Some days are easier than others. Some days that compartment that holds my love for my Mom stays shut, hidden behind a stronger piece of me. But all too often I find myself looking at the door to that bit – the bit that is shattered and laying all over the floor in a million tiny pieces that will never, ever be put right again. If I am feeling strong I can look at the door and acknowledge it without opening it up. I can feel my love for my Mom and just feel warm and happy knowing that she’s there – somewhere – still there inside of me.
Then there are the days where all those broken pieces overwhelm me and I have to try to put a few of them back together. I sit on her old bed at the house where my Dad still lives and her essence is so strong that I can feel her sitting next to me. She takes my hand. I lean my head into her shoulder. The tears fall and she wipes them away. I can hear her voice. Her sweet, beautiful voice that I pray I will never forget. She’s there and I’m nowhere. I’m lost among all those shattered pieces.
She’s on a different medication now and it’s making a world of difference. She’s so much happier and more alert. When I go to visit her whole face lights up and the first thing she says is “I love you so much.” We hold hands, and we sing silly songs like “There was an old lady who swallowed a fly,” and watch her favorites on YouTube like “Hallelujah.” Her old spark is there and I savor it. But then I ask her to look at the phone to see a picture and she says Oh, I see it. But she’s not focusing on the phone at all. Even now, even now she has the presence of mind to know what I want to hear and to say it. Even now, she tries to hide her illness. Even now she doesn’t want to be helped, or patronized.
I read her stories from the past, like Stone Soup and Leo the Late Bloomer. She loves this. She takes the books from me and endlessly looks at the pictures. It is so obvious that her hands were meant to hold books. I think this might be the part of herself that she misses the most. The books. The endless parade of books in our lives. I let her keep the books so she can look at them as long as she wants. I order more children’s books that I can bring her. We have finally found a connection that should have been obvious to me all along.
I miss the days gone by more than my heart can possibly acknowledge. I miss the way she was, the way she was my champion always. I miss talking to her about all the wrongs and all the rights in my life. I miss the way she was just there, just always there – at her table, reading her books, playing on her phone, watching TV. I always knew where to find her. I miss the way she almost always put me first – maybe selfish, but isn’t that what most Moms do? I miss how she was always thinking about me.
That compartment of my heart that is Mom – it might be ravaged with loss and regret and grief but if I can just push aside all that I might find that all that is left is the memories. The love she had for me. I can see her there, behind all the pain and she is happy. She is young again, and walking out with my Dad. And all her best days are ahead of her. She’s exploring Europe with her military wife friend Brenda. She’s heading up a library and excelling as a story teller. She’s got that crazy white cat, Gertie, at her heels and she’s even younger now – sitting on the back patio with her beloved dog Fella and the sun is shining and she’s waiting for her Daddy to play with her.
It’s getting late. Every day is one day later for my Mom. Every day she is one more day further away. And so while I can still reach her she will consume me. She will be and have All of Me and that is ok. That is the way I want it to be.
