Diana was a dear friend and helped me navigate the stormy waters of my mother’s mental illness. That was in 1990, and she was a psychiatrist. In a dream the other night, I was gifted with a memory. A searing moment of pain, and a phone call to her. I felt and heard her steady, solid voice as I told her my mother hanged herself, and I couldn’t make it for Thanksgiving dinner that night.
A long pause ensued, characteristic of those trained in her profession, but it was more. She held such a profound space for me as I struggled to breathe. She finally broke the silence, and said,
“Your efforts on behalf of your mother were heroic MaryAnn. I admire you, and I am so sorry.
Over twenty years later, I know that heroic efforts did not make me a hero, and certainly not a hero of love…
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