She’s read every word I’ve written since that first crayon. She’s ooo’ed and ahh’ed over everything, from stories about my toys, to hand-made Mother’s Day cards, to school papers, to a letter I wrote to Dad when he was ill, to essays about God, to every entry of my three-year blog, to countless novels and screenplays my insane little mind has spawned.
And this week she was diagnosed with brain cancer.
She’s at peace with this. It’s expected that her weakening and leaving us will be painless and peaceful, so she is not afraid. She says she’s tired of this body and curious about the next thing. She can no longer walk or leave her bed, but she’s full of laughter and joy and love. Every time I call, it’s like a party over there in that hospital room. She loves the nurses and the doctors and the fact that this is the final word and she doesn’t have to fight anymore. We’re all headed home to get in on the fun.
Since she’s bedridden and spending her time appreciating the people around her, I doubt she’ll ever again be able to squeeze into the walk-in closet where they set up the desktop computer my dad uses to trade his stocks and play his games. She’ll never again comment on drafts of my novels or read a blog entry of mine or see my status on Facebook. Her time with us now is short, and she’s okay with that.
I’m not sure that I am. If it were me, I’d be fighting. If it were me, I’d be hanging on for all I’m worth. I love this life and can’t imagine wanting to leave it. But I’m at a different place than she is, and we’re not the same people. My hope now is that I can love her without attachment, letting her go into the beyond to whatever adventure awaits her there.
But I know when the time comes, my loss will be sharp. She’s always had the front row seat to my life’s wanderings, always found me entertaining, always supported me. I named my daughter after her; she stood with me when my son was born. What will I do without my sounding board, my laugh track, my prayer warrior?
I’ll have to know that her listening ear is part of me and always will be. I thank all that’s holy that this situation has arranged itself to give us time to get to her side and show her our love. It’s like she’s becoming a beam of light that will not be dimmed even as it transforms. I want to be with her; I want to witness her spirit changing from moth to butterfly.
And I know, when I get there, I’ll find nothing but love. She defines the term—she is my mother.
{ 29 comments }
Hi friend –
I love you and your family. This time is as precious as birth when life is stripped of everything but what is real – and that is Love.
Before my mom passed on, we spoke of everything that we loved, what we were letting go of, we prayed about grief and to release ourselves of that so we could embrace what was before us. Mother-love is eternal. You never lose it.
You and your mother will always have that strong connection.
big hug,
Kim
Laura – This is such a beautiful expression of the mutual love and acceptance that has withstood all that this life has thrown at you both. Thank you for sharing it. I have such fond memories of your Mom from when she, your Dad and sisters stayed with us when we lived in Framingham. Our love, hugs and prayers are with you and your family now and always.
I love you…enjoy every moment with her. Years ago, when I told my grandmother that I wasn’t sure I knew how I would navigate my life without her in it, she said, “you better live your life in such a way that you have great stories to share when we see eachother again.” I have never forgotten it. love you, k
This is poignant and conveys your love for your Mom – I am sure she is proud beyond imagining. My sister is fighting breast cancer, and I’m not sure whether she will make it. Her 21-month old son wants to see her when he can hold a conversation with her, and have the chance to express the thanks that we can take for granted. I know you will tell your Mom many times over how wonderful she is, and in the process, perhaps convey just a spark of the light that she has given you.
It’s never easy to lose a parent, but an attitude like your mom’s can definitely help ease the transition. As Altzheimer’s claims more and more of the woman who was my mother, her sense of humor remains, and it’s an enormous comfort. Thanks for sharing your journey.
Oh, thanks so much for your comment, for sharing that thought. Her love for you remains, too, I’m sure.
Wow, Laura! Your mom sounds like a truly great mom. This really moved me. My thoughts & prayers are with you.
thanks so much… she is the greatest.
Wow.
That’s some powerful writing, Laura. And a powerful, tender time for both you and your mother. My own mother took off willingly (almost eagerly) into her next great adventure last year, and the grace and ease with which she did it was inspiring. The interesting part, is that now we’re closer than ever. I can hear her voice as clear as a bell, anytime I listen – and she’s having a great time.
May your experience be similarly peace-filled and gratifying.
Lotsa love and light coming your way from here.
Lynn
Wow, Lynn, that’s so comforting. I’ll want to hear more later on that.
Thank you for sharing this and for your gift of capturing in words, the essence of love and loss. My thoughts and prayers are with you as you journey back to the love-fest!
Laura,
Such a moving and powerful post. Thank you for sharing. The timing is especially poignant. Ultimately, this is what writing at its best is meant to do: transform our deepest fears and personal pain into inspiration and wisdom (for others, and sometimes just as importantly, for ourselves). So thank you not only for your candor, but for reminding us why writing matters in the first place.
Thanks so much, David. Life humbles me; where else would I go if I couldn’t write about it?
What a special Mother’s Day gift blog post. I hope she gets a chance to read it.
Dina, your blog is my daily meditation. Thanks for being there.
Laura – I’m very sorry. You and your family are in my constant thoughts, and sporadic prayers.
thanks… to me, thought is prayer, so thanks for all of it.
Your mom’s my new hero.
Tiffany
oh, wonderful! gotta tell her that. she’s always been mine.
Laura,
So sorry to hear this sad news about your mother.
thanks, squirrel lady…
Oh Laura, I am so sorry to hear this. What a beautiful attitude you and your mother have, though. Thank you for sharing the love. I am holding you and your family in the light.
I will have to tell her she’s getting loving thoughts from Paris, the City of Lights!
Laura, my darling, I am so, so sorry to hear this. You and your family are in my thoughts and prayers. xoxox
{{{hugs}}}
Laura…thank you for this beautiful, insightful, sensitively expressed appreciation — intimate and also universal- I love your expression of your daughter/mother connection. Your affectionate perspective is priceless.
Thanks so much, Joan… It’s still surreal to me.
this is incredibly touching, dear laura…what a tribute to your mom and your love for her. thank you for sharing it with us.
thanks, chica, you are always a huge help.
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