My mother.
It’s January 12, 2010, almost a year since my mom died. Last year at this time my heart was sinking with the weight of knowing her impending death. Her health was so terrible, so awful, so much so that she couldn’t even talk to me, her “best friend”.
“You’re mine, too,” she replied one teary late night October 2008, as I leaned over from behind the sofa she laid on to support her neck, and held her hand reaching up to mine. “ Her hand was cold, but I didn’t want to let go. It was my mom. My Mother. And here she was laying down on the sofa, something she hated doing, because she couldn’t hold her neck up without it hurting, and her stomach hurt, and the chemo was making her sick.
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,” she frowned.
“What, Mom? How what’s supposed to be?”
“To be laying here sick, unable to do anything! If this is how I’m going to go I shouldn’t be laying around doing nothing.” She paused still. “It’s wasting time.”
Illness has a way of clearing the table and leaving nothing behind but the utensils, now unuseful. And in this moment I had nothing useful to say. I couldn’t save my mom this time. Not with the words I usually use to uplift her, not with the offerings of another more positive perspective, not even with the when-all-else-fails "uh-huh" validation. These band-aids had no skin to stick on. The whole was Just. Too. Big.
All I had was my presence, my heart, and her hand.
“Mom,” I began to cry. “I’m not ready for you to go yet.” “I’m not ready for you to go… you’re my best friend.” I've told her this before, but this time felt amazingly different.
She squeezed my hand strong and tried to look up toward me through her pained neck and her rare tears. “You’re mine, too, Hon.” She'd never told me this before.
Tears streamed from both of our eyes, which aside from the illness you could see in hers, look so much alike. And through my eyes I could see the graceful and strong woman who lifted me up and filled my heart when I was down. You could feel the Presence of Love as if it took her other hand and connected us as it held my other hand too. Love so big, that it held us both in that moment, still. Still with each other’s love.
And that’s all we had in that moment.
And it was big.
And it was heavy.
It’s January 12, 2010, almost a year since my mom died. Last year at this time my heart was sinking with the weight of knowing her impending death. Her health was so terrible, so awful, so much so that she couldn’t even talk to me, her “best friend”.
“You’re mine, too,” she replied one teary late night October 2008, as I leaned over from behind the sofa she laid on to support her neck, and held her hand reaching up to mine. “ Her hand was cold, but I didn’t want to let go. It was my mom. My Mother. And here she was laying down on the sofa, something she hated doing, because she couldn’t hold her neck up without it hurting, and her stomach hurt, and the chemo was making her sick.
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to be,” she frowned.
“What, Mom? How what’s supposed to be?”
“To be laying here sick, unable to do anything! If this is how I’m going to go I shouldn’t be laying around doing nothing.” She paused still. “It’s wasting time.”
Illness has a way of clearing the table and leaving nothing behind but the utensils, now unuseful. And in this moment I had nothing useful to say. I couldn’t save my mom this time. Not with the words I usually use to uplift her, not with the offerings of another more positive perspective, not even with the when-all-else-fails "uh-huh" validation. These band-aids had no skin to stick on. The whole was Just. Too. Big.
All I had was my presence, my heart, and her hand.
“Mom,” I began to cry. “I’m not ready for you to go yet.” “I’m not ready for you to go… you’re my best friend.” I've told her this before, but this time felt amazingly different.
She squeezed my hand strong and tried to look up toward me through her pained neck and her rare tears. “You’re mine, too, Hon.” She'd never told me this before.
Tears streamed from both of our eyes, which aside from the illness you could see in hers, look so much alike. And through my eyes I could see the graceful and strong woman who lifted me up and filled my heart when I was down. You could feel the Presence of Love as if it took her other hand and connected us as it held my other hand too. Love so big, that it held us both in that moment, still. Still with each other’s love.
And that’s all we had in that moment.
And it was big.
And it was heavy.
And it was enough.
And it cradled us both.
And it cradled us both.
My mother died 3 months later, on a pleasant Arizona sunny January day. I held her hand and whispered I love you as she was released from wasting anymore time.
