“Do you want to be The Adult in this or The Child?”
Deep, deep down you’ll find that every fiber of your being wants to run out into the streets screaming,
“THE CHILD!”
Because that’s what you’ve been all your life, your Mother’s Daughter. You know that role, it’s comfortable. And frankly, it’s the easier role.
But then, ever so slowly, it’ll start to creep in - the sense that this could be one of the most important decisions you’ll ever make.
You’ll want to curl up in a ball in a dark, dark room, and you’ll want to stay there for a very long time
But, instead, with the help of a few persistent angels, you’ll answer,
“I want to be The Adult.
Everyone knows that daughters know how to do death. Mother’s sons – not so much. They don’t know what to say or what to feel. But you will know. Daughters always know.
You’ll know when it’s time to look at your mother and SEE everything.
You’ll see the face and hear the voice that may have hurt you, cut into you, and made you feel small. You may even hear words that steal away the love that you know must be there.
Then something will happen. You’ll see that same face, hear that same voice, listen to those same words and you’ll understand. Like you, she is her mother’s daughter … and that changes everything.
You’ll see her hurt, her pain, her reasons. You’ll see her life and how she survived it. And you’ll see she was living and loving you the best way she knew how.
You’ll remember her strength, her dogged persistence, her intelligence, her humor. How she protected you. How much she taught you. How much she endured on her own. And, yes, how much she loved you.
Settle in. Look at her face. It’s pale and sick. The deep rich voice that used to sing beautiful songs now groans like a metronome to quell the pain.
Then …
- When she calls telling you Ted Turner is trying to kill her – reassure her he’s not. He’s just a guy showing old movies on TV.
- When she calls you at work saying she can’t breathe, believe her. Air hoses do come undone.
- When you visit her every night after work, wear that sweet sleeveless floral-print sundress, because this is how she envisions you.
- Buy her a life-size poster of Marilyn Monroe because it reminds her of better days.
- Explain to her that morphine does strange things and again – reassure her that the nursing home doesn’t turn into a Chinese Drug Ring at night.
- Watch Cary Grant and Kate Hepburn. And when Judy Garland comes on, remind your mother how much you love it that she taught you to tap dance.
Know that you’ll sit hours on end watching her endure the pain as you massage her back that bulges with disease. You’ll paint her toenails, comb her hair, and keep the nurses on their toes. You’ll talk to her of her past, helping her find those happy memories that were part of her long and painful journey to now.
There will come a moment when you know it’s time to talk about dying. She’ll want to, even if she doesn’t ask to. No one else will do it. It’s up to you
Sit next to her bed, hold her hand and ask her if she’s afraid. Then just listen and keep holding her hand. Look into her eyes, eyes that seem to be searching for an answer, eyes that haven’t yet come to terms with what’s happening.
Tell her you know, you really know, that her father, her mother and her husband will all be there when she passes - and they’ll take her hand - and it will be lovely. It’s very important that YOU really believe this, because she desperately wants to believe it too.
As she listens to your words, she’ll relax. Then it’ll be time for you to show your own courage. Your heart will know what to say.
Tell her that you don’t know what you’ll do without her. Tell her that you’ll miss her everyday. You’ll search for words that quell your own fears. But that’s okay.
Then, lean in closer, deeper into her weary eyes and say,
“Mom, promise you’ll always watch over me and guide me, okay? I’m gonna need it.”
You’ll mean every word of it and she’ll know that - and she will promise. And, with that promise she’ll feel hope.
As you kiss her cheek your tears will begin to flow. Tears that you’ve never let her see all your adult life and in that last moment of truth and vulnerability, its okay, let yourself be the Child. The one you always wanted to be.
Lay your head in your mother’s lap. Feel her frail arm cradle your head and gently stroke your hair one last time and know - this is just as much a gift to her as it is to you.
It’s because you chose to be The Adult in this that you were able to let yourself be the Child - the Child you longed to be.
Oh, and one more thing, ask your mom if she has any life advice for you. She will. And, it’ll be the best advice anyone has ever given you.
She’ll simply say…“A girls gotta do, what a girls gotta do.”
A line right out of the old movies she so loved.
And, a line you’ll run with -- the rest of your life.
Top Photo side note: Mom at the helm - her dining room
table and makeshift office. It's where she fought many of her battles - whether
it be writing a letter to the editor of our local newspaper fighting City Hall
or striking a deal as a real estate agent ... or writing pages upon pages of
yellow pad paper to her kids when she absolutely needed to let us know how she
felt. Written on the back of the photo, in Mom's handwriting, "Dot 1983.
Meditating? Or a clip from a Bette Davis movie?" Mom had quite a
flair for the dramatic. Oh, and the snow scene behind her? Yep, she painted it.
Bottom Photo: Me and Mom, Christmas 1959.
Story posted on Mom's birthday - January 5th. Happy
Birthday, Mom!
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