Don't Ever Scream "I Hate You"

Especially to Your Mother

Once upon a time, in the very humble home of my youth, I ran to by bedroom and slammed the door in my mother’s face, sure to make my message loud and clear.

“I hate you,” I screamed.

I expected my angry mother to come barreling through the door, continuing our argument. I geared up for her yelling at me.

 But she didn’t.

All was quiet on the other side. I tentatively drew open my door and peeked out to find mom standing in the hall with watery eyes and a quivering frown as she spoke.

“I would NEVER say such a thing to my mother.  Do you know what happened to a neighbor of mine?”

Before I could answer, even though she knew I couldn’t possibly know what happened to some neighbor of hers a hundred years ago, she calmly told me the story of a boy who had an argument with his father. Just as young, careless people do, he screamed those very words that he only really meant for emphasis.

“‘I hate you,’ he said. ‘I hope I never see you again.’ And guess what,” my mom continued. “He never did see his father again because his dad died the very next morning. You ought to be careful about what you say, Young Lady.

How would you feel if those were your last words to me?”

Ugh. Was this story true, or what we now might call an urban legend meant to make one of those pesky parental points? Either way, it worked. I was ashamed. We embraced, both crying. And I was truly sorry. The argument forgotten.

She put the fear in me that day . . .

“Be careful with your words. They might be the last ones someone hears.”

I never said “I hate you” again.

In fact, I grew up maybe overthinking a bit. I constructed a seemingly tangible barrier in front of me, preventing me from saying those words and reminding me of how suddenly you can lose someone. The fear of saying that particular phrase followed me into adulthood and produced at least one good trait.

Every time I left my parents’ house, I would say something nice just in case it was our last visit. I was free with the “I love yous,” and I really meant them too.

The night before my father passed, we had broken him free from the rehabilitation center for a birthday dinner at a friend’s house. Upon return, the nurses’ aides were a little perturbed with us for keeping him out so long when he needed oxygen and meds before bed. I was rushing a bit to tuck him in and get on home, something I now regret, so I relinquished him to the aides rather quickly. Thankfully, he pulled me in for a kiss and a hug.

“Thank you, Honey, for taking me out today. I really had fun. I love you.”

“I love you too, dad. See you tomorrow.”

In the morning, I received a phone call from the hospital. My dad’s heart gave out, and despite thirty minutes of resuscitative efforts, they could not save him.

I am noticing a little theme here—eleven years later, we also broke my mom free from the hospital during her last stay, against the doctor’s orders. One nurse agreed to close her eyes while we wheeled my mom out the door, for she so wanted to watch her granddaughter’s dance recital. We would not deprive her of that joy. That was the Saturday before Mother’s Day that year, and the next morning, my mother called from the hospital to wish me a “Happy Mother’s Day,” punctuated with deep love. She then slipped into a coma in the Hospice wing of the hospital and only lasted about a week in that condition.

Last words are memorable.

I have a friend who is still heartbroken twenty years after the death of her mother because the last words they exchanged while her mother lay dying came through a haze of drug-induced dementia and bordered on hatefulness, not at all indicative of their real relationship. The only consolation for her painful experience is that she knows her mother was not in her right mind when she said such things, yet the words still stick with her.

I say, that shouldn’t count as “last words.” The years of lucid, beautiful conversations cancel those out, don’t you think? Grab onto your last embrace, instead, and carve it onto that strong part of your brain, right near the front.

If you are holding onto last words you regret, let’s find a way to recreate them. Release the sorrow and reprogram your brain. Enter words of healing. After all, you are a writer. Rewrite some positive words from an earlier exchange.

Since we tend to remember our last words with someone, it is a worthy endeavor to season our conversations with salt. I don’t say sugar because that can get sickly sweet. That can border on artificial. Saccharine. Salt makes everything taste good, and it also kills germs. Salt cures.

Do you have the last words of someone who has passed saved somewhere safe?

[One chapter of my soon-to-be-published book describes the beautiful last months of my father’s life. The story is a miracle that I have saved for that narrative nonfiction piece. I hope you get to hear it one day.]

• Consider hitting the Subscribe button if stories like this resonate with you.