MOM'S HAND

Last weekend I went to Salem to hang out with my mother. It was a quick visit, just one night...and the time flew by. She has started at a daycare program which she refers to as camp. I asked her how she was enjoying the program and wondered what kinds of things she does and if she is enjoying any of the other folks who participate. She laughed and told me they do everything she used to do in girl scouts but true to her nature, she is not a joiner and she claims she enjoys it but does not participate. It's been a year since her fall. Truly, I had assumed she'd be long gone after seeing her face just after the fall. It was horrifying really...because she took the fall first with her cheek bone and gave new meaning to my visual of "face plant". I hear people refer to life as something fragile. Personally, I believe life is strong and tenacious and works tirelessly toward healing itself. Mom seemed more vital to me. Her movements were stronger and she even did the stairs with more confidence, one foot after another rather than one step at a time. She is getting up and out of the house every day so Susie can go to work and I sensed a more vital mother than I had one month ago. I'm amazed. Then I think of my sister Beth...she spent 41/2 years in a hospital bed after she coded at Brigham Women's Hospital and the team brought her back to life with the help of a respirator. There were at least 5 or 6 times where we were prepared to let her go because of respiratory issues that developed with various passing viruses. She seemed so frail for the second two years and had lost her ability to communicate verbally with us. But the heart beat on and what finally took her was a form of pneumonia. Again...the notion of life as something frail and delicate was a possible way of looking at the situation but more obvious to me was the message to the opposite...life was being hardy, tenacious, strong...a fire that didn't want to go out. For some reason, I was moved to take a photo of Mom's hand as we sat in the yard where Stephen and I exchanged our marriage vows. I spent most of the afternoon outside enjoying the sunny blue sky day, watching the squirrels and the birds and holding my mother's hand. Such a familiar hand...and it reminded me of dad's hand as well. Dad's hand was the color of cold roast beef on his palms and they were often warm. Mom's hand is mostly cold. I hold it in my warm hand feeling the exchange of energy pass between us. The love. Here is this woman who has taken me through the gamut of emotions...fierce love, admiration, fear, during the early childhood years and into the anger, hate, rebellion of adolescence. As I became a parent and worked to outmother my mother...to become a person "not like" her, I found I became more and more like her. Now in her elder years, I look at her hand. The veins are raised and blue...they remind me of a road map...the map of our shared lives...mother...daughter...mother to mother...even daughter to daughter. We chat about the people who were central to our family's life. We spur each other's memories. Hand in hand...we are two on the road
of life. I feel the miracle of her being still alive and I am so deeply grateful to my sister for stepping up to the plate to live with her during these tender last years. She has become a force of love. She weeps easily and laughs deeply. We laugh so hard together that we nearly pee our pants...that's a sure indication of friendship...something I used to do with my friends at camp...something Mom did too. I hold Mom's hand in both of my hands. All the intensity of adolescence is gone...the parental fear is gone...we've been through births and deaths...mournings and celebrations...this hand I hold is the first hand that reached out to touch me as I emerged to greet life on this planet. It is cold but it is still strong and can still bring tears to my eyes when she reaches up to brush the hair from my eyes. I don't know how to tell her how grateful I feel for the miracle of her continued life over the past year because we've journeyed together from the frail sick days when she felt "weak and puny" to the now...when we are roaring with laughter and fearful of the dribble. So I take a picture of her hand...so I can remember what it looks like and how it feels to hold it for a sunny September day in the garden while we ponder the wonder of LIFE...how it lives and breathes and wants very much to keep breathing...how it holds on for dear life. I thank God I can still give my mother a hand. And she can give me hers.