Mother’s Day is a day to pay tribute to your mother, the one person who loves you more than anyone you will ever meet in your entire lifetime. You can buy your mother flowers, give her a fancy card, or treat her to dinner to show her that you appreciate all that she had done and sacrificed for you. But when your mother passes away, you can no longer do anything to show her how much you love her. When you lose your mother people will comfort you by saying, “she will always be with you.” The reality is that she is not. She is gone from your life forever. The only thing you can actually do on Mother’s Day is think of her.
My mother has been gone for almost six years now, and I think of her every single day. My mother and I were a lot alike and we had a great relationship. It is easy for me to close my eyes and think of the many times that she went out of her way to help me, to give me good advice, to make me feel loved and protected. But today I realized that one of the most precious memories I have of my mother was not from one of the good times we spent together, but from one of the worst.
As I enter the house, my mother is not buzzing around energetically wiping the kitchen counters or calling out a greeting to me as she is finishing a task on the home computer. This day my mother, or what is left of the vibrant woman she once was, is sitting up in her bed, her emaciated frame propped up on pillows. She says nothing to me as I say hello, trying my best to sound cheerful. I make small talk as I lift the covers and empty one of her drains into a small container on the floor next to her bed. I keep talking as I leave the room briefly to flush the contents down the toilet and return to her bedside to reattach the tube. All things medical use to make me queasy, but it’s been almost nine months since her first surgery. I am tougher now.
I sit on the bed as close to her as I can get. She is wearing a black and white striped mumu, her fashion of choice for hanging around the house and the source of endless teasing from my sister and I. This mumu that once fit her now looks like it is five sizes too big because she weighs barely eighty pounds. Her face looks gaunt and slightly gray. She has fought so hard, but now she is tired. I know that all hope is gone and that her death is imminent. This could be the last time I see her alive, but I cannot say goodbye. She is still here.
I run out of things to say, so we just look at each other for a few moments. Then my mother raises her arm slowly and touches my face with her fingers. She smiles and says softly, almost in a whisper, “I am proud of myself.” It was difficult for her to speak. I don’t know what she means so I lean a little closer and ask her why. Still stroking my chin she says, “Because I raised you.”
In these days before her death, I assume that my mother was reflecting back on her life, feeling good about everything she was able to accomplish and regretting the things that she had to leave unfinished. The knowledge that my mother considered me one of her life’s greatest successes makes me feel deeply loved. Her soft words spoken in the worst of circumstances inspire me to be my best self so I can always be the woman who makes her so proud. I love her so much. On Mother’s Day (and many other days) it warms my heart to think of this special moment we shared. Thank you Mom.
Happy Mother’s Day!
