Mother's Day

We gathered around her sickbed – my two younger brothers and I. And we watched as our mere presence began to revive her. First, she got color in her cheeks. There was a clear, bright sparkle returning to her eyes. There was a brown bruise mark near her left eye that she’d gotten when she fainted six weeks ago, when she fell head-first and hit the pavement. We watched as her wounds began to fade. She was weak and tired, from a month of pneumonia and we watched as she began to perk up, respond to our meager jokes with a smile – she gets it. She had no appetite, she said. And we coaxed her into eating. Ice cream was the essential ingredient – one quarter of a turkey sandwich and a whole scoop of ice cream – and we watched as her energy level began to rise.

We worked hard to be attentive, but not hovering; to engage but not over-tire her; we gave her all of our attention without expecting any return. It was our turn. We were just there: Rob would go out to the patio for a cigarette but he was sure to remain in sight; he texted his wife who was 600 miles away – he is both places at once. Mark checked his email on my laptop, and conversed at the same time with that easy, hearty laugh he is the master of joviality. I ran down to the dining room to get her a cup of orange juice, or fixed the CD player and put some music on, I was generally puttering and being present at the same time. Late at night, I laid on the couch and listened for her gentle old-lady snore to signal that she was sleeping and then I slept.

I thought about the delicate balance of dignity and the quality of life. Eighty-nine years old and facing the end like a wall. What she wants is to get back to normal. This IS the New Normal: nobody thinks beyond the moment when we all return home to our lives and she continues to recuperate. The New Normal is an apartment in an old “independent seniors” facility. Normal is everyone who knows her who waits while she dredges up their name and tries to be polite and honest at the same time.

She wonders if it’s worth the effort. Maybe she does it for us - her kids? For the sake of her friends? For the memory of Dad? For one more dish of ice cream? One more game of bridge? And a constant prayer… “surrounded by the love of God” ? And all she wants is for us all to be together again - her “three good kids.”

We all did the best we could.

Let Evening Come