Today we gather one last time around my mother's body, if not her spirit. There'll be no grave, no graveside, and no place to go to lay flowers on birthdays or Christmas. No headstones with night lights. And yet, none of that is necessary. My mother is everywhere. And she is our night light, still.
My mom was always the one who saw the silver lining. She knew you could go through life angry and depressed over injustices or you could look for the side-door, the escape hatch, and make it better. You could cry or you could sing.. singing made it better, and roses are wonderful things to smell. Opportunity was everywhere if you just took the time to consider it. My dad is a lot like that too.
Just before their 50th wedding anniversary and a renewal of their vows, the doctor found some lumps that were suspicious. She had lymph nodes that were swollen and hard. A few were removed for biopsy and my parents considered cancelling a trip to England and Ireland. The doctor encouraged them to take it, as they might not be able to do so again, at least not anytime in the near future. His words became prophetic. Upon their return, my mom learned she had Hodgkin's Disease. Chemotherapy was required and she would lose her hair.
We went shopping. I cannot tell you how many wig shops we visited or how many we tried on. And, I do say we; it became a bit of a game. I remember trying to talk her into a long blonde style, and a curly red one. We laughed, tearfully, as we joked about how my father could have all these different women in bed with him over the next year and months. We finally found a few that looked most like her own hair and she bought a couple of them. For my mother, losing her hair was devastating. She never liked being seen without her teeth either. I would never have called my mom vain, but self respect was very important for her.
We went through chemo. My dad was with her most of the time as she sat in that chair with needles in her arm and fluids passing through. I sat with her too. Those were very poignant moments. She spoke with me about death and what she wanted me to do. She told me about her childhood and her parents. She told me the story of her life, and of meeting my father. She told me about us, our family, of losing a child and a home, but gaining a place near her grandchildren. She held my hand, wiped away tears, and asked me to tell her a joke, something funny.
She didn't want to die, but she was a realist. The chemo was awful. It caused pain. It caused nausea, sometimes it burned. And she did lose all of her hair. She told me she would never go through that again. It was awful. I held her hand and cried alongside her. We hugged. And we told jokes to relieve the pain. We shared jokes the day she died too.
My mother's life changed drastically after the chemo. Looking back, neither she nor my dad were certain the right choice was made. Not that we would give up one moment with my mother, but for her, life became about chronic pain and discomfort. She may have lived through the chemo and the cancer, but she lost the life she had come to know - one of hiking, walking her dogs, and playing with grandchildren. Over the next few years her world narrowed to a living room, with oxygen tubes and pain pills. Her social calendar became one of doctor visits. And yet, still, she smiled, admonished us to be nice to one another, and invited us over for holiday dinners.
She was the bravest woman I know, and funny too.
I'm leaving the light on...
My mom was always the one who saw the silver lining. She knew you could go through life angry and depressed over injustices or you could look for the side-door, the escape hatch, and make it better. You could cry or you could sing.. singing made it better, and roses are wonderful things to smell. Opportunity was everywhere if you just took the time to consider it. My dad is a lot like that too. Just before their 50th wedding anniversary and a renewal of their vows, the doctor found some lumps that were suspicious. She had lymph nodes that were swollen and hard. A few were removed for biopsy and my parents considered cancelling a trip to England and Ireland. The doctor encouraged them to take it, as they might not be able to do so again, at least not anytime in the near future. His words became prophetic. Upon their return, my mom learned she had Hodgkin's Disease. Chemotherapy was required and she would lose her hair.
We went shopping. I cannot tell you how many wig shops we visited or how many we tried on. And, I do say we; it became a bit of a game. I remember trying to talk her into a long blonde style, and a curly red one. We laughed, tearfully, as we joked about how my father could have all these different women in bed with him over the next year and months. We finally found a few that looked most like her own hair and she bought a couple of them. For my mother, losing her hair was devastating. She never liked being seen without her teeth either. I would never have called my mom vain, but self respect was very important for her.
We went through chemo. My dad was with her most of the time as she sat in that chair with needles in her arm and fluids passing through. I sat with her too. Those were very poignant moments. She spoke with me about death and what she wanted me to do. She told me about her childhood and her parents. She told me the story of her life, and of meeting my father. She told me about us, our family, of losing a child and a home, but gaining a place near her grandchildren. She held my hand, wiped away tears, and asked me to tell her a joke, something funny.
She didn't want to die, but she was a realist. The chemo was awful. It caused pain. It caused nausea, sometimes it burned. And she did lose all of her hair. She told me she would never go through that again. It was awful. I held her hand and cried alongside her. We hugged. And we told jokes to relieve the pain. We shared jokes the day she died too.
She was the bravest woman I know, and funny too.
<3
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