecrated in a court of law. </span></p><p><span>There was no tidy paper ending or proper emotional closure. </span></p><p><span>What is real, and what remains, is emptiness and longing. </span></p><p><span>A circle unclosed. </span></p><p></p><p>And so, here I am at age 60, burying my mother at 85, and the childhood feelings of sorrow and regret are overwhelming, even in the fading light of an old man — but I also realize, and accept, that we each have one life, there is no repeating, there is no going back. You own what’s happened.</p><p>You give other people the right to live, or end, their own lives, and you try to find meaning in what’s left behind; and the answer is the meaning is only what you choose to bring to it, and what you use to define it, and there’s no way to guarantee a satisfying end except to accept the life that was offered to you, and to make the best of what’s left of the fractured path ahead.</p><p></p><p><span>As I said my final goodbyes to my mother in the North Loup Hillside Cemetery under a steamy, and unforgiving, disc of an afternoon sun on July 12, 2024, I recalled the last thing I said to her a few weeks before, in the early morning, while she lay dying in a Lincoln, Nebraska hospital emergency room. I had been her Durable Power of Attorney for four days. I was half a country away in New York.</span></p><p></p><p><span>My mother was flowing in and out of consciousness, defiantly and stubbornly trying her hardest to die. A few hours earlier, her medical team and I decided to place her in comfort care. The nurse let me call her cell phone, and the nurse put me on speaker, and she held the phone close to my mother’s good ear so I could say one last thing to Wilma before she died.</span></p><p><span>Here is what I struggled to say out loud — to try and finally close our circle: “You are safe now. We will let you go. I love you. Thank you.”</span></p><p><span>Wilma did not respond. </span></p><p><span>Three hours later, she died.</span></p><p><span>I hope she heard me.</span></p><p></p><p><a href="https://bolesblogs.com/2024/07/30/wilmas-boy/" class="" rel="nofollow noopener" target="_blank">https://bolesblogs.com/2024/07/30/wilmas-boy/</a></p><p><a rel="nofollow noopener" class="hashtag u-tag u-category" href="https://bolesblogs.com/tag/david-boles/" target="_blank">#davidBoles</a> <a rel="nofollow noopener" class="hashtag u-tag u-category" href="https://bolesblogs.com/tag/depression/" target="_blank">#depression</a> <a rel="nofollow noopener" class="hashtag u-tag u-category" href="https://bolesblogs.com/tag/haunting/" target="_blank">#haunting</a> <a rel="nofollow noopener" class="hashtag u-tag u-category" href="https://bolesblogs.com/tag/lincoln/" target="_blank">#lincoln</a> <a rel="nofollow noopener" class="hashtag u-tag u-category" href="https://bolesblogs.com/tag/marriage/" target="_blank">#marriage</a> <a rel="nofollow noopener" class="hashtag u-tag u-category" href="https://bolesblogs.com/tag/nebraska/" target="_blank">#nebraska</a> <a rel="nofollow noopener" class="hashtag u-tag u-category" href="https://bolesblogs.com/tag/north-loup/" target="_blank">#northLoup</a> <a rel="nofollow noopener" class="hashtag u-tag u-category" href="https://bolesblogs.com/tag/small-town/" target="_blank">#smallTown</a> <a rel="nofollow noopener" class="hashtag u-tag u-category" href="https://bolesblogs.com/tag/suffering/" target="_blank">#suffering</a> <a rel="nofollow noopener" class="hashtag u-tag u-category" href="https://bolesblogs.com/tag/surgery/" target="_blank">#surgery</a> <a rel="nofollow noopener" class="hashtag u-tag u-category" href="https://bolesblogs.com/tag/wilma-boles/" target="_blank">#wilmaBoles</a> <a rel="nofollow noopener" class="hashtag u-tag u-category" href="https://bolesblogs.com/tag/wilmas-boy/" target="_blank">#wilmaSBoy</a></p>