At first, I was bent at the waist, face to the floor. I wore weights on my ankles and a body cast. I moved on a walker. There were no high heels, no fancy dresses. There were only sweat clothes to fit over the body hardware, but my feet were dressed in pretty pink. Everywhere I went I wore my pink high-tops. For the first year, they were truly all I saw when attempting to learn to walk again.
It took three full years of pain, perseverance, faith in God and a deliberate belief in myself. It took family support, but I learned to walk and endure and to stand tall. I finally had to part with the worn and cracked pink high-tops. They were tossed reluctantly. Oddly enough, they had been a part of a time in my life I didn’t want to forget.
Time went full circle, and I moved into my mother’s home to tend to her during her last few years. On the eve of my mother’s death, before she slipped into a morphine-induced sleep she said to me, “How lucky I was to have had my family and to have shared yours.” She dozed momentarily. When she woke, while stroking my hand, she quietly said, “We had a special relationship. You are not average, Dotty. Don’t ever forget. You are extraordinary. Always stand tall, just as if you’re wearing your pink feet.” She said little else that night as I sat by her side and remembered every nuance of our lives together.
Now when I put the pink angel on the top of the tree, I always stretch tall and straight and remember that terrifying Christmas and the faith and love evident in my mother’s gift to me. It was a basic message, one of courage and strength, emblazoned in a simple pair of pink high-tops.
Dorothy Raymond Gilchrest
8
LETTING GO
We do not get over grief.
But over time, we do learn to live
with the loss.
We learn to live a different life . . .
with our loss.
Kenneth J. Doka
To See You
Many say their most painful moments are saying goodbye to those they love. After watching Cheryl, my daughter-in-law, through the six long months her mother suffered toward death, I think the most painful moments can be in the waiting to say good-bye.
Cheryl made the two-hour trip over and over to be with her mother. They spent the long afternoons praying, soothing, comforting and retelling their shared memories.
As her mother’s pain intensified and more medication was needed to ease her into sedation, Cheryl sat for hours of silent vigil by her mother’s bed.
Each time she kissed her mother before leaving, her mother would tear up and say, “I’m sorry you drove so far and sat for so long, and I didn’t even wake up to talk with you.”
Cheryl would tell her not to worry, it didn’t matter; still her mother felt she had let her down and apologized at each good-bye until the day Cheryl found a way to give her mother the same reassurance her mother had given to her so many times.
“Mom, do you remember when I made the high-school basketball team?” Cheryl’s mother nodded. “You’d drive so far and sit for so long, and I never even left the bench to play. You waited for me after every game and each time I felt bad and apologized to you for wasting your time.” Cheryl gently took her mother’s hand.
“Do you remember what you would say to me?”
“I would say I didn’t come to see you play, I came to see you.”
“And you meant those words, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I really did.”
“Well, now I say the same words to you. I didn’t come to see you talk, I came to see you.”
Her mother understood and smiled as she floated back into sleep.
Their afternoons together passed quietly into days, weeks and months. Their love filled the spaces between their words. To the last day they ministered to each other in the stillness, love given and received just by seeing each other.
A love so strong that, even in this deepened silence that followed their last good-bye, Cheryl can still hear her mother’s love.
Cynthia M. Hamond
Mama’s Hands
A few days ago I stood outside an intensive care unit, a stranger looking in, and saw my mother for the first time in five years. I watched as she lay there so helpless and fragile and tried to remember what had made us turn our backs on thirty-three years of love. Later, when I was sure she wouldn’t know, I went to her bedside and touched her hand. Even after five years I could have picked that hand out of a thousand. I have felt the love in her hands so many times . . . when they brought me out of emergency surgery, she laid her hand on my cheek and I knew in that instant, without opening my eyes, that she was there. I knew that everything would be okay. When my father was dying, Mama’s hands reached across his bed and gave me the strength to face what lay ahead. Mama’s hands were always there to nudge me when I hesitated and to catch me when I fell. Of all the hands in the world, I knew hers. There was a lifetime of love and strength and giving in those hands. To feel Mama’s hands reach for me just one more time and to give back to her all that she had given to me, would calm the storm that raged in my heart.
My mother had suffered a massive aneurysm. She was semi-conscious and could not speak. On the night before she was to have surgery, she indicated she would see me. As I approached the bed, I was so afraid of hurting her, but I had to connect with her just one more time. Standing by her bed holding her hand, I believe she knew it was me by her side. She squeezed my hand tightly, and tried to sit up as if she were reaching for me. When she lay back, a single tear escaped and slid down her cheek, bearing silent witness to all that we had lost.
I hope she heard all the things I told her in the last three days that we were together. I held her hand and told her how foolish we were to let pride destroy the extraordinary bond that we had shared as mother and daughter. But most of all I told her that I loved her, and that I had never stopped loving her. When I held her hand to my cheek and closed my eyes, all the noises and smells of the hospital faded and I was a little girl again. Sitting on the bed watching my mother paint her nails, I knew in my little girl’s heart that she was the most beautiful mother in the world and that I did not have to be afraid as long as she loved me. But when I opened my eyes, I was afraid because I knew I was losing her and I was never going to feel the love in Mama’s hands again.
Families in the ICU form a common bond born of sudden pain, sorrow and sometimes, tremendous loss. Usually when your eyes meet theirs, all you can give is a quick smile before you look away. It is just too much to hold their gaze and see your own reflected pain.
The day my mother died, a new family came into the ICU. It was apparent that their tragedy was untimely and heart wrenching. Their story was told in the lost expression on the little girl’s face clinging to her grandfather in confusion, not understanding why her mother was there. When her frightened eyes found mine, I did not turn away. I could hold the gaze of that little girl, because in my heart that night, I was that little girl.
As we stood in the hallway, her grandfather stopped to talk to us, his eyes wet with tears; it was his daughter, the little girl’s mother, who was fighting for her life. Yet he put aside his pain to offer comfort and to pray with us. Through the night, if he saw us outside the doors, he would stop and ask how my mother was, and to see how we were doing.
Sometime during the last six hours we were together, Mama’s hands showed me the way again. I realized that whatever had kept us apart for all those years didn’t matter, we had never stopped loving each other. Our lives had come full circle. Mama’s hands had welcomed me into this world and guided me through all the years of my life. Now, holding her hand to my cheek, my tears washing over it, I sent with her all the love of a little girl and the grown woman I had become, as she moved on. At last, I felt the storm that had raged for so long in my heart grow still.
As I fled the ICU, I ran straight into the arms of my husband. Blinded by tears, I did not see the little girl’s grandfather approach and put his arms around us both. Not long after, I heard a terrible cry in the hallway, and I kn
ew another little girl had lost her mother that night.
I hope that two souls met on their way to Paradise that night: One a sixty-seven-year-old woman who had seen life come full circle, and the other a twenty-six-year-old woman for whom the circle had been broken, so that Mama’s hands were there to guide and give strength for the journey that lay ahead.
Beth Crum Sherrow
The Fragrance of Chanel
Time is the only comforter for the loss of a mother.
Shane Welsh Carlyle
Today my mother came to visit, totally unannounced. It was during the morning hours as a winter’s sunlight forced its brilliance through the bathroom blinds and on to the Hessian carpet beneath my bare feet. Nail polish bottles crowded the window ledge and a curling iron, slowly cooling down, reclined on a nearby train case. One by one I replaced the eye shadow, blush, mascara and lipstick back into a zippered makeup bag, alternately checking in the mirror to see if I had left anything undone. As a finishing touch, I reached for the cologne.
Near the sink lay a bone china dish, full of cologne samples from a bridal show. One finger-search through the dish and there I stood, surprised to find myself holding a tiny glass vial of Eau de Parfum in the palm of my hand, distinguishably labeled Chanel.
Holding the sample over the sink, I cautiously removed the tiny black stopper and let the sweet-scented Chanel run over my fingertips and onto my neck. Working quickly, I splashed a small amount on my wrists and massaged them together, releasing a fragrance that quickly filled the sunlit bathroom.
It was at this precise moment that my mother entered the room. It wasn’t that she had knocked, or even visibly appeared, but she was definitely there . . . in the room with me. I couldn’t see her . . . nor could I reach out and touch her . . . but I could close my eyes and smell her . . . and it had been so long . . . so very, very long.
As suddenly as the burst of Chanel filled the room, a picture of Mama came to mind, a private moment that never made it into our family album. It was her ritual on Sunday mornings. First she bathed, followed by a generous dusting of bath powder. Next she put on her hand-washed bra, panties and slip, followed by a skin-tight girdle with four rubber clasps. Finally, she took out her nylon stockings, neatly stored in the original cardboard box, and held them up to the window light in search of runners. Not until she laid out her shoes, however, did she make a decision between her two favorite shades of nylons—Barely Black and Barely There. She was determined never to put on her dress (only to get it wrinkled) until it was time to walk out the door, which left her no option but to complete the essentials and wait. And my mother waited in elegance. Her stockings were the best she could afford—Hanes. Her slips and bras were top-ofthe-line—Vanity Fair. Her shoes? Nothing but Aeigner. Her choice of perfume? Chanel No. 5.
I watched through the mirror as she applied her makeup, standing there in her high heels and underwear, a fan oscillating on the floor. One by one she replaced the face powder, rouge and lipstick back into the middle drawer, alternately checking in the mirror to see if she had left anything undone. As a finishing touch, she reached for the cologne.
Holding the bottle in her hands, she removed the black cap and let the sweet-scented Chanel run over her fingers and onto her neck. Working quickly, she splashed a small amount on her wrists and massaged them together, releasing a fragrance that quickly filled her sunlit bedroom.
I thought of her often throughout the day . . . heard her laughter, felt her near me. I breathed in the essence on my wrists and she was there . . . in the room beside me. And although she hadn’t knocked, nor could I reach out and touch her . . . I could close my eyes and smell her . . . and it had been so long . . . so very, very long.
Today my mother came to visit . . . totally unannounced . . . in the fragrance of Chanel.
Charlotte A. Lanham
Signs of the Times
For years, whenever I drove to my mother’s house, I always went past a small country church. Each time I went by, I would read the church’s marquee and think that at least one Southern Baptist had a sense of humor because there were always pithy little sayings rather than quotes from scripture.
One day, two months after my mother died, I was driving to her house and passed this church. That day, however, I was in a funk and not in a mood for rural quips. I just wanted to know where my mother was and why she hadn’t contacted me. Her house was there, her hand-stitched quilt was still spread carefully over the bed, the sheets unchanged, but she was gone.
I was feeling more alone than I’d ever felt in all my years of being single. My mother had been widowed twice, so she knew all the ins and outs of being alone, but she wasn’t here anymore, and I was having a real problem with that fact. What I really wanted was to have her back, maybe for five minutes, and conscious. (She had been in a coma before she died.) I’d just say, “You okay?” And she would answer yes, that she was fine, that she was happy and she loved me.
If I couldn’t have her back, I wanted a sign. Maybe I was greedy. I had already had a sign when I returned home from the hospital after her death on that tenth day of the tenth month (and in the tenth hour). On my wall hung a calendar opened to October. Each month displayed a different personal photograph. A friend (who knew nothing about my family) had compiled it for me as a gift and had “coincidentally” placed a picture of my mother, two sisters and me taken on October 10, 1992, the last time we were all together before my sister died. Now it was October 10, three years later, and my mother had just died. Well, I wasn’t born yesterday. I know a sign from God when I see one.
But I always want more, and I asked for more signs. How about a rose blooming in the snow? How about my mom’s face in the clouds? Or okay, couldn’t she call me on the interdimensional phone? I knew these things happened. I wanted a lot of them to happen to me. Now.
Grief is a taskmaster who will not be denied. You can repress grief for a while, and you can try to ignore it. But it will have its day. I could not predict when it would come over me like some uncontrollable seizure. I did come to the place where I could feel the signs of it and withdraw into a private place. Over and over again I was surprised by its strength and tenacity.
On that bright, cold day in December, I could feel grief creeping up on me and I needed something to hold on to, a scrap of comfort, however small. Then I rounded the curve, and the sturdy little church came into view on my right. The marquee said: “You asked for a sign from God. This is it.”
In a moment of sudden clarity, I realized I didn’t need any more signs. I was doing everything that needed to be done. I was grieving my loss; I was taking care of my mother’s house and her affairs; I was consoling relatives; and I was going on with my life, just as my mother would have wanted me to, just as she would have done.
I laughed through my tears all the way to Mother’s house.
Bonnie Michael
Light in the Dark
This is a true story of a town within a larger city. Beacon Terrace is the name of the square of townhomes settled just on the edge of Springfield, Massachusetts. The square had just the right mix of young, middle and older folks, rich and poor—worldy and not. We were young, on a military stay with many others in this complex. We all made family of each other because all our families were so far away.
Overwhelming joy came to our home when our daughter, Stacey, was born on November 15, enlarging our “town family” and our own individual family. I remarked to Mother, “God has blessed me so! A wonderful daughter and son! My family is complete.”
Devastating grief followed four days later, when our five-year-old son, Peter, was killed by his school bus. “Hard” is an understatement of how difficult that time was for us. Our beloved Peter—dead. Gone.
We managed to keep going, taking care of a newborn and surviving Thanksgiving, though we were numb with shock. We went about life as best we could.
It was an evening two weeks before Christmas when Mother came to my husband and me. “Dears,”
she said, “I love you both so much and wouldn’t hurt you for anything. But I must make you see something.” We, Tom and I, looked blankly at each other. We did a lot of that “blank” looking at that state. “What is it Mother? Tell us.”
“Come to the window, both of you, and tell me what you see,” Mother said.
We looked out into the darkness and then at each other. We said we saw nothing.
“That’s what I have to show you. It is Christmas week, and there is nothing to show it in the square. Everyone loves you both, and their hearts are so sad for you; they don’t want to hurt you in any way. Dears, you must, no matter how hard it is or how much it hurts, you must give these good, kind neighbors their holiday back.” We were so into our own grief we hadn’t noticed that life for the square had come to a stop.
The next day, we went out and bought a Christmas tree, decorated it, and put it right in front of the windows, to be seen by everyone in the neighborhood.
As Mother said, “Once you let life back into your home, everyone will know it’s all right to celebrate Jesus’ life in their homes.”
The next evening, it was as if a switch had been turned on. Trees and lights had gone up everywhere. Doorbells rang. Fruitcakes and cookies were passed round and round. Peter’s classmates came to see us.
Beacon Terrace surrounded us with love during a very difficult time of our lives.
Our journey back had begun.
Betsey Neary
Tomorrow Is Not Promised
Walking would save my sanity. I just knew it. The hope of escaping lunacy prompted me to drag my exhausted, grief-stricken limbs out of bed each morning and hike to keep walls from closing around me. As I trod toward a nearby park, I replayed the events of the prom-night loss of my son, Shawn, to a drunk driver. Other thoughts strayed to a favorite quote from an assistant-principal friend. After the loss of both his parents within one year, he often reminded me that “tomorrow is not promised.” Nothing in my life’s story of stress and challenge as an urban high-school principal had prepared me for this tragedy. If only I had spent more time with my son prior to May 1. If only I had been more tolerant of his maturation process during his senior year.
Chicken Soup for Every Mom's Soul Page 20