Mum’s influence lasts forever
WHILE browsing my folder of family photos, I saw an image I had captured of my mother’s hand. They were worn from years of being a daughter, mother and caregiver. Her hands never tired from serving, loving, sharing and praying.
From the photo, just seeing her fingers and the creases on her soft palms, I could feel her warmth. Tears stung my eyes as I sent up a little prayer for her spirit to rest in peace.
My mother had often shared that when she was growing up, she was a considerate, generous, helpful and obedient daughter. She refused to let all the bad parts of her growing-up years overshadow the good parts, while using her hard-won wisdom to encourage, educate and groom her own children with love. Her hands touched fevered heads and brushed aside tears of failure.
There is a saying, “A mother’s hands may tire, but they never expire in their efforts to do good for those she loves. A mother’s hands may age, but her influence lasts forever”.
She trusted her gut feelings to pursue a career in nursing, and never lost her belief that her hands would make a huge difference to the sick, disabled and incurable patients under her care. No one else understood her dreams or what drove her.
Her inner strength and self-confidence always saw her through, even when her life had many detours. She kept learning and constantly challenged her brain because “tough times never last, but tough people do”. Mum’s acts of kindness and humanity were so profound to me. She was a picture of selflessness as she helped others.
She reinvented herself when she got married to a man who loved his job more than his family. My father was always resentful of the fact that mother was distracted by motherhood. It was his insecurities that remained a sobering lesson in overcoming the storms of hostility.
To distract her harassed attention from the tears and arguments, she ironed mountains of clothes, sewed on buttons, and mended torn pockets with her nimble fingers. To this day, her button box and sewing kits remind me of how she used to iron and supervise homework while maintaining order in the family and home.
While sometimes my hands have clenched into frustrated fists in the middle of arguments with my children as they pushed boundaries and tested my ground, I forced myself to stand back as I remembered my mother’s words of wisdom: “To restrain them is to hinder them from walking the cold and proper road to adult dignity. Yet it also means
to stunt the emotions and starve the heart. Hold your children in your arms as long as you can. And when your hands are no longer able to, let them hold you.”
She was always grateful, and accepted every ordeal and burden in her life.
My mother became a widow at the age of 77. The life she had imagined was stolen in a heartbeat, when fate cruelly snatched my father away rather suddenly.
She tried to move on, but was lost. Whatever her differences or trials, her stoic soul was never alone. She would clasp her hands in deep prayers as she reached out to God to give her patience, strength and extra time to address all the health challenges she faced as an octogenarian.
My mother lived a richly blessed life before she passed away at the age of 91.
I am ever grateful to have spent the last 13 years of her life being her caregiver, while before I was too busy chasing my career dreams.
I have become a mother myself, and now a grandmother. Yet living still hurts without my mother’s touch, voice and companionship to guide me further. It takes trial and error, despair, and even bitter rejection as I find myself at dead ends; so I retreat, rest and wait.
The picture of her hands reminds me that although she had sometimes wanted to escape and lead an existence of quiet contemplation, and though life fatigued her, sometimes almost beyond her endurance, she never gave up – she weathered the storms, with her faith intact.
I dedicate this story to my late mother Dawn Usharani Biswas who passed away peacefully on Aug 21, 2019.