In praise of a mother who continues to teach
My mother has taught me a lot of things, Patricia Crowe writes, not the least of which is fortitude.
“I think something’s wrong with your father.”
I had called my mother to exchange Happy Mother’s Day greetings. I had been a mother for about 18 months, she for about 45 years.
My father lived a low-key, happy life. His signature statement was: “Isn’t it great to be alive?” Lately, my mother said that Sunday, he had been acting peculiar. When he went upstairs with the vacuum and never reappeared, she went to find him, and there he was in a chair sound asleep with the machine running.
Within a week or so of our conversation, it became clear something was very wrong. He had a brain tumour. Aggressive, inoperable. It was a swift, brutal decline; he died at home a month and a half later.
My mother, 95, is the oldest girl among 14 siblings in a family who lived on a farm. She has never been idle or wasteful. She does not put up with excess noise, laziness, whining or shenanigans. Most of her siblings and children will admit that, in her prime, she could be a little scary. But with her training as a nurse and her natural “big sister” inclination, she knows how to take care of people. If the ache, be it physical or emotional, is genuine, she has the softest touch I know.
She dealt with each stage of my father’s dying with strength and sadness. One evening, when he was still mobile but had lost the capacity to talk, he got up from his chair and hesitated. My mother jumped up and peppered him with questions. What did he need? What could she get him? Was he hungry, thirsty, cold? He held her eyes, and I could almost imagine that he heard a swing band playing and was ready to sweep her onto the dance floor. She kept asking, he kept looking. Finally, he bent over and kissed her. It was a moment no Hollywood romance will ever capture.
Now it is my mother’s turn to be taken care of. She had a stroke that paralyzed one side and left her speechless. Almost. She can still spit out a very clear “No” when we fuss too much or don’t get the bedding sorted out just right. And when she was handed her newest great-grandchild, she cooed with the best of us.
My older brother has set up a space for her in his home. He, my sister and other brother share taking care of her and I visit once a week. I do my best to interpret her questions; usually she wants to hear how her grandchildren are doing. In the three years since she had the stroke, she has lost strength and some vision. Still, she gestures to make observations about what she can notice outside. Birds, colourful blossoms, wind, rain. But we often just sit quietly. I marvel that this woman who always had a newspaper or some needlework in her hands now has nothing but her own thoughts to occupy her. What keeps her going?
Last week, my visit overlapped with my sister. I watched as she gently wiped our mother’s face with a warm cloth. My mother closed her eyes and put her head back and I could see that this simple gesture was a simple pleasure. It was comfort. It was life, for what it is worth.
My mother has taught me so many things, not the least of which is fortitude. But I still have so much to learn.